Page 13 of Off the Ice

“Dude,” she said, throwing her hands up. “How are we supposed to convince anyone we’ve known each other for months without anyone noticing? That doesn’t just sound good—it sounds ridiculous.”

“It’s not that ridiculous,” I said, fighting back a grin. “You're a private person with your personal life, you didn't want my name wrapped up in your articles.”

“It all sounds very calculated,” she repeated flatly. “Logan, if you want this to work, you can’t just make things up on the fly.”

“Relax,” I said, holding up my hands. “We’ll figure it out. I won't just blurt something out without talking to you first about it again.”

She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she stared out the window. I could practically see her brain working overtime, piecing together a plan to clean up my mess. And for some reason, it made me want to smile. I didn’t say anything else. I just let her stew, knowing she’d come up with something brilliant by the time we got back.

Nine

Ava

“Istillcan’tbelieveyou said on and off for a few months.”

Logan leaned back against the couch, a lazy grin playing on his lips. “It sounded convincing, didn’t it?”

“No,” I snapped, pacing the length of his living room. “It sounded ridiculous. People are going to ask how we kept it quiet. They’re going to dig, Bennett.”

“Let them dig.” He shrugged, infuriatingly calm. “There’s nothing to find.”

I stopped mid-step and glared at him. “You’re seriously not worried about this blowing up in our faces?”

“Not even a little.” He spread his arms across the back of the couch, his muscles flexing under his thin shirt, the picture of confidence. “Relax, Carlisle. We’ll give them just enough to chew on, and they’ll move on.”

I groaned, running a hand through my hair. His apartment was everything I’d expected—ultra-modern and designed to impress, from the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the glittering Chicago skyline to the sleek leather furniture that probably cost more than my rent. The open floor plan made the space feel even larger, the glossy hardwood floors stretching into a spotless kitchen outfitted with top-of-the-line appliances that looked like they’d never been used.

It felt like Logan: sleek, polished, untouchable. Meanwhile, I felt like a tornado in my cheap boots and worn-out bag, completely out of place in this museum of good taste.

But as my gaze wandered, something caught my eye, something unexpected. On the fireplace mantle, nestled between a minimalist clock and an artfully, and probably purchased, arranged stack of books, was a framed photo. Logan stood with his arm slung around an older man, both of them grinning at the camera, while a smiling woman with kind eyes leaned in from the other side. His grandparents, I realized.

The image didn’t fit with the rest of the apartment’s vibe. It wasn’t polished or posed; it was genuine. A moment frozen in time that felt startlingly personal in a space that otherwise screamed carefully curated.

“Something catch your eye?” Logan’s voice pulled me back, his grin now tinged with curiosity.

I gestured toward the photo. “Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type.”

His gaze flicked to the mantle, and for a brief moment, something softer crossed his face. “What can I say? Grandad insisted I keep it. Said it’d remind me where I came from.”

“And does it?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.

Logan’s grin returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sometimes.”

“You really think this is going to work? Us fake dating, that can't be believeable?” I question, more to myself than to him.

“Well you better believe it baby, and the press is going to eat it up,” He stood, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. “But we need to play it smart. Bavette’s was just the start. We need more appearances. More visibility.” He reached up and tucked a stray golden strand behind my ear.

I crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really? What exactly are you thinking?”

He leaned against the edge of the couch, his grin widening. “Charity gala next week. ASPCA fundraiser. I’ve already got an invite.”

“A gala,” I repeated flatly. “You want me to play dress-up and make small talk with rich people while we smile for the cameras?”

“Pretty much,” he said, not even bothering to deny it. “We’ll make a great entrance. Let them see us together, act like we’ve been doing this forever. It’ll shut down the skeptics.”

“And the others? ya know, the ones who are going to see through this barely constructed facade?!” my voice wavered slightly.

“That’s what the other dates are for,” he said with a shrug, like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Lunch at that little bistro near the park—somewhere casual, low-key, but just public enough to get noticed. Maybe a hockey game, or two if you’re up for it.”

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