She snorts. “You sleep shirtless, huh?”
I glance up, just in time to see her trying not to look at my chest. “Just setting expectations.”
She lifts her chin. “Great. Then I’ll set one, too. If you steal the blankets, I’ll go full ice queen. I have zero hesitation about weaponizing cold feet.”
“Noted.”
The smile she gives me is quick, sharp, and dangerous, and for a beat too long, we both stand there, pretending the bed is just furniture, pretending it doesn’t matter that we’ll be inches apart, all night, pretending that we don’t feel the shift between us every time the other one moves.
Jess finally breaks the moment, brushing past me, toward the bathroom, with a tossed, “I’m going to powder my nose.”
And just like that, we’re moving again.
The tension lingers as we head downstairs, and I lace my fingers through hers. Lance is already there, pouring a glass of wine. At twenty-seven, my younger brother still has the unlined face and easy smile of someone whose path has been largely uncomplicated. He followed my father into politics without complaint and currently serves as a legislative aide while he builds connections for his inevitable run for office.
“There they are!” he exclaims, setting down the wine bottle to greet us. “The Vegas rebels.”
“Lance,” I warn, but there’s no heat in it. Despite our different choices, we’ve always maintained a solid relationship. He’s a true believer in my father’s political vision, but he’s never judged me for walking away from it.
“What? It’s not every day a Carmichael elopes without consulting the family PR team first.” With a grin,he offers Jess a glass of wine. “How are you finding married life, Jess? Has my brother alphabetized all your clothes yet?”
“Only my shoes,” she replies without missing a beat. “He’s working his way up to my sweaters.”
Lance laughs with genuine delight. “I like her already, Lucas.”
My sister, Lucy, joins us, with her husband, Robert, trailing behind. At thirty-two, she’s the most politically savvy of us all, having married a state assemblyman and masterfully managing both his career and planning for a picture-perfect family of four, eventually. Her smile is warm but assessing as she studies Jess.
“So, you’re the journalist who managed to capture my commitment-phobic brother,” she says, accepting a glass of wine from Lance. “I’ve followed your work. That exposé on gender pay disparities in production companies last year was excellent.”
Jess looks genuinely surprised. “You read that?”
“Of course. Just because I’m surrounded by politics, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about substantive issues.” Lucy’s smile turns mischievous. “Besides, it drives my husband’s more conservative donors crazy when I quote progressive journalists at fundraisers.”
“Lucy’s always been the secret rebel,” I explain to Jess. “She just hides it better than I do.”
“Someone has to work from the inside,” Lucy responds with a shrug. “Not all of us can escape to Hollywood.”
There’s no accusation in her tone, just the acknowledgment of our different approaches to the Carmichaellegacy. Lucy is as trapped in my father’s political machine as I once was, but she’s found ways to maintain her own identity within it. It’s a balancing act I’ve always admired, even if I couldn’t sustain it myself.
My mother enters, carrying a steaming dish that fills the room with the rich scent of her cioppino, the San Francisco seafood stew she makes for special occasions. “Dinner’s ready, everyone. Lucas, would you open another bottle of the cabernet?”
As we take our seats, I notice how naturally Jess falls into conversation with my family. She asks Lance about his work in the legislature, drawing him out beyond the usual talking points. With Lucy, she discusses the challenges of building a career while navigating family expectations. She even gets Robert, normally the quietest person at any Carmichael gathering, to enthusiastically explain a conservation bill he’s helping to draft.
“So, Jess,” Lucy says, dipping into her dish, “what’s it like working with Lucas?”
“We don’t exactly work together,” I clarify. “More like our professional paths cross occasionally.”
“And when they do, Lucas is honestly brilliant,” Jess says, her voice warming with genuine admiration. “Just last month, there was this crisis with one of Wonderland’s biggest stars, and his actions could have tanked an entire production.”
I shift in my seat, not used to being the subject of Jess’s praise.
“Everyone was panicking,” she says, leaning forward slightly, “but Lucas just handled it. No drama, no public meltdown. He crafted this strategy that protected the studiowithout throwing the actor under the bus. I’ve seen PR disasters play out a hundred different ways, and trust me, what Lucas did was extraordinary.”
“She’s exaggerating,” I say as warmth spreads across my face.
“I’m not,” Jess insists, turning to face me directly. “You’re the best at what you do, Lucas. Everyone in the industry knows it.”
The way she’s looking at me with such open admiration sends heat coursing through my body. I’m used to calculated compliments in this house, praise with political purpose. This is different.
