I spot Lucas at the bottom of the stairs, standing tall in his perfectly fitted tuxedo, and my breath catches. He’s scanning the room, checking his watch with that slight furrow between his brows that appears when he’s concerned. Then he looks up, and our eyes meet.
His expression transforms instantly to surprise, then to appreciation, and then to something darker that reminds me of how he looked last night on his knees before me. His gaze travels slowly up my body in a way that’s entirely inappropriate for a political fundraiser and entirely thrilling. He moves toward the staircase without hesitation, as if drawn by an invisible thread, and I descend to meet him.
“You’re staring,” I whisper when I reach him, unable to keep the pleased smile from my lips.
“Everyone’s staring,” he replies, offering his arm. “You’re breathtaking.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. It’s not the practiced, professional response I’ve perfected for compliments, but something genuine that catches me off guard. “Not so bad yourself. I’ve always had a weakness for men in well-tailored tuxedos.”
“I’ll make a note of that.” His hand covers mine where it rests on his arm, and the simple contact sends warmth up my skin. “Ready to charm the political elite of California?”
“Of course I am,” I say, straightening my spine with determination. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s work a room. “Just point me toward the most intimidating person here, and I’ll start there.”
“That would be California Supreme Court Justice ElenaMartinez. Conservative bench, liberal personal politics, suffers no fools.” He nods toward a formidable woman holding court near the bar. “She terrifies most of the men in this room.”
“Perfect,” I say with a grin. “My kind of woman.”
I spend the next hour in my element, moving through conversations with practiced ease. I discuss constitutional protections with a legal scholar, push back thoughtfully when a tech CEO dismisses traditional media, and find common ground with Justice Martinez over our shared frustration with institutional barriers for women. It’s the same skillset I use for interviews: listening more than speaking, asking the right questions, and finding the story beneath the surface.
But throughout it all, I’m acutely aware of Lucas and how he watches me from across the room. The weight of his gaze is a physical sensation. When our eyes meet over the rim of my champagne glass, heat pools low in my belly at the promise I see there. This is a side of him I never expected: possessive.
I excuse myself to visit the ladies’ room, needing a moment to collect myself. In the elegant powder room, I’m reapplying lipstick when the door opens and Lucas slips inside. He locks it behind him.
“This is the ladies’ room,” I point out, though my heartbeat accelerates.
“I’m aware.” He moves toward me with intent, backing me against the marble counter. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night.”
“That sounds like a personal problem,” I manage, though my voice catches as his hands find myhips.
“It’s about to become a mutual problem.” His lips hover just above mine. “That dress should be illegal.”
“Then perhaps you should arrest me.” The words come out breathier than intended.
His mouth captures mine in a kiss that’s nothing like the restrained displays we’ve shown in public. This is hungry, demanding, stealing my breath and my composure in equal measure. My hands clutch at his lapels, pulling him closer despite the voice in my head warning about wrinkled tuxedos and smudged lipstick.
When we break apart, both breathing heavily, I’m gratified to see he looks as affected as I feel.
“We should get back,” I say, but I make no move to leave the circle of his arms.
“We should,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just below my ear. “But later…” His kiss continues down my neck.
The promise in those two words sends anticipation spiraling through me. “Later,” I echo, gently pushing him back to straighten my dress and fix my lipstick.
He watches me with dark eyes. “You missed a spot,” he says as his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth. The casual intimacy of the gesture feels more significant than the passionate kiss we just shared.
We return to the ballroom separately, the perfect picture of propriety, though I know my cheeks are flushed and my pulse is racing. When we reconnect, his hand finds the small of my back again, which is somehow both comforting and electrifying.
I’m discussing entertainment industry tax incentives withGovernor Williams when Logan Carmichael joins us, his smile practiced and his eyes calculating.
“Lucas,” he says, acknowledging his son. “Jessica, I overheard your fascinating perspective on the state’s approach to entertainment industry tax incentives.”
“Jess,” I correct him again with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. He’s done this deliberately all weekend, a subtle power play that’s almost admirable in its pettiness.
“Of course.” He nods and then turns to address the governor. “Jess is quite knowledgeable for someone in celebrity journalism.”
The dismissal is so expertly delivered that I almost want to applaud. Instead, I keep my voice level and my smile fixed. “Actually, Senator, my work focuses on the business and ethics of entertainment and the economics of content creation, labor practices, and how media shapes public discourse.” I sip my champagne. “The celebrities are just a bonus that helps pay the bills.”
The governor laughs appreciatively. “She’s got you there, Logan.”
