I make it to my room before I allow myself to touch mylips, which still tingle from his kiss. “Just practice,” I remind myself firmly. “Nothing more.”
But as I crawl into bed, I can’t help replaying the kiss in my mind, analyzing every moment, every sensation.
Practice has never felt so explosive.
fourteen
. . .
Lucas
Thursday evening trafficis a special kind of hell, especially after a day of putting out PR fires. Some rising star from our newest drama series decided to trash-talk the show’s writing on a podcast, and damage control consumed my entire afternoon. But that was better than obsessing about the kiss that has distracted me all week.
By the time I unlock the door to the apartment, my shoulders are tight with tension, and my patience is threadbare. All I want is silence, a drink, and maybe a mindless baseball game on TV.
What I get is Jess, curled up on my couch in my old USC baseball hoodie. The worn gray fabric swims on her smaller frame. She’s focused intently on her laptop, with her blonde hair piled messily on top of her head and her legs tucked beneath her. The sight stops me in my tracks.
She glances up, and her expression shifts from concentration to something almost like guilt.
“Hey,” she says, tugging at the bottom of the sweatshirt. “I was cold, and this was in the laundry room. Hope it’s ok that I borrowed it.”
I should be annoyed. That hoodie is practically a sacred relic of my college days. It’s faded in all the right places, softened by countless washes, with a small tear in the cuff where I caught it on a fence while jumping over to see a late-night concert. But instead of irritation, something warm unfurls in my chest at the sight of her wearing it.
“It’s fine,” I manage, setting down my briefcase. “Looks better on you anyway.”
Her eyebrows shoot up at the compliment, but she doesn’t comment on it. “Rough day? Your right eye is doing that twitchy thing.”
I press my fingers against my temple. “How do you even know about that?”
“I’ve been watching you handle press for years, Senator. The eye twitch is the only tell that you’re about five minutes from losing your cool.” She closes her laptop. “What happened?”
“Liam Chen fromAfterlightdecided to publicly roast his own show’s writing. Called it ‘derivative’ and ‘pandering to the lowest common denominator.’”
“Ouch.” She winces. “Though he’s not entirely wrong.”
I shoot her a look.
“What? The dialogue is clunky in places.” She holds up her hands defensively. “But I would never say that on the record.”
“And that’s why you’re a better professional than Liam,” I mutter, loosening my tie and heading for the kitchen. “Want a drink?”
“Sure. Dylan’s crew is coming by at eight, by the way.”
I freeze, with the bottle of whiskey halfway to the counter. “What? Why?”
“Individual testimonials,” she says, making air quotes. “Solo confessionals to ‘deepen the narrative of our relationship.’”
“Great. Just what I need after today.”
“If it helps, they’ll film us separately. I go first, then you.” She unfolds herself from the couch and pads into the kitchen. The hoodie hangs to mid-thigh over her leggings. “They said we should be honest about our feelings. Apparently, the footage from the dinner party was ‘too perfect.’”
“Too perfect?”
“Dylan thinks we’re holding back. Says the audience needs to see our vulnerabilities.” She rolls her eyes. “His words, not mine.”
I pour two fingers of whiskey into glasses and slide one toward her. “What are you planning to say?”
“No idea.” She takes a sip and then immediately winces. “God, I don’t know how you drink this stuff straight.”
