She makes a face and sits up, letting the sheet pool at her waist. “Shower?”
“You go ahead. I’ll start the coffee.”
She raises an eyebrow. “That wasn’t an invitation to shower alone, Carmichael.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re both breathless and clean, with memories of shower tile against my back and Jess’s legs wrapped around my waist. Our morning routine is efficient despite the detour: first coffee, then breakfast, and then a quick discussion of the day ahead.
“Dylan’s coming by tonight for more confessional footage,” Jess reminds me, stealing a bite of my toast. “Seven o’clock.”
“Maybe we should actually have something to confess this time,” I suggest, watching her over the rim of my coffee mug.
She gives me that look, half amused, half exasperated. “Like how we’ve been breaking our own rules for three weeks?”
“Like how you snore when you’re really tired.”
She throws a grape at me, which I catch. “I do not snore.”
“Adorably,” I assure her. “Like a tiny kitten with allergies.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve got to go. Meeting with the podcast team about the end of summer lineup.”
At the door, she rises on tiptoes for a goodbye kiss that lingers just a beat too long. It’s become our habit, these moments of connection before separating for the day.
“See you tonight,” she says against my lips. “I’ll pick up Thai from that place you like.”
And just like that, we’re practically married, not just Vegas married. The routine of it should terrify me, but instead, I find myself looking forward to Thai takeout and falling asleep to the sound of her breathing.
I’m completely screwed.
“The Levi Peterson drama is finally contained,” I tell Grant as we wrap up our weekly briefing. “His rehab stint is being framed as ‘preventative wellness’ before shooting starts on season four.”
Grant nods while scrolling through the press coverage on his tablet. “Good work on this. The puff piece inVanity Fairwas inspired and made him seem responsible rather than reactive.”
“That was actually Jess’s suggestion,” I admit. “After his publicist blew up our original narrative, she suggested that a redemption narrative might play better if he was proactive about it.”
Grant sets down his tablet and studies me with that penetrating gaze that’s made studio executives squirm for decades. “Speaking of Jess, how’s married life?”
“The arrangement is working well,” I say automatically. “Dylan’s footage is great, and my father has backed off, surprisingly.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I shift in my chair, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “It’s fine. We’re making it work.”
“Really?” He leans back. “Because Sophia says Jess has been suspiciously unavailable for their usual Sunday girl brunches, and you’ve been smiling at your phone like a teenager with his first crush.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “We’ve adjusted the parameters of the arrangement.”
“Adjusted the parameters,” he repeats, with amusement dancing in his eyes. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“It’s nothing serious,” I insist, not sure who I’m trying to convince. “Just making the most of a temporary situation.”
“Ah, I see.” Grant nods sagely. “So, you’re living together, sleeping together, and apparently giving each other professional advice, but it’s nothing serious.”
When he puts it like that, it sounds very serious. But acknowledging what’s happening between Jess and me means facing what happens when our six months are up. Three months from now, there’s no more documentary, no more inheritance contingency, no more reason to stay married.
“It’s complicated,” I finallysay.
“Isn’t it always?” Grant’s expression softens with understanding. “It wasn’t so long ago that I was in your shoes and you were asking what was going on between me and Sophia.”
