This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman, not some horny teenager. I’ve seen half-naked men before. I’ve interviewed actors fresh from set and dated reasonably attractive men.None of them made me feel like I might actually combust from wanting.
But Lucas, dammit. Lucas, with his perfect face, surprising cooking skills, and the way he looks at me sometimes like I’m the only person in the world worth listening to.
I grab my pillow and press it over my face, groaning into it.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. We had an arrangement: a clean, professional, mutually beneficial business arrangement with an expiration date. No messy feelings. No inconvenient desires. Just fake marriage, mutual advantage, clean split.
But there’s nothing clean about the thoughts running through my mind right now, thoughts involving Lucas’s hands, Lucas’s mouth, Lucas pressing me into this mattress until I forget my own name.
The ache between my thighs becomes impossible to ignore. As I squeeze my eyes shut, my hand trails down my body almost of its own accord. If I’m going to be tortured by thoughts of Lucas anyway, I might as well find some relief. I slip my hand beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts, and my fingers find the slick heat that betrays exactly how much he affects me.
I imagine those strong hands roaming every inch of my skin, remember the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt as he cooked for me this evening and the way his bare body came to my rescue just now. My breathing grows ragged as I picture him above me, those piercing eyes dark with want, his voice rough as he whispers my name. A small whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it, and I press my free handfirmly over my mouth, terrified that he might hear through the thin wall between our rooms.
I work myself faster, chasing the release that builds low in my belly, all the while imagining Lucas’s mouth replacing my fingers, his tongue doing impossibly skilled things that make my back arch off the bed. When I finally come, it’s his name I barely manage to muffle against my palm, and the satisfaction is both perfect and completely inadequate at the same time. As good as that was, I know it would be infinitely better with him.
I toss the pillow aside and stare at the ceiling, trying to regulate my breathing. It’s just physical attraction, I tell myself. Proximity and convenience. We’re both reasonably attractive people living in close quarters. Of course there’s tension. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
Except it does. It means something because it’s not just his body I’m drawn to. It’s the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. The focused intensity on his face when he’s working. How he listens when I talk about my mom, my career, or anything else that matters to me. The careful way he handled the spider, respecting my irrational fear without making me feel small for having it.
I roll onto my side and stare at the door he just walked through, wishing it would open again. Wishing he’d come back. Wishing a lot of things I have no business wishing.
There are still five months left in our arrangement—five months until I secure my inheritance and we go our separate ways like we planned. Thank God he’s going away this weekend. I need a break.
I slip out of bed and pad to the bathroom, where I splashcold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looks flushed, and her eyes are too bright, like she’s running a fever. In a way, I suppose I am.
I’ve caught feelings for my fake husband.
And as I crawl back into bed, I realize with perfect clarity that I’m in far deeper trouble than any spider could ever pose. While Lucas might have rescued me from eight legs and too many eyes, there’s no one who can rescue me from this.
Least of all myself.
eighteen
. . .
Lucas
The first thingI see when I pull up is a custom banner stretched across the white stucco balcony that reads: “MANMORIAL 2025 – TAKEN MEN, BEACHFRONT VIEWS, ZERO FILTERS.”
I laugh out loud. Of course Jake had a banner made. Of course it’s in all caps.
The house itself is ridiculous—in the best way. Four stories of Southern California style luxury carved into the cliffs of La Jolla, overlooking the Pacific. Ocean views from every window, a rooftop hot tub, and enough space to host a minor awards show. Jake really outdid himself this year. Then again, extravagance is basically the Manmorial brand.
Apparently, this whole thing began when Jake and Wyatt pulled together a guys’ weekend in law school. When Jake got engaged, the trip doubled as his bachelor party, and from there, it evolved. Now it’s attached-men-only. No drama. No bachelor antics. Just a curated, bro-approved bonding weekend for the committed elite. The group’s smaller. Thetequila’s more expensive. And the jokes? Appear to be dad-worthy.
Jake, the host and human exclamation point behind this entire production, is an entertainment lawyer I’ve worked with for years. He reps a ton of talent we negotiate with at Wonderland, so we’ve crossed paths plenty of times at premieres, galas, and contract signings. We’re not exactly friends, but we’re not strangers, either. He knows how to throw a party and how to work a deal.
He’s waiting at the door, barefoot, holding a tray of tequila shots like he’s welcoming guests to a wedding reception.
“Welcome to paradise, Carmichael,” he says. “You made it. Thought Jess was gonna chain you to the kitchen island and make you alphabetize the spice rack or something.”
He doesn’t even blink at the puzzled look on my face. Clearly, he’s had a head start on those shots.
“Look who finally showed up!” Grant calls from the kitchen. “Is it true you had to make a last-minute press statement on behalf of marriage itself?”
“Sorry,” I say, dropping my bag. “I had to convince Dylan that filming Jess brushing her teeth wasn’t essential B-roll. He’s slipping into full reality-show-producer mode.”
“Well, welcome,” Grant says. “Come on in.” He has his phone in hand, his head buried in what are likely early numbers for the opening weekend ofSurvivor.
