11. Timing
ELEVEN
TIMING
Bella
The drive home feels endless. Every red light is torture, and every stop is an eternity. Logan’s hand hasn’t left mine since we got in the car, his thumb tracing patterns that make it hard to think.
“Almost there,” he says quietly.
I want to say something witty, something to maintain the pretense that we’re still just playing roles. But after his display at the museum, after that possessive “you’re mine” that still makes my stomach flip, pretending seems pointless.
When we finally reach the penthouse, the elevator ride is torture. Logan stands too close, not touching me but radiating heat that makes my skin tingle. His eyes meet mine in the mirrored walls; they’re bright, but I can’t tell what’s happening in his head.
“Logan—”
“Don’t.” His accent wraps around the word. “If you start talking, I might start to overthink things and remember all the reasons why this is wrong.”
I smirk.
“What?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Nothing. Just that it’s quite a sight to see an alpha male complain about overthinking things.”
“Well,” he starts as the elevator door opens to our floor, “it beats me, too. You have completely undone me, Bella.”
His hand finds the small of my back as he guides me inside. The touch is innocent enough, but it sets my skin on fire.
“Every logical part of me says this is wrong,” he continues, closing the door behind us. “You’re my sister’s best friend. My assistant. This could complicate everything.”
I turn to face him, letting my clutch fall onto the console table. “We’re already doing this, remember? We’re pretending in front of the world that we’re in love while I’m your sister’s best friend and your assistant.”
“You have a good point, but you do know what I mean. These concerns have held me back for years. I’m not afraid to say I’m scared, Bella. I want to be logical.”
I take a deep breath. The conversation just got more intense.
“Tell me, Logan. What does the illogical part of you want?”
“The illogical part has wanted you since you quoted Shakespeare just to piss me off.”
“That was years ago.”
“Exactly.”
He moves closer, and I back up until I hit the wall. Just like that night at Audrey’s wedding, but this time, there’s no whiskey to blame. No excuses. We’re fully aware of what is happening. It’s just us and years of denied attraction now.
His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing my bottom lip.
“I guess it’s the last chance to stop this,” I tell him.
He leans lower, his breath fanning my face. “I don’t want to stop, Bella. I want you to really be mine.”
The last word barely leaves my lips before I kiss him. It’s nothing like our sex in the coatroom or his couch. We’re both pouring our feelings over the years into it.
My hands find his tie, but before I can loosen it, his phone starts buzzing. It’s loud and insistent in the quiet apartment, but we ignore it. It stops and starts again immediately.
It stops and then continues for a third time.
“Logan,” I pull back slightly. “It might be important.”
“Nothing is more important than?—”
“Check the phone.”
He curses under his breath, but reaches for his pocket. His expression changes the moment he sees the screen.
“It’s Fraser-Kennedy.” His voice shifts to CEO mode. “The main company. They wouldn’t call this late unless it’s important.”
“You should take it, then.”
He answers, and I watch his face grow more serious with each word. My fingers are still tangled in his tie when he says, “How soon? Right. Book the jet. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Hostile takeover attempt of our Singapore division.” He’s already moving toward his room. “Someone’s trying to exploit a loophole in our contract structure.”
I follow him, watching him pull out a suitcase. “How long will you be gone?”
“Day or two at most.” He starts grabbing clothes. “Just need to show up, remind everyone why crossing me is a bad idea.”
“Here.” I take the shirt he’s mangling and fold it properly. “Let me help.”
He pauses, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Bella...”
“Pack now. We can talk later.” I hand him his passport from the bedside drawer. “This is why you’re CEO.”
“I don’t want to leave. Not now. Not when we finally?—”
“We’ll figure it out when you get back.” I straighten his tie, letting my hands linger on his chest. “Go save your company.”
His hands cover mine. “Two days. Maximum.”
“I know.”
“And then we’re having this conversation.”
“I know that too.”
He kisses me again, hard and fast, before grabbing the suitcase.
“Did you pack your phone charger? Backup laptop?” I ask, desperate to get to a second more conversation with him.
“They’re all in here.” He leaves a kiss on my forehead. “Our timing is terrible,” he mutters.
“Story of our lives.” I try to smile. “At least this time, we know what we both truly want…”
“—to be together for real. See you soon.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me standing in our penthouse. I sink onto the couch, surrounded by the scattered remains of our interrupted evening. My dress is wrinkled, my lipstick smeared.
I touch my lips and try not to think about how empty the penthouse feels without him.
I spend the next hour sending Logan every file he might need, even though I have no affiliation with the Fraser-Kennedy company. However, it’s the least I can do at this moment.
* * *
Two days stretch into four.
The Singapore situation is “more complex than anticipated,” according to Logan’s increasingly brief texts. I get it—he’s juggling a corporate firestorm across time zones. But after everything that happened between us, I find myself pacing through the apartment like it might offer answers the walls won’t say out loud.
I’m mid-scroll through an acquisition report with him on call.
“So, how is everything otherwise?” he asks. I'm about to answer when my phone buzzes with a text.
Still coming this weekend?
I blink. Shit. I’d completely forgotten I promised to visit. I start typing a reply when another message follows.
Everything okay?
Before I can answer, a sharp wave of nausea hits. I toss off my Airpods, lurch off the couch, barely making it to the bathroom in time. My knees hit tile and I grip the sink for balance, the edge biting into my palms as I heave.
Must have been something I ate last night at dinner.
“Bella?” Logan’s voice echoes faintly through my Airpods, now lying discarded on the sofa. I’d forgotten we were still on a call, and scramble to put them back in my ears. “You still there?”
I spit, rinse my mouth, and try to sound normal. “Yeah, sorry. Ate something that didn't taste right. What were you saying about the shareholders?”
He pauses. “Are you alright?”
“Just tired,” I lie, pressing a damp towel to my forehead. “Focus on your meetings. I’ve got everything handled here.”
“You need to rest, Bella. I’m hanging up, but I’ll send some food over. Eat, and get to bed.” I’m in no mood to argue, so I nod gratefully and hang up. Just a second later, my phone buzzes once more and this time it’s Mom calling. Stifling a groan, I answer.
“You didn’t answer my texts.”
Damn it. “I meant to. Sorry. Work’s been chaotic. Logan’s in Singapore dealing with—” I falter as another wave of dizziness rolls in.
“Bella,” she says, and I hear the shift in her tone. The one she used when I was little and tried to pretend a fever was nothing. “What’s going on?”
I squint at nothing in particular, as if that will make the throbbing between my eyebrows stop. “Nothing. I probably skipped lunch.”
A pause. Then, softer: “You’re still not sleeping well, are you?”
I let out a breath. “Not really.”
“You’ve always pushed through things. Ever since you were a kid, trying to carry too much by yourself. You remember that summer recital? You had strep throat and still went onstage like it was Broadway.”
I smile faintly. “I also passed out backstage.”
“And your father nearly broke a toe trying to run through the curtain to catch you.”
The mention of him still hits like a stone in the chest. “He would’ve made a dramatic scene of it.”
“Yes,” she says quietly. “He always said you were the toughest person he knew. But even strong girls have to sit down sometimes, Bella.”
“I know.” My voice softens. “I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” My heart feels heavy when I hang up. Logan sends over a pizza, and it helps a bit, but two slices in, the nausea returns and I can’t eat a bite more. Sensibility takes over and I go to bed.
The next morning, the smell of coffee—usually the one thing that coaxes me out of bed—makes my stomach churn. I gag and push the mug away. Try to ignore the twisting unease in my gut as I power through back-to-back meetings.
Then a message comes through.
Coming home tonight. Everything’s under control here.
My heart flutters.
And then my stomach turns violently. It takes me a long while to compose myself and get to work, but thankfully enough, nothing happens there. My body hurts in strange places and my throat feels itchy, but there’s no throwing up involved, so yay me !
After leaving work, I stop at the grocery store. I want to surprise him. Something about it feels grounding—cooking. It’s what Mom always did when Dad came back from trips. It made things feel normal.
Back home, I start prepping his favorite meal. Garlic hits the pan and I have to step back, the scent hitting me wrong, sharp and too much. I grip the counter and breathe through my nose.
By the time Logan walks through the front door, the sauce is simmering, but I’m barely upright.
“Something smells amazing,” he calls.
I turn, and the floor shifts. The ceiling blurs.
He’s at my side in seconds, catching me as I sway. His arm curls around my waist, steadying me like a vise.
“Bella?” His voice is close, panicked. “Christ, you’re burning up.”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, but the words vanish into the hum of rushing blood in my ears.
The world tilts. And then it goes black.
When I come to, I’m in our bed. The light is lower, filtered. The air smells like lemon balm and cotton, like comfort. Logan’s crouched beside me, one hand brushing my hair back. His other is clenched tight in his lap.
“How long have you been sick?”
“I’m not sick,” I manage, trying to sit up. The room sways again.
Logan frowns at me. “You fainted. In the kitchen. After I’ve been watching you get paler and thinner on every video call.”
I return his frown more ferociously, scrunching all my features into a tight knot. “I did not faint. I… temporarily disconnected from reality.”
He doesn’t even smile. “I’m calling a doctor.”
The panic begins to set in. “Logan, I’m fine. I’m just tired and haven’t been eating well, and—” I pause. A different kind of wave hits. Not nausea. Realization.
When was my last period? A strange hush spreads through me, cold and sharp and sudden. I count backward.
The wedding.
The coatroom.
None of those times were safe.
The thought must register on my face because Logan freezes. His hand stills mid-reach for the phone.
“Bella?” His voice is careful now. Guarded.
I open my mouth, but the truth sticks in my throat.
He sees it anyway. The understanding hits him like a car crash—hard and irrevocable.
His expression goes blank, then stricken.
I whisper, “I think I’m pregnant.”
Silence falls. And in that silence, I can feel every beat of his heart, every breath I take that doesn’t quite reach my lungs.
Logan Fraser. My boss. My best friend’s brother. The man I thought I could keep at arm’s length.
Now staring at me like I’ve just upended his entire world.
Because I have. Because I’m carrying his child.