7. Sweet Surrender
SEVEN
SWEET SURRENDER
Bella
Things are moving way too fast.
In the span of a month, I've gone from Logan Fraser's antagonistic assistant to his live-in girlfriend. Well, fake girlfriend. The movers just finished arranging my belongings in his—our—penthouse, and I'm still trying to process how I got here. Logan's in Boston for emergency meetings, which somehow makes this feel even stranger—moving into his home while he's away.
“You did what?” Audrey’s voice crackles through my phone as I take off my jacket.
“Your brother and I are... dating.” The word catches like a splinter in my throat. “Have been, actually. Since Edinburgh.”
I wince as the lie leaves my lips. It doesn’t get easier with repetition. Saying it out loud feels like I’m borrowing someone else’s story and trying to make it fit.
“Edinburgh? Bella, you’ve never been to Edinburgh.”
I let out a slow breath, hanging my jacket in the tiny coat closet by the door. My hand lingers on the sleeve a moment too long, as if my trench coat can somehow anchor me to reality.
“The board doesn’t know that,” I say. “Look, it’s complicated.”
“It’s insane, is what it is,” she fires back. “One minute, you’re trying to destroy his schedule. The next, you’re moving in with him?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes for a second as I lean back against the closet door. Her voice is too loud in the quiet of the apartment, and everything in my chest feels too tight. She’s not wrong. I can barely keep track of what’s real anymore—what’s part of the lie and what’s creeping dangerously close to the truth. One minute I’m moaning against his mouth in a coatroom, and the next I’m negotiating performance clauses in a fake relationship contract.
And now I have to convince the only person who’s known me longer than my own hair routine that this is all somehow... strategic.
“Victoria caught us in a... compromising position.”
There’s a long pause on the line. Then Audrey’s voice, horrified: “Please tell me you didn’t have sex in my brother’s office.”
“It was the coatroom, actually.”
“Bella!” She sounds absolutely and rightfully scandalized.
I wince, scrubbing a hand down my face as I sink onto the edge of his plush couch. “We got carried away after the charity gala and?—”
“You knew what you were up to, wearing that red dress!” She groans, and although I can’t see her, I can hear the grief in her voice. She’s panicking because she loves me and because she’s sure this will go up in flames. Can’t blame her.
I smile despite myself, the image of Logan pausing mid-sentence, whiskey glass frozen in his hand, flashing through my mind like a slow-motion reel. The way his eyes had gone dark the second he saw me. “Maybe.”
“Christ.” Audrey exhales hard, like she’s bracing herself against the secondhand embarrassment. “So now what? You’re just going to pretend to be in love with my brother?”
The question catches me off guard. “It’s a business arrangement. We both get something out of it.”
“Besides orgasms?”
My mouth opens, then closes again. I tip my head back against the couch and stare at the ceiling like it might have a script I can borrow from.
“God, Audrey.”
“What?” she fires back, sounding like a very annoyed golden retriever.
“There’s a no-sex clause in the contract.”
Silence. Then Audrey snorts so hard I pull the phone away from my ear. “Oh, this is going to end well.”
“It’s just temporary,” I say, maybe a little too quickly. I sit up straighter, as if posture could make my lie sound more convincing. “We have a plan. Boundaries. Rules.”
“Right. Temporary.” Her voice is still amused, but there’s something else beneath it now. A shift. Softer. Warier. I hear her take a breath.
“Just... be careful, okay? Logan may be different with you, but he’s still Logan.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I say quietly.
But even I can hear the doubt in it.
“I hope you do. I gotta go, so we’ll talk later.” There’s a soft click, and the line goes dead.
I drop my phone on the couch and wander the penthouse, trying to feel less like an intruder. The place is ridiculously huge. Besides all the designer furnishings, there are touches of the real Logan, too: a worn paperback by his chair and a family photo of him and Audrey as kids.
But it's my room that stops me in my tracks. I expected a generic guest room. Instead, I find myself stepping into what looks like pages from my Pinterest board come to life.
The walls are painted the exact shade of sage green from my bathroom at home—a color I've been obsessing over on my design apps for months.
The first thing that catches my eye is the vintage vanity mirror I'd been eyeing online just days ago. The one I'd liked on Instagram thinking I'd save up for it someday. It's positioned perfectly to catch the natural light, exactly how I'd imagined it. How did Logan find out about this? Not even Audrey knows.
There's a reading nook by the window, inspired by that renovation show I can't stop watching. Complete with a cushioned window seat and built-in bookshelf. A small desk faces the city view, perfect for the work-from-home days I'd negotiated.
My hand trails along the bookshelf, noting how the books are arranged exactly like mine at home—fiction by genre, non-fiction by subject.
The closet is bigger than my old bedroom, with a center island for accessories and enough shoe storage for my not-so-impressive shoe collection.
In the en-suite bathroom, I find my favorite products already stocked. Even my specific brand of face wash that’s hard to find in Manhattan. How did he...? Right. Audrey. Or maybe he’s just been paying more attention than I realized.
I sink onto the bed, overwhelmed. This isn't just a room; it's a message. One I'm not sure I'm ready to decode.
I try to distract myself by unpacking, but each box only reminds me of yesterday—Logan insisting on helping pack despite hiring movers, the way his hands lingered when passing me items to wrap, how his accent got softer when he found the Shakespeare collection in my bookshelf.
"You still have this?" he'd asked, holding up my worn copy.
I'd shrugged, trying to seem casual. "Required reading."
But we both knew it wasn't. It was the play I'd quoted at his expense that first time we met. I didn't tell him I'd bought the complete works the next day or that I'd learned his favorite sonnets just to have ammunition for our next encounter.
Now, arranging those same books in my new room—our Edinburgh story might be fake, but at least my knowledge of Scottish literature isn't.
My phone buzzes with texts from my friends, asking about my sudden move. I've been avoiding their calls, unsure how to explain this situation.
How do you tell people you're fake-dating your boss because his board of directors is obsessed with his personal life? That you're living with the man who's been starring in your fantasies since that first eye roll?
By midnight, the reality of my situation fully hits me. I'm living with Logan Fraser. The man I've spent years pretending not to notice. I’m still too wired to sleep.
The events of the past week keep playing in my head. I end up in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.
Baking chocolate chip cookies has always been my stress relief, and right now, I need relief.
I don’t bother changing out of my sleep shorts and tank top. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m alone. I turn on some music, keeping it low, and fall into the comforting pattern of measuring and mixing.
The first batch is in the oven when I hear it: a sharp intake of breath from the doorway.
I turn, finger in my mouth, licking off chocolate from a failed cookie-dough experiment.
Logan stands there in low-hanging sleep pants and nothing else, his hair mussed from sleep, looking at me like I'm the sweetest thing in his kitchen.
"I didn't know you were back," I manage, suddenly aware that this is what living together means—him appearing at random hours, fresh from business trips, looking like this.
"Got in a while ago," his accent is rough with sleep and travel. "I was trying to get some rest."
Oh.
This might be a problem.
I’m suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing. My sleep shorts barely cover anything, and my tank top is riding up, showing a strip of skin above my waistband.
“Couldn’t sleep?” His accent is thick, making the simple question sound like sin.
“I stress bake.” I turn back to the counter, trying to look busy. “Did I wake you?”
“The smell of chocolate woke me.” He moves closer. “What are you making?”
“Chocolate chip cookies.” I reach for another chocolate chip, but his hand catches mine.
“You’ve got...” He brings my chocolate-stained finger to his mouth, and my breath catches as his lips close around it.
Our eyes lock as his tongue swirls around my fingertip, and suddenly, the kitchen feels too hot, too small.
“Logan...” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
“The contract,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Right. No sex.” I pull my finger free. “Why are you half-naked here at midnight?”
His lips twitch. “It’s my kitchen, after all.”
“Our kitchen,” I correct, turning to check the cookies. Big mistake. He’s right behind me, and I back straight into his chest.
His hands settle on my hips. “Careful, love.”
I should step away. I should remind him again about the contract we signed. Instead, I relax against him, feeling the way his breathing grows heavy.
“We really shouldn’t,” he says, but his hands slide up my sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
“Definitely not.” I turn in his arms, tilting my face up to his. “This would complicate everything.”
“Everything,” he agrees, lowering his head.
The first touch of his lips is gentle. It feels worlds apart from the fierce, wild moments we’ve shared before. But when I thread my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, gentle goes out the window.
He lifts me onto the counter, stepping between my legs. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, under my tank top, gripping my breasts. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more.
“Bella,” he groans against my neck. “The cookies?—”
“Timer’s set.”
“Good, now shut up and kiss me.”
I do, thoroughly, until I’m dizzy with want and the kitchen smells like?—
“Shit!” I push him away, scrambling for the oven.
The cookies are only slightly overdone, but as I set them on the cooling rack, the reality of what we almost did hits me.
“So much for the no-sex clause,” I say, trying to laugh it off.
Logan runs a hand through his hair, looking deliciously rumpled. “We should...”
“Stick to the contract. Right.”
“Right.” But he doesn’t move away. Instead, he reaches past me for a cookie, his chest brushing my arm. “These are good.”
“They’re hot.”
“I like hot.”
The way he says it, looking directly at me, makes my knees weak.
“I should go to bed,” I say quickly. “My bed. Alone. Like we agreed.”
He nods but catches my wrist as I pass. “Bella?”
“Yes?”
“Wear longer shorts next time you decide to bake at midnight.”
“No promises.”
I’m almost in my room when his voice carries down the hall, “And Bella? Next time, make double chocolate.”
Sleep comes eventually, but my dreams are filled with chocolate-flavored kisses and Scottish accents.
I wake to the smell of coffee and find a steaming cup and a slightly burned chocolate chip cookie on my bedside table.
Damn it.
This fake relationship might kill me.