17. Real
SEVENTEEN
REAL
Bella
Morning sickness is a lie. It should be called all-day sickness, with a special intensity during board meetings.
"The quarterly projections—" Harrison drones on while I discreetly sip ginger tea, trying to focus on anything except the way his cologne turns my stomach. Two more weeks until my official resignation. I can do this.
A hand settles on my knee under the table. Logan. He's been watching me all morning, noting every time I go pale. The gesture would seem possessive to others, but I feel the grip of his fingers. He's worried.
"Perhaps we should break for lunch," he suggests.
The board members shuffle out, leaving us alone in the conference room. The moment the door closes, Logan's CEO mask drops.
"You should be resting."
He’s not wrong, and I am incredibly tired. Perhaps the happiness goes hand in hand with the low moments too, because I find myself growing weepy for no reason.
"I'm fine." But I let him pull me closer, his hand splaying across my stomach. "The doctor said working is perfectly normal at this stage."
Logan grimaces and plants a kiss on the bridge on my nose. "The doctor hasn't seen your schedule."
I stick my tongue out at him. "Says the man who held three client meetings yesterday with a fever."
His lips twitch. "Touché."
These moments still surprise me—the easy banter, the casual touches, the way we fit together without pretense. Three weeks into being officially together, everything feels different. Real.
I’m glad he’s on my side, and that he actually means to stick around for the long haul. Now, this baby… I already know I’m going to love being their mom so, so much. And Logan is going to be such a doting dad.
My phone buzzes. It's my realtor.
"Did you find office space?" Logan asks, reading over my shoulder.
"Maybe. Apparently, there is a downtown location with lots of natural light." I gather my things. "The kind of place that says 'successful marketing agency' without screaming 'trust fund baby.'"
“You’re my trust fund, baby,” he jokes, leaving a kiss on my cheeks.
“Stop it, Logan.” I laugh.
"Okay, okay. You earned this." His voice is firm. "Your talent did, not my money."
"I know." And I do. The clients already lined up for my new venture prove that. "But others might not see it that way."
"Others don't matter." He catches my hand. "Let’s have dinner tonight?"
Much as I’d love to, I shake my head. "Can't. Therapy session, remember?"
His fingers tighten briefly. We've been doing a session together once a week—him talking through his hospital trauma, me holding his hand through the hard parts. Sometimes, Audrey joins, filling in childhood memories he's tried to forget.
"Right." He straightens his tie, and shadows settle into his eyes, but he smiles through them anyway. My heart bursts for him, for how hard he’s trying for us. He notices the way my eyes crinkle and gives me a small smile. "My place after?"
"Logan Fraser, are you propositioning your pregnant assistant?"
"Girlfriend," he corrects, pulling me close. "And yes."
"Scandalous." But I'm already melting into his kiss.
A throat clears. Victoria stands in the doorway, eyebrow raised. "If you're quite finished..."
I step back, cheeks burning. "The Anderson file?—"
"That can wait." She eyes us both. "Though I must say, this explains a lot about the past few months."
Logan's hand finds my waist. "The board?—"
"Already knows." Victoria's lips curve. "Your sister isn't exactly subtle with her excitement about becoming an aunt."
Right. Audrey. Between morning sickness and house hunting, I'd forgotten about her announcement at Sunday dinner. She'd practically bounced, telling everyone she was going to be an aunt and a mom in the same year.
"The timing is..." Victoria pauses diplomatically.
"Unconventional?" I suggest.
"Perfect," Logan cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Later, at Dr. Matthews’ office, I sit next to Logan on a charcoal couch that’s just uncomfortable enough to feel honest. His fingers wrap around mine like he needs the contact to stay grounded, but his shoulders are stiff, pulled taut with something he hasn’t said yet.
The room smells faintly of sandalwood and clean paper. I focus on the curve of his jaw, the slight tremble in his thumb as it rubs over the top of my hand, slow and rhythmic. Like he’s holding something in. Like he’s trying not to shake.
“I keep seeing her face,” he says finally, voice quiet. “Every time I think about the baby.”
I glance up. His eyes are fixed on a spot just above the bookshelf, but I can see the shimmer behind them. Not quite tears. Not yet.
“That’s normal,” Dr. Matthews says, her tone gentle but focused. “But Logan, what else do you see?”
The silence that follows is thick. He swallows once, jaw working. I can feel his pulse racing where our hands meet.
“Bella,” he says, barely audible. “Our future. Everything I’m afraid to want.”
My breath catches. He’s still looking away, but his grip tightens.
“Why afraid?” Dr. Matthews asks.
“Because…” His accent deepens, rough around the edges, thick with feeling. “Because what if I can’t protect them? What if I’m not enough?”
“You are,” I say before I can stop myself. The words come from somewhere deep, somewhere certain.
He turns to look at me. His eyes are stormy, glassy. His throat bobs when he swallows. Whatever he sees in my face, it breaks something in him—or maybe heals it.
Dr. Matthews doesn’t interrupt. She just lets it land.
“How does hearing that make you feel?” she asks.
“Terrified,” he admits. But then he squeezes my hand. “And grateful.”
His voice is raw, and it's honest in a way I’ve never heard from him before. And even though the fear’s still there, etched into every line of his body, so is the love.
And that’s what stays with me. The love. The ache. The truth of it, finally spoken out loud.
That night, in my too-small kitchen, I lean against the counter and watch Logan try to cook dinner. He’s ditched the suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the top button of his shirt undone. His hair is slightly mussed, his tie flung across one of the dining chairs. He curses in Gaelic under his breath as the stove lets out another puff of smoke.
The smell of something vaguely burned hangs in the air. Still, I can’t stop smiling.
“We can always do takeout,” I say, biting back a laugh as he pokes at the pan like it’s personally betrayed him.
“I can do this.” His glare is fierce, but it’s mostly for show. “How hard can pasta be?”
“Says the man who used to have a personal chef.”
“Had,” he says, shooting me a look. “Someone insisted on keeping her independence.”
“Smart woman.”
“Stubborn woman.” He’s grinning as he scrapes the ruined mess into the trash. “Fine. Chinese?”
“Obviously.”
He’s already reaching for his phone, tapping through the app. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He knows my order by heart now.
I love that. I love that he pays attention without making a show of it. That he’s trying, here in my space, in my life, with all its crooked drawer handles and flickering kitchen light.
“The realtor called back,” I say, settling onto the barstool as he finishes the order. “The downtown space is perfect.”
He raises a brow. “You sure you don’t want?—”
“To use your money?” I shake my head before he finishes. “No. I need to do this myself.”
I expect him to argue, just a little. But instead, he nods, then moves across the room and slides onto the couch. I follow, curling into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I know,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Doesn’t stop me from wanting to help.”
His voice is lower now, stripped of the earlier teasing. He reaches for my hand and starts playing with my fingers, absent and tender, like it soothes something in him to just touch me.
“You are helping,” I murmur. “By letting me do this my way.”
He’s silent for a moment, and I can feel his breath against my hair, the warmth of it settling into me. His thumb moves in lazy circles over my knuckles.
“You make me want to be better,” he says finally.
I don’t answer right away. Just press my cheek to his chest and let my eyes close.
"You already are." I look up at him. "Every day in therapy. Every time you face those memories. Every time you choose to stay instead of run."
"M’eudail..." The nickname slips out, soft and Scottish.
"What does that mean?"
"My darling." His cheeks redden slightly. "I’ve never used it with any woman before." He clears his throat. "I can stop?—"
"Don't." I kiss him softly. "I love it."
"Move in with me," he says suddenly.
"Logan—"
"Not to the penthouse. Somewhere new. Somewhere ours."
I study his face. "Ask me again in a month."
"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 ultrasound appointment 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.”
“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 few weeks 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?”
His eyes meet mine. “Everything.”