Page 62 of The Fake Affair

That night, in my too-small kitchen, I lean against the counter and watch Logan try to cook dinner. He’s ditched the suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the top button of his shirt undone. His hair is slightly mussed, his tie flung across one of the dining chairs. He curses in Gaelic under his breath as the stove lets out another puff of smoke.

The smell of something vaguely burned hangs in the air. Still, I can’t stop smiling.

“We can always do takeout,” I say, biting back a laugh as he pokes at the pan like it’s personally betrayed him.

“I can do this.” His glare is fierce, but it’s mostly for show. “How hard can pasta be?”

“Says the man who used to have a personal chef.”

“Had,” he says, shooting me a look. “Someone insisted on keeping her independence.”

“Smart woman.”

“Stubborn woman.” He’s grinning as he scrapes the ruined mess into the trash. “Fine. Chinese?”

“Obviously.”

He’s already reaching for his phone, tapping through the app. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He knows my order by heart now.

I love that. I love that he pays attention without making a show of it. That he’s trying, here in my space, in my life, with all its crooked drawer handles and flickering kitchen light.

“The realtor called back,” I say, settling onto the barstool as he finishes the order. “The downtown space is perfect.”

He raises a brow. “You sure you don’t want?—”

“To use your money?” I shake my head before he finishes. “No. I need to do this myself.”

I expect him to argue, just a little. But instead, he nods, then moves across the room and slides onto the couch. I follow, curling into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I know,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Doesn’t stop me from wanting to help.”

His voice is lower now, stripped of the earlier teasing. He reaches for my hand and starts playing with my fingers, absent and tender, like it soothes something in him to just touch me.

“You are helping,” I murmur. “By letting me do this my way.”

He’s silent for a moment, and I can feel his breath against my hair, the warmth of it settling into me. His thumb moves in lazy circles over my knuckles.

“You make me want to be better,” he says finally.

I don’t answer right away. Just press my cheek to his chest and let my eyes close.

"You already are." I look up at him. "Every day in therapy. Every time you face those memories. Every time you choose to stay instead of run."

"M’eudail..." The nickname slips out, soft and Scottish.

"What does that mean?"

"My darling." His cheeks redden slightly. "I’ve never used it with any woman before." He clears his throat. "I can stop?—"

"Don't." I kiss him softly. "I love it."

"Move in with me," he says suddenly.

"Logan—"

"Not to the penthouse. Somewhere new. Somewhere ours."

I study his face. "Ask me again in a month."

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