Page 60 of The Fake Affair

The way she moves against me, the way her body responds with perfect, raw honesty, leaves no doubt—she’s mine, as much as I am hers.

After, we lay in bed with her head on my chest.

“We forgot dessert,” she mumbles sleepily.

“I didn’t.” I kiss her temple. “You were dessert.”

SEVENTEEN

REAL

Bella

Morning sickness is a lie. It should be called all-day sickness, with a special intensity during board meetings.

"The quarterly projections—" Harrison drones on while I discreetly sip ginger tea, trying to focus on anything except the way his cologne turns my stomach. Two more weeks until my official resignation. I can do this.

A hand settles on my knee under the table. Logan. He's been watching me all morning, noting every time I go pale. The gesture would seem possessive to others, but I feel the grip of his fingers. He's worried.

"Perhaps we should break for lunch," he suggests.

The board members shuffle out, leaving us alone in the conference room. The moment the door closes, Logan's CEO mask drops.

"You should be resting."

He’s not wrong, and I am incredibly tired. Perhaps the happiness goes hand in hand with the low moments too, because I find myself growing weepy for no reason.

"I'm fine." But I let him pull me closer, his hand splaying across my stomach. "The doctor said working is perfectly normal at this stage."

Logan grimaces and plants a kiss on the bridge on my nose. "The doctor hasn't seen your schedule."

I stick my tongue out at him. "Says the man who held three client meetings yesterday with a fever."

His lips twitch. "Touché."

These moments still surprise me—the easy banter, the casual touches, the way we fit together without pretense. Three weeks into being officially together, everything feels different. Real.

I’m glad he’s on my side, and that he actually means to stick around for the long haul. Now, this baby… I already know I’m going to love being their mom so, so much. And Logan is going to be such a doting dad.

My phone buzzes. It's my realtor.

"Did you find office space?" Logan asks, reading over my shoulder.

"Maybe. Apparently, there is a downtown location with lots of natural light." I gather my things. "The kind of place that says 'successful marketing agency' without screaming 'trust fund baby.'"

“You’re my trust fund, baby,” he jokes, leaving a kiss on my cheeks.

“Stop it, Logan.” I laugh.

"Okay, okay. You earned this." His voice is firm. "Your talent did, not my money."

"I know." And I do. The clients already lined up for my new venture prove that. "But others might not see it that way."

"Others don't matter." He catches my hand. "Let’s have dinner tonight?"

Much as I’d love to, I shake my head. "Can't. Therapy session, remember?"

His fingers tighten briefly. We've been doing a session together once a week—him talking through his hospital trauma, me holding his hand through the hard parts. Sometimes, Audrey joins, filling in childhood memories he's tried to forget.

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