“You’re good at that,” I murmur, my eyes closed in bliss.
“I’m good at lots of things,” he replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Some of which I haven’t shown you yet.”
I turn to face him and wrap my arms around his neck. “Is that a promise?”
“Absolutely.” He kisses me again, slower this time, with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. “But first, I should get that dinner started.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re both clean and satisfied, and I’m wrapped in his robe, which swallows me whole. I pad into the kitchen to find Lucas preparing a sheet pan of salmon and veggies. He’s thrown on sweatpants, leaving hischest bare in a distractingly appealing way. Watching him move around his kitchen with casual confidence does something strange to my insides.
This domestic version of Lucas, barefoot, his hair still damp, focused intently on chopping potatoes, is a far cry from the polished PR executive the world sees. It feels like a privilege to witness this unguarded side of him.
We eat at the island, trading plans for the week ahead. It’s easy, comfortable, as if we’ve been doing this for years instead of days. After dinner, he insists on cleaning up alone, and I wander into his living room, examining the bookshelves that reveal more about him than he probably realizes. Disney history, baseball memoirs, classic literature, and a surprising number of mystery novels.
I’m so absorbed in my exploration that I don’t hear him approach until his arms slide around my waist from behind.
“Find anything interesting?” he murmurs, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“Just confirming my suspicion that you’re secretly a nerd,” I reply, leaning back against him. “All these books, organized by genre and author. Very telling.”
Before I can say anything else, he turns me to face him and captures my mouth with his. I respond in kind, letting my hands explore the contours of his chest, the strong lines of his shoulders. When he guides me to his bedroom, I go willingly, and the robe falls open as he lays me back against his sheets.
What follows is a thorough, methodical dismantling of my composure. After getting lost in one another once again, we lie tangled together, pleasantly exhausted.
The clock on his bedside table blinks past midnight, officially ending our weekend bubble. Neither of us mentions it.
“I should probably go,” I murmur against his chest, making no move to leave.
“Or you could stay.”
I wait for my brain to argue, but I don’t want to leave.
“Ok.”
His arms wrap around me, solid and secure, and I feel myself drifting toward sleep. The last thing I register is the gentle press of his lips against my forehead. As consciousness fades, I can’t help but think that reality might not be so bad if it includes moments like this.
twenty-eight
. . .
Lucas
The first raysof morning sunlight filter through the blinds, casting golden streaks across Jess’s bare shoulder. She’s curled against me, breathing soft and even, her blonde hair spilling across my chest. I check the time: 5:45 a.m. Fifteen minutes before the alarm.
I’ve memorized her morning rhythm by now. The way she burrows deeper into the pillow when the first alarm goes off. How she stretches, cat-like and languid, before padding to the shower. Her adorable grumpiness until her first sip of coffee.
It’s been three weeks since Sacramento, and Jess hasn’t spent a single night in the guest room. We never actually discussed it; we’ve just ignored any conversation of living outside of the Sacramento bubble.
I brush a strand of hair from her face, allowing myself this quiet moment of observation. This woman has invaded every corner of my carefully organized life, and I’ve never been happier.
The alarm chirps, and Jess groans, tucking her face against my neck.
“Make it stop,” she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep.
I reach over to silence it before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Nothing sunny about mornings,” she grumbles, but then she tilts her face up for a proper kiss. “You’re always disgustingly alert.”
“Years of early baseball practice.”
