Page 18 of The Fake Affair

We’ve been back for three weeks, pretending that night never happened. Pretending he didn’t kiss me after the deal was saved. Pretending we didn’t share a hotel suite in Chicago, where we went far but not too far. Pretending I don’t catch him watching me, his eyes dark with memories I’m trying to forget.

I adjust my skirt at my desk, fighting the ache of arousal and need that’s become my constant companion. Since Chicago, my body has developed a Logan Fraser-shaped craving no cold shower—or toy or use of my own fingers—can cure.

When I’m alone, I replay his words, his touch, and the sound of my name in that velvet, whiskey-smooth accent. It’s maddening.

Every time he speaks, that accent pulls me back to that night in his penthouse, whispering Gaelic against my skin.

“The board meeting starts in five,” I tell him through the intercom.

“Okay. Thank you, Bella.” His voice is professional despite the heat in his gaze when I glance through the glass partition.

I grab my tablet and notepad, deliberately taking my time walking to the conference room.

The meeting drags, mostly because I can’t focus on anything except how Logan’s hands move when he talks. Those hands that slid under my dress in Chicago. That made me mad with desire?—

“Ms. Levine?”

I blink. The entire board is staring at me.

“The Q3 projections?” Logan prompts, his accent thicker than usual. He knows exactly where my mind went.

Bastard.

Later, as I’m sorting through RSVPs for tonight’s charity gala, a delivery arrives. A garment bag from Neiman Marcus.

“You’ll need something appropriate for tonight,” Logan says, passing my desk. “The board expects a certain standard at these events.”

I wait until he’s in his office before unzipping the bag. Inside is a stunning black designer gown, undoubtedly from a luxury brand.

Nice try, Fraser.

Opening my bottom drawer, I pull out the dry-cleaning bag I picked up yesterday. Inside is a very familiar red dress—freshly altered to be even more devastating than the night of Audrey’s wedding.

He won’t see what’s coming.

The gala transforms our office building’s ground floor into something from a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, Manhattan’s elite in their finest. I time my entrance carefully, waiting until Logan’s deep in conversation with major donors.

His reaction is worth every penny of the alterations.

He stops mid-sentence, his glass freezing halfway to his lips as I descend the stairs. The red dress clings in all the right places, showing just enough skin to be sophisticated rather than scandalous. But Logan’s eyes darken like I’m wearing nothing at all.

“Ms. Levine.” His accent wraps around my name like silk when I join his group. “I believe I sent you something more... appropriate to wear.”

“Did you?” I accept a champagne flute from a passing waiter. “Must have slipped my mind.”

For the next hour, I walk around the room, socializing with the staff and guests, but I feel Logan’s eyes on me the whole time.

“That dress is entirely unsuitable,” he growls when we end up alone by the bar.

“You didn’t think so the night of Audrey’s wedding.” I lean closer, ostensibly reaching for a napkin. “In fact, if I remember correctly, you quite enjoyed removing it.”

His fingers flex around his whiskey glass. “Careful, love.”

“Or what?” I whisper, close enough to smell his cologne. “You’ll punish me like you did in Chicago?”

His eyes darken. “You mean like how you punished yourself later that night?” His voice drops lower. “Those thin walls didn’t hide much, love. I heard every delicious sound you made in that sitting room. God knows what you were doing with yourself.”

Heat floods my cheeks, but I hold his gaze. “Funny. I heard you too. Those Scottish curses got particularly creative around midnight.”

---