“It’s an acquired taste.”
“It’s masochistic.”
We share a small smile, and for a moment, the tension of the day eases. This has been happening more often lately, these flickers of something real cutting through the performance. We haven’t talked about the kiss. By mutual, unspoken agreement, it’s filed under “practice,” even though I think about it more than I should. Like now, watching her lips press against the glass. Her mouth. The shape of it. The way her tongue darts out to swipe a drop from the rim.
She pushes the tumbler back toward me. “Take it. I’m done pretending that stuff is drinkable.”
I should pick up my own glass. I don’t. Instead, I take hers, and I drink from the exact spot her lips just touched, slow and deliberate. Her gaze snags on mine and stays. The whiskey burns going down, but the heat that settles between us is something else entirely. Her expression shifts—just barely, but I catch it, her awareness, the weight of the moment, how still everything suddenly feels. For a beat, neither of us says anything.
“Hey,” she says finally, her voice just a little unsteady, “can I ask about the fundraiser?”
I take another swallow, this time grateful for the shift.
“Sure.”
“The documentary crew wanted to?—”
“They’re not invited,” I cut in firmly. “My father would turn it into a campaign opportunity, and I’m not giving him that platform.”
She studies me closely. “You really don’t like your father, do you?”
It’s a deceptively simple question with a complicated answer. I lean against the counter, choosing my words carefully.
“My father has spent his entire life calculating what will benefit Logan Carmichael. Every decision, every relationship, every public stance is filtered through that lens. Including his family.” I stare into my glass. “He wanted me to follow him into politics. Cultivate the right connections, marry the right woman, build the perfect dynasty. When I chose USC over Stanford and baseball and PR over politicalscience, it was the first major disappointment I delivered. And I’ve been adding to the list ever since.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “What about your mom?”
The mention of my mother softens something in me automatically. “She’s amazing. Brilliant, compassionate, genuinely dedicated to education reform. She was a teacher before my father’s political career took off.”
“I remember reading about her foundation,” Jess says.
I nod, unsurprised that she knows this. “That’s her passion project. She’s helped hundreds of kids get to college.” Pride warms my voice. “She’s the real deal, Jess. Not a typical political wife at all.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Jess says, and there’s a wistfulness in her tone that makes me curious.
“What about your dad?” I ask. “Besides the baseball team, I don’t know much about him.”
She shifts to lean on the counter beside me. “Dad took over the Devils when I was ten. He’s baseball-obsessed, but in a good way. After Mom died, he threw himself into the team and into making sure Garrett, Austin, and I were ok. He’s uncomplicated. What you see is what you get.”
“Tell me more about your mom?” I ask gently, remembering her reaction to the Pearl Jam shirt.
Something shifts in her expression, and there’s a soft vulnerability I rarely see. “She was a force. A brilliant journalist with an unshakable moral compass. She always said that the truth isn’t just what happens. It’s what matters.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” I say quietly.
She smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “Everyone saysI’m just like her. Same stubbornness, same drive. She would have been a star if she hadn’t gotten sick.”
“Is that why you’re so committed to journalism? Carrying on her legacy?”
Jess looks startled by the question, as if no one has ever asked her this directly. “Partly. But also because I believe in it. In getting the story right, in holding people accountable.” She pauses. “Maybe it’s naïve, but I still think the truth matters.”
“It’s not naïve,” I say. “It’s admirable.”
She looks genuinely surprised by the compliment. “Even when I’m making your job harder?”
“Especially then.” I offer her a small smile. “You keep me honest.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, something that would have seemed impossible weeks ago. I find myself wanting to know more about what makes Jessica Lexington tick, why someone as beautiful and brilliant as she is remains single, and what she might want beyond her career.
