Page 1 of The Fake Affair

ONE

WHISKEY AND REGRETS

Bella

It’s probably not a great sign that I’m hiding on the terrace at my best friend’s wedding reception, clutching a crystal glass of whiskey like it’s my emotional support animal. The late August air wraps around me like a warm whisper, but I barely notice it over the pleasant buzz of expensive liquor.

Audrey’s perfect wedding turned into Audrey’s perfect afterparty… and here I am, the maid of honor, ghosting the celebration, but it’s not on purpose. My feet are killing me from running around all day. I just need a moment of rest and solitude.

That’s a lie. I really am hiding.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me, I glance over and see the reception winding down—abandoned flutes, stilettos, and the remnants of a five-tier cake.

I take another sip, savoring the burn. The whiskey is probably worth more than my monthly rent—which is due in a week. Luckily, I’m starting at a new job on Monday. It’s the only thing going well for me right now.

“Interesting choice of drink.”

The Scottish accent hits me before I register the words. Deep, rich, and smooth like the whiskey I’m drinking. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is—I’ve spent the entire wedding avoiding him.

“The champagne wasn’t cutting it,” I say, still facing the city lights. My heart is doing this weird stuttering thing I’m blaming entirely on the alcohol.

Logan Fraser moves into my peripheral vision in his perfectly tailored tux. He has that whole devastatingly handsome thing going on—sharp jawline and subtle muscles under the tux that makes him look like he's stepped out of a magazine cover. He’s the kind of man who probably has women signing NDAs before one-night stands.

“A woman after my own heart.” He lifts his own glass—whiskey, same as mine. “Though I usually prefer drinking alone in my study rather than out here while sitting on the steps.”

“Well, it’s your sister’s wedding. You’re contractually obligated, or something like that, to be social.” The words come out snarkier than intended. Maybe I should slow down on the whiskey.

He lets out a low chuckle that does things to my insides. “And what’s your excuse for hiding out here, Bella?”

The way he says my name in that accent is panties-dropping sexy. Has he always said it like that? I’ve known him for years—well, known of him through Audrey—but I don’t remember his voice affecting me this way before.

Maybe because I’ve only heard him speak a handful of times since the Fraser siblings moved from Edinburgh ten years ago.

“I’m not hiding. I’m just taking a break from all the... happiness in there.”

Lying’s never been my strength, so I go with a half-truth. It comes out easier than admitting that watching everyone celebrate love tonight feels a bit like trying to smile with glass in my throat.

Thunder rumbles, and my whiskey sloshes as I rise too fast, the hem of my dress catching on the edge of my heel.

Logan steadies my hand. "Careful," he murmurs, his voice smooth as butter and rich as honey. "That's thirty-year-old Macallan."

"Of course it is." I force a laugh that lands somewhere between brittle and breathy. "Only the best at a Fraser wedding."

His thumb brushes my knuckles and lingers, just long enough to wake a low ache in my chest. When he lets go, the feeling doesn’t. “You sound almost bitter, love.”

“Not bitter.” I turn toward him, even though every instinct screams to stay facing the skyline. Bad idea. His eyes meet mine—blue-gray, sharp and stormy—and my resolve threatens to unravel like cheap silk. “Just... aware of the differences.”

Another rumble of thunder, closer this time. A few drops of rain scatter across the terrace railing, cold against my bare shoulders.

“We should head inside,” Logan says, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I.

“Probably should.” I lift the crystal glass and drain the rest of the Macallan, the heat of it hitting the back of my throat.

The rain catches us full on, driving us back through the double doors near the main entrance. We stumble into a room that smells of cedar and worn leather, something carved out of another time. A study, maybe. Or a secret kept too well. It feels too still to belong to a wedding.

Logan closes the door with a quiet click, and somehow the silence that follows feels heavier than the storm. I become acutely aware of my own breath, of how the room shrinks with him standing there, close enough to touch, far enough to want.

Lightning fractures the sky beyond the glass. For a heartbeat, it paints his face in silver. He looks like something pulled from a fevered dream, too sharp for reality. Dangerous. Unreadable. Devastatingly beautiful.

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