Page 40 of Fake Engagement with my Brother's Best Friend

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. My breath catches, my heart skipping a beat as I stare at him, trying to process what he’s just said.

He pulls back slightly, his gaze searching mine, his expression raw, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before. “I’ve been an idiot,” he says, his voice rough. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I was scared. Scared of how much I felt for you, scared of screwing everything up. I’m done hiding it. I love you, Grace. I’ve loved you for a long time.”

The sincerity in his eyes, the rawness in his voice, it’s too much. My heart swells, and before I can stop myself, the words spill out of me.

“I love you too, Logan.”

We sit down at the beautifully set table, and I can’t help but marvel at the effort Logan has put into this evening. The soft glow of candlelight reflects off the ocean, and the gentle sound of waves crashing against the shore provides the perfect backdrop. I take a deep breath, letting myself relax as the waiter pours usboth a glass of wine—a deep, velvety red that smells like ripe berries and spice. The tension that’s been sitting heavy on my chest for days begins to ease, but my mind is still racing with everything I need to say.

The first course arrives, and it’s stunning. Fresh burrata with heirloom tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic glaze, is served alongside slices of warm, crusty bread. The simplicity of the dish makes it all the more divine. I take a bite, and the creamy richness of the burrata melts in my mouth, the tartness of the tomatoes cutting through perfectly.

I glance across the table at Logan, who’s watching me with a mixture of hope and nerves. I can tell he’s trying, that he’s been thinking about every detail, and it softens something inside me.

“I didn’t know what I was going to do when I got here,” I admit, setting my fork down after a bite. “I was angry, confused. I wasn’t sure if I could even forgive you.”

Logan’s expression falters for a moment, but he nods, listening intently. “I understand,” he says softly. “I messed up. I should have handled everything with Samantha differently. I shouldn’t have let it get so out of control.”

I shake my head, my fingers nervously tracing the edge of my wine glass. “It wasn’t just you. I was acting childish, insecure. I was afraid of getting hurt, afraid of trusting you fully, and I let that cloud my judgment. I guess I just… didn’t want to face how much I care about you.”

Logan’s eyes soften, his hand reaching across the table to take mine. His thumb brushes over my knuckles in a slow, soothing gesture. “Grace, I’ve never been surer about anything in my life. I know this started out messy, but my feelings for you—they’re real. I love you.”

Hearing those words again, the sincerity in his voice, makes my heart flutter. “I love you too,” I whisper, finally letting myself believe that this could work.

The second course arrives, and it’s just as impressive—a perfectly grilled filet mignon with garlic butter, paired with truffle mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus. The rich flavors blend together effortlessly, and every bite feels like a luxury. The wine complements the dish perfectly, deepening the flavors with each sip.

As we eat, the conversation flows more easily. We talk about everything—how things started, how we both made mistakes, and how we can move forward. The vulnerability in Logan’s voice makes me feel safe, like we’re finally tearing down all the walls we built around ourselves.

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you sooner,” I say, looking down at my plate. “I was scared of what all of this meant.”

Logan squeezes my hand gently. “I get it. I was scared too. I’m not anymore. I know what I want, and it’s you.”

We finish the main course, and as the waiter clears the plates, the air between us feels lighter. There’s still a lot to figure out, but for the first time in days, I feel like we’re on the same page. Like we’re in this together.

When dessert arrives, Logan’s eyes light up with a mischievous glint. It’s a decadent chocolate mousse, rich and dark, topped with fresh berries. He picks up a spoon, scooping a bite and holding it out to me. “Try it,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

I lean forward, closing my lips around the spoon, and the mousse melts in my mouth—creamy, indulgent, with just the right amount of sweetness. Logan watches me closely, his gaze lingering on my lips as I savor the dessert. There’s somethingundeniably sensual about the moment, the intimacy between us thickening as he leans closer.

“Good?” he asks, his voice husky.

“Delicious,” I murmur, licking my lips.

Before I can say anything else, Logan dips the spoon back into the mousse and brings it to his own lips, his eyes locked on mine as he takes a slow bite. The way he moves, the way his gaze never leaves mine—it sends a shiver down my spine.

Then, without warning, he leans across the table and kisses me. It’s slow, deliberate, and filled with heat. The taste of chocolate lingers on both of our lips, and I feel his hand slide to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, and I melt into him, my heart racing as the world around us fades away.

When we finally pull apart, I’m breathless, my skin tingling from the intensity of the kiss. Logan’s thumb traces my lower lip, his eyes dark with desire.

“I’m not letting you go,” he whispers, his voice low and full of promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper back, smiling as he leans in for another kiss, sweet and filled with the promise of everything we’ve both been too afraid to admit until now.

Logan’s kiss deepens, and I can feel the heat between us rising. Every touch of his lips, every brush of his hand against my skin sends a jolt of electricity through me, igniting something fierce and needy inside. I can’t get enough of him, and from the way his hands tighten on my waist, pulling me closer, I know he feels the same.

He breaks the kiss, breathless, his forehead resting against mine. “Back to the suite?” he asks, his voice low and rough with desire.

I nod, unable to speak. My pulse is racing, and the thought of being alone with him, away from prying eyes, is all I can focus on. I follow him as he leads me away from the beach, our hands still tangled together. It’s barely a five-minute walk, but it feels like an eternity. Every step, every glance he throws my way is filled with tension, and I can hardly keep my hands off him as we make our way back to the suite. My fingers graze the back of his neck, trailing over his shoulders as we walk, the need to touch him overwhelming.

By the time we reach the door, my heart is pounding in my chest. The second we’re inside, I close the door behind us and turn to him, my hands already moving to the hem of his shirt. I don’t waste any time. I tug it over his head, exposing the hard lines of his chest, and he grins at the eagerness in my movements. His skin is warm under my fingertips, and I trace the muscles of his abdomen, feeling the way his breath hitches at my touch.

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