“You don’t look fine.” His brow furrows, and it’s not that smooth PR concern, either; it’s real. “Did something happen? Did someone upset you?”
Just for a second, I hesitate. My gaze flicks down the hallway, toward the bar where Marcus is probably already holding court with someone else, flashing that same smarmy grin.
For a beat, I think about telling Lucas the truth.
But that would be giving him something, and I’m not in the mood to give him anything.
Taking the opening, I step forward and jab a finger at his chest. “A press release, Lucas? Really? And you want me to believe he wrecked his car trying to avoid hitting a cat?”
He glances down at my finger, still pressed against him, but instead of backing away, he lifts his hand and gently curls hisfingers around mine, just enough to stop the jab, not enough to hurt, but just enough for me to notice how warm his skin is. Just enough for me to forget how to breathe for half a second.
“He’s a sucker for kittens,” he says, his voice maddeningly calm.
We both look down at the same time at his fingers still wrapped around mine.
Then, as if realizing the moment has lasted a beat too long, he drops my hand like it burned him.
I take a quick step back, my jaw tight. He’s still watching me, but his expression is unreadable.
“Enjoy your night, Senator,” I bite out, retreating before the flutter in my stomach can make its case.
He turns on his heel and heads toward the bar, his back stiffening at the nickname. I can’t help the twitch of glee on my lips from knowing it torments him.
When I found out Lucas was a Carmichael, I thought he would be to be a carbon copy of his father, a senator with presidential aspirations who’s built his career on “family values” while quietly steamrolling anyone who threatens his image. As a journalism major, I’d heard how Senator Carmichael systematically buried exposés about shady campaign financing, blackballed reporters, and used power as a shield. He’s the kind of man who makes you question why you ever thought the system could be fixed from the inside.
And yeah, I guess, lately, I’ve been feeling that way about a lot of men in power.
Lucas’s mother, on the other hand, is accomplished and elegant, running education charities with genuine heart. Still,I’ve never understood how she’s stayed married to that man. Then again, political wives learn how to look the other way. It’s practically a job requirement.
Lucas? He doesn’t seem to think his father is corrupt, which is probably why we got off on the wrong foot eight years ago and never recovered.
“Have a good night, Jess,” he calls over his shoulder, not even turning around.
I sigh and straighten my shoulders, forcing my game face back on. Time to fulfill my own dumb decision and meet Marcus for that drink.
As I make my way to the other side of the bar, I pass Lucas, who’s now leaning casually against a corner wall with one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a glass of something amber. His navy blazer is draped over a nearby chair, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up just enough to show the kind of forearms that should be illegal on a Saturday night.
I studiously ignore him, but I feel his eyes on me. Watching. Tracking.
My practiced smile slides into place as I reach Marcus, who’s holding court with a half-circle of ad execs and low-level producers. The moment he spots me, his face lights up like he’s just won a prize.
“Jess! Come meet my people!”
He’s already reaching for me before I can brace myself. I shift just enough that his hand lands on the side of my hip instead of wrapping around my waist, masking the dodge with a breezy laugh.
My jaw aches from smiling, and my fingers curl around the strap of my bag like it’s a grounding stone.
I shake hands and make polite small talk, all while subtly dodging Marcus’s orbit. Every time I step back, he steps forward. By the end of the introductions, the two of us have somehow migrated to the far side of the group, away from witnesses.
“You trying to avoid me?” he whispers, his breath too close to my ear.
I grin like we’re sharing a secret. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Inside, I’m vibrating. Every inch of me is tense. My shoulders are drawn, my back is tight, and my thighs burn from the constant repositioning. It’s a dance I know well, one most women in this business do without thinking. Don’t offend. Don’t make waves. Don’t let them think you’re rude. Don’t let them think you’re available.
Marcus leans in again, and his arm brushes mine.
I pretend to spot someone across the room. I pivot to speak to someone else. I inch backward again. Then it happens. His hand lands on my ass. Not a graze. Not a misstep. A full-on palm disguised as an accidental touch.
