Page 63 of The Fake Affair

"Why a month?"

"Because by then, you'll either be sick of my morning sickness or sure enough about us to ask again."

"I'm already sure." But he smiles. "One month."

My phone buzzes with a text.

Ultrasound tomorrow. Coming with?

I smile, typing back.

Wouldn't miss it.

“It’s Audrey,” I tell Logan before he even asks. “She’s got an ultrasound appointment tomorrow.”

“Let’s go together,” he says with a kiss.

The doorbell interrupts what would have become more than a kiss. Dinner arrives, and we eat in my living room, talking about everything and nothing, but mostly the way the baby makes me crave spicy food.

* * *

Audrey's ultrasoundappointment changes everything. Watching Logan hold his sister's hand, seeing his face as he watches his future niece or nephew on the screen, was incredible.

"That’ll be us soon," Logan murmurs later, back in my apartment when the world is suspended under the quiet of night and the lights are low. His voice is a whisper, like he’s speaking a promise into the hush of the room.

I tilt my head toward him on the couch, my cheek brushing his shoulder. “Scared?”

He shifts, pulling me in closer until I’m curled against him. “Excited,” he says simply.

I lift my eyes to his. “Really?”

“Really.” His palm moves to my stomach, fingers splayed like he’s trying to feel something through skin and muscle and time. “Having you both there today, watching that screen... it made everything feel real.”

“More real than my morning sickness?”

That earns me a soft laugh, low and warm in his chest. “More real than anything.”

He goes quiet then, his thumb brushing small circles over my shirt. I can feel him thinking. I know this part of him now—the part that plans, dreams, builds.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says after a beat.

“That’s dangerous,” I tease.

“Hush.” He props himself up on one elbow to look down at me, his hair tousled, his expression serious. “It’s about the nursery.”

“Logan...”

“Just listen.” He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, like he needs me to be fully present for this. “There’s this place in Greenwich Village. A townhouse. Private garden. Walking distance to your new office.”

I blink, sitting up. “Have you been house hunting?”

His mouth tugs into the smallest smile, like he knows how this sounds. “Maybe. The master suite has windows that remind me of your apartment. And there’s this room that would be perfect for a library...”

I let out a half-laugh. “You hate my apartment.”

“I hate being away from you.” His hand finds mine again, warm and certain. “The townhouse is just an idea. But us, together? That’s non-negotiable.”

“One month,” I remind him, arching a brow. “You promised.”

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