8. Playing Pretend
EIGHT
PLAYING PRETEND
Logan
It’s been two weeks since Bella moved in, and I’m still adjusting to the changes, like waking up to the smell of burning pancakes on a Sunday morning.
“Everything’s fine!” Her voice carries from the kitchen, followed by the distinct sound of a smoke detector being frantically fanned.
I find her standing on a chair, waving a dish towel at the ceiling, wearing one of my old Edinburgh University t-shirts that she’s claimed as sleepwear. The kitchen’s a disaster—flour everywhere, egg shells scattered across the counter, and what I assume was once a pancake now resembles charcoal.
“Don’t.” She points the spatula at me without looking down. “Don’t say a word.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I reach up and disable the alarm, trying not to smile. “Though I am curious about what crime that pancake committed to deserve such a fate.”
She hops down from the chair, blowing hair out of her face. “I got distracted.”
“Clearly.”
“I was thinking about the marketing agency.” She scrapes the cremated pancake into the bin. “I have all these ideas, and with the funding you promised...” She trails off, suddenly looking uncertain.
“Tell me.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Really?”
“Really.” I start cleaning up the flour while she makes fresh batter. “Consider it research. I should know what I’m investing in.”
Her face lights up, and suddenly, the burned pancakes are forgotten. “I’ve been thinking about how traditional agencies are stuck in this outdated model, right? They’re still treating digital like it’s just an add-on to print campaigns.”
She pours more batter into the pan, gesturing with the spatula. “But what if we flipped that completely? What if we created campaigns that were born digital, that understood how people actually consume content?”
“Most agencies claim they do that already,” I point out.
“Yes, but they actually don’t.” She turns, aiming the spatula at me, batter dripping onto the floor. “They take traditional campaigns and stick them on Instagram. That’s not digital integration. I want to create something that—oh shoot!” She spins back to the stove, where another pancake meets its demise.
As she scrapes the second casualty into the bin, she continues, “Look at CyberMind, for example. The way they process data? That could transform how we target campaigns. Imagine using their AI to predict not just what content people want to see, but when and how they want to see it.”
“That’s why you were so interested in their integration capabilities.”
“Exactly!” She starts another pancake, excited. “Most marketing agencies are still using demographic data from six months ago. But with real-time AI integration, we could adjust campaigns on the fly. A rainy day in Manhattan? Boom—your ads automatically switch to cozy indoor activities. Stock market takes a hit? Your content instantly shifts tone to be more budget-conscious.”
The pancake starts smoking slightly, but she’s too engrossed to notice. “And that’s just the beginning. I want to create an agency that doesn’t just follow trends but predicts them. Using data to understand not just what people are buying, but why they’re buying it. Not just what they’re clicking on, but what made them click.”
I reach around her to turn down the heat before we lose another pancake. She’s so close I can smell her shampoo, but she’s too excited to notice our proximity.
“The problem with current marketing,” she continues, finally remembering to flip the pancake, “is that it’s still trying to shout the loudest instead of speaking the clearest. But people don’t want to be shouted at anymore. They want personalization, authenticity?—”
“Real connection,” I finish, thinking about how naturally she’d handled the board members last week.
“Exactly!” She turns, beaming up at me. “That’s why digital integration needs to be more intuitive, you know?
I reach out without thinking, brushing flour from her face. “You’re brilliant when you’re passionate about something.”
Color floods her cheeks. “I thought we agreed to keep things professional.”
“Professional doesn’t mean I can’t acknowledge your abilities.” But I step back, putting a safe distance between us. “The pancakes are burning again, by the way.”
* * *
We’re eating slightly charred pancakes at the breakfast bar, discussing safer topics like tomorrow’s art gallery opening—our first official public appearance since the elevator incident. Victoria’s arranged for several board members and key investors to attend.
“It needs to be convincing,” I remind her.
Bella wrinkles her nose at me. “Yes, dear. I’ll be the perfect girlfriend.” She steals a bite of my pancake.
I catch her wrist before she can steal another bite. “Careful, love. Or I’ll tell everyone about your cooking skills.”
“It was just a one-time mishap. Plus, you wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Her eyes drop to where I’m still holding her wrist. I let go quickly, standing to clear the plates.
“I should get ready,” she says, sliding off her stool. “I promised Audrey I’d help her with something today.”
I watch her leave, still wearing my shirt, and wonder how long we can keep pretending this is just business.
Twenty-four hours later, I’m watching Bella charm the entire board at Sterling Gallery’s newest exhibition. She’s wearing a black dress that walks the perfect line between elegant and alluring, and I’m not the only one noticing.
“Your Bella is so knowledgeable about modern art,” Victoria observes, appearing at my elbow.
My Bella . The words shouldn’t affect me like they do.
“She’s full of surprises,” I say, watching as she explains something about the abstract piece in front of her, her hands moving expressively as she talks.
“The Goldmans are impressed,” Victoria sips her champagne. “They appreciate a CEO with ‘cultured taste.’”
I almost laugh. If she only knew Bella was teaching me about modern art via text messages all afternoon, preparing me for exactly these conversations.
“Babe!” Bella waves me over. “Come look at this one. It reminds me of that story you told me about Edinburgh.”
I’ve told her exactly zero stories about Edinburgh, but she’s creating our history with such natural ease that even I almost believe it.
The painting she’s pointing to is a mess of blues and grays that supposedly represents urban isolation, coastal erosion, or possibly breakfast—modern art isn’t exactly my forte.
“See how the artist uses color to create depth?” She loops her arm through mine, and I catch a whiff of her perfume. “It’s like that view from your old flat, the one you described. How the mist would roll in from the sea...”
She spins a tale of a flat I never had and a view I never saw, but her voice makes it real. I find myself adding details—the old coffee shop below, the creaky stairs, the way the fog would muffle the city sounds.
I almost forget we’re performing.
"Tell me more about Edinburgh," Harrison from the board interrupts, appearing with his wife in tow. "My daughter's considering studying there."
Bella's hand tightens on my arm—the slightest warning squeeze. We haven't prepared for personal questions about Edinburgh.
"The Royal Mile," she starts, her voice warm with fake nostalgia. "That's where we first met. Logan was avoiding some tedious business dinner?—"
"At The Bear's Head," I add smoothly, remembering our practiced story. "Best whiskey in Old Town."
"I was there with my study group," Bella continues. "This pretentious Scotsman kept correcting our Shakespeare quotes?—"
"Because you were butchering them, love."
She laughs, the sound so natural it makes my chest tight. "I quoted Macbeth just to annoy him. The Scottish play, in Scotland, to a Scotsman."
"Bold strategy," Harrison's wife remarks.
"It worked," I find myself saying, looking down at Bella. "I asked her to coffee the next day."
"He pretended it was to correct my literary knowledge."
"You pretended to need the help. We synced so well that it didn’t matter if she were friends with my sister.”
“Best friends,” she adds.
Harrison's wife is captivated, but I notice Victoria watching us carefully from across the room. Her approval matters more than the others—she's known me longest, and has seen through my previous attempts at relationships.
"And now here you are," Harrison says. "Why keep it quiet for so long?"
This is the tricky part. The question we knew would come.
"Logan's idea," Bella says before I can speak. "He wanted me to establish myself professionally first. No shortcuts, no assumptions about sleeping my way to success." She looks up at me, her eyes soft. "He's always been protective of my independence."
It's a perfect answer. Better than the one we rehearsed. Professional, romantic, and exactly what the board wants to hear.
"That sounds like Logan," Victoria says, joining us. "Always thinking three steps ahead."
If she only knew.
We move through the gallery, building our fictional past to everyone else who cares to listen while securing very real business connections.
“That’s not actually what that piece means,” she whispers after I make up some pretentious interpretation of what looks like spilled paint.
“No?”
“Not even close.” Her eyes dance with amusement. “But watching you try to sound cultured is highly entertaining.”
“Careful, love. I might start sharing more Edinburgh stories.”
“I see. Like the one about the haunted pub you definitely never visited?”
I laugh, and the sound surprises us both. When was the last time someone made me laugh at one of these events?
The drive home is quiet. The gallery show was a success—the Goldmans are fully on board, Victoria is pleased, and our relationship story is firmly established.
I’m running through tomorrow’s schedule when I feel a weight on my shoulder. Bella’s fallen asleep, her face peaceful, one hand curled into my jacket.
She must be exhausted. She spent all afternoon memorizing artists’ names and styles, just to make tonight perfect. To help me. To help the company.
I should wake her, but instead, I tell my driver to take the long way home, and I let her sleep.
“Logan?” she murmurs, half-awake.
“Mm?”
“Did I do well tonight?”
“You were perfect.”
She snuggles closer, already drifting off again. “Your accent gets softer when you’re being nice.”
I wait until her breathing evens out before whispering, “Only with you, love.”
When we finally arrive home, I carry her up to her room. She stirs as I lay her on her bed but doesn’t fully wake.
“Stay,” she mumbles, catching my hand.
“You know I can’t.”
But I linger long enough to remove her shoes, to pull a blanket over her. Long enough to know I’m falling for more than just our act.