Page 41 of The Fake Affair

It stops and then continues for a third time.

“Logan,” I pull back slightly. “It might be important.”

“Nothing is more important than?—”

“Check the phone.”

He curses under his breath, but reaches for his pocket. His expression changes the moment he sees the screen.

“It’s Fraser-Kennedy.” His voice shifts to CEO mode. “The main company. They wouldn’t call this late unless it’s important.”

“You should take it, then.”

He answers, and I watch his face grow more serious with each word. My fingers are still tangled in his tie when he says, “How soon? Right. Book the jet. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Hostile takeover attempt of our Singapore division.” He’s already moving toward his room. “Someone’s trying to exploit a loophole in our contract structure.”

I follow him, watching him pull out a suitcase. “How long will you be gone?”

“Day or two at most.” He starts grabbing clothes. “Just need to show up, remind everyone why crossing me is a bad idea.”

“Here.” I take the shirt he’s mangling and fold it properly. “Let me help.”

He pauses, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Bella...”

“Pack now. We can talk later.” I hand him his passport from the bedside drawer. “This is why you’re CEO.”

“I don’t want to leave. Not now. Not when we finally?—”

“We’ll figure it out when you get back.” I straighten his tie, letting my hands linger on his chest. “Go save your company.”

His hands cover mine. “Two days. Maximum.”

“I know.”

“And then we’re having this conversation.”

“I know that too.”

He kisses me again, hard and fast, before grabbing the suitcase.

“Did you pack your phone charger? Backup laptop?” I ask, desperate to get to a second more conversation with him.

“They’re all in here.” He leaves a kiss on my forehead. “Our timing is terrible,” he mutters.

“Story of our lives.” I try to smile. “At least this time, we know what we both truly want…”

“—to be together for real. See you soon.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me standing in our penthouse. I sink onto the couch, surrounded by the scattered remains of our interrupted evening. My dress is wrinkled, my lipstick smeared.

I touch my lips and try not to think about how empty the penthouse feels without him.

I spend the next hour sending Logan every file he might need, even though I have no affiliation with the Fraser-Kennedy company. However, it’s the least I can do at this moment.

* * *

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