Page 64 of The Fake Affair

“I did.” He tugs me back down against him and presses a kiss to my bare shoulder, lips lingering longer than necessary. “Doesn’t mean I can’t plan ahead.”

I sigh into his chest, unable to stop the smile tugging at my mouth. “Control freak.”

“Your control freak,” he murmurs.

And he is. In all the best, infuriating, impossible ways—mine.

* * *

The next fewweeks pass in a cloud of morning sickness and therapy sessions, office hunting, and late-night cravings. Logan stays over more nights than not.

One month to the day after his first ask, I'm reviewing property listings for my agency when he appears.

"Lunch?" he asks casually.

"Can't. Meeting the realtor about—" I stop, seeing his expression. "This isn't about lunch, is it?"

"No." He takes my hand and leads me to the elevator.

The drive is familiar—we're heading to Greenwich Village. My heart speeds up as we pull up to a brownstone with a FOR SALE sign.

"Logan..."

"Just look," he says softly. "Please?"

The house is everything he described: high ceilings, original details, a modern kitchen, a library with built-in shelves, and a room perfect for a nursery already painted a soft sage green.

"You already bought it," I realize, seeing his expression.

"No." He takes my hands. "I made an offer contingent on your answer."

"My answer?"

“Move in with me,” Logan says, and his accent wraps around the words like velvet. Like something meant to be unwrapped slowly, savored. “Let’s build our life here. Together.”

I don’t answer right away.

Instead, I let my gaze wander across the room that could become our nursery—the soft edges, the tall windows that catch the light the same way mine do at home. This place doesn’t feel cold or curated. It feels imagined. Not his, not mine. Ours. A space waiting to become something more than just square footage.

I rest a hand on my stomach, still flat beneath my shirt, but suddenly full of possibilities. Full of reasons.

“One condition,” I say quietly.

“Anything,” he replies without hesitation.

“We paint the kitchen.”

His laugh is immediate and unguarded, like a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Already planned on it. The current color would clash with your midnight baking sessions.”

I smile, and then—because I know him—I add, “And my office stays downtown.”

He narrows his eyes. “That’s two conditions.”

“Take it or leave it.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just pulls me in close, one hand sliding over the gentle curve of my waist, fingers settling protectively over the place that will soon hold more than just hope. His voice dips low as he says, “I’ll take it. I’ll take all of it. Everything you want to give.”

I tilt my head, heart pounding. “Everything?”

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