3. Tess
Tess
The second light hits my eyes, I'm awake—and out of that bed like it's on fire.
It's not that being next to Logan feels gross or uncomfortable. It's the opposite, actually. He's too damn pretty, and if I stay beside him one more second, I'm going to forget how mad I am and do something stupid.
As quietly as I can, I sneak to the bathroom to pee. When I'm done, I stand in front of the mirror. My hair's a little wild, but not horrible, and I actually slept okay, all things considered.
"No bags under the eyes. Well done, Tess."
Still, I hang my head and sigh. This isn't my life. I don't have a paper to get to, no work waiting on me. I'm supposed to pretend there isn't news out there that needs reporting, people whose dirty dealings need dragging into the light.
I hate vacations. It's why I never take them.
Yes, that makes me a workaholic. But I've ground away at this job my whole life, and I need that paycheck.
My parents don't work anymore. They're older, dealing with health problems, and every extra penny I make goes to them.
I haven't told them any of this. They're clear across the country, and they don't need to worry about their daughter from the little blip on the map that is my hometown.
Redfield must be so nice compared to the city's crime and corruption. Boring as hell, though.
Not that I'd complain if the corruption vanished. I'm not that naive. It's not going anywhere soon, and honestly, I need it—it's what keeps me in business.
I stocked the bathroom with my things when I showered yesterday, so I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste, clean my teeth, then drag a brush through my hair.
Morning routine done, there's nothing left to do but leave this bathroom. Which means facing Logan. Something I'm not exactly thrilled about.
I can't focus straight when he's around, all gorgeous and clipped and unreadable. I'm supposed to be laser-focused on work. No time for men, no time for dating.
And now I'm apparently married.
"Ugh. Just...go get coffee."
I straighten my spine, shake off the tangle of my own thoughts, and pull open the door. Logan's standing in the closet, pants on, no shirt.
Lord help me.
He turns, thankfully with a button-down already in hand, and nods at me. "We should go over our story so it matches for the party."
"Oh, right." I sigh. This has to be the strangest experience of my entire life. "How about the guy who's already dressed makes coffee, and I go throw something on?"
Logan nods. "Sure."
Without another word—which I'm quickly learning is my "husband's" signature move—he leaves the room.
I throw on a comfortable pair of jeans and a fitted black tee. No one to impress today, so it's granny panties, a pull-over bra, and thick socks for the win.
Downstairs, Logan's at the kitchen island, and the smell of coffee eases some of the tightness in my chest.
"Alright, hubs." I drop into the seat where a cup of black coffee is waiting. "What's the scoop? And can I get some cream?"
Logan slides the half-and-half across and takes the seat across from me.
"The plan is we're married, just married, and we've been together since college. We both work from home. I'll say I'm in tech—website debugging. This neighborhood prides itself on 'family values' and the lowest crime rate around."
"So I'm in Stepford land. Great." I can't keep the bite out of my voice. "Fine. I'll say writer, since that's true enough. Maybe a blog. And if we're going to this party—I hate cold soups and weird meats. Red wine or scotch, no exceptions. And I know exactly nothing about girly housewife things."
Logan huffs something like a laugh. "I don't think we'll need all that for one party. But noted."
"If these people are anything like the upper-crust types who show up to newspaper galas, you'd be surprised."
His eyes flick down my body, narrowing slightly. "We'll need formal attire. Did you bring anything?"
"Oh, I've got just the thing."
I step into the house across the street from the one I'm being forced to live in, wearing the one "fancy" dress I packed. It's not bad, exactly. It just doesn't scream tradwife.
Compared to the women stuffed into this glossy, contemporary house, it looks almost plain.
Black, sheer long sleeves, square neckline, hits just above the knee. Simple black heels I'm already regretting, hair piled on top of my head.
My figure's on full display, which means the Betty Crockers in here are getting an eyeful of my hips and my cleavage. Not my fault. I'm curvy, and I refuse to hide it.
Okay, fine, maybe it's a little my fault. Screw them anyway.
"The guests of honor have arrived!"
Polly, calling out as she bears down on us. I want to turn around and leave. We're not even late—two minutes past five, exactly when she told us to be here.
Logan's hand finds the small of my back, and the warmth of it bleeds straight through the thin fabric of my dress. I swallow hard.
"Thank you so much for having us," Logan says, smooth as anything, guiding me inside toward the living room.
I manage a smile while Polly chatters on about the neighborhood—quiet, clean, safe. If I didn't know better, I'd think she moonlighted as a realtor.
"But let me steal you for the girls! Leave the men to their boy stuff."
My stomach drops. I've always hated this—men and women peeling off into separate corners like it's 1955. I've never been much of a girly girl, and I have nothing in common with the women who are.
But I don't get a vote.
Names pile up faster than I can track them as I'm folded into a circle of women in the dining room, all trading talk of redecorating, gardens, and their useless husbands.
"Why not just make him help? If you're running the whole house, the least he could do is the dishes."
Every eye cuts to me. I regret it instantly.
"Oh, you know how men are," Polly waves off, and I frown.
"No, actually, I don't. Marriage is a partnership. You split the work, fifty-fifty. Being a stay-at-home wife doesn't mean you're not working just as hard—so why shouldn't the dad chip in?"
Dead silence. I'm not winning anyone over tonight. I excuse myself and beeline straight for Logan.
"Get me out of here," I whisper against his ear. "I've officially angered the tradwives."
He chuckles, setting his glass down on the bar behind him. "Oh, good. I was about to get dragged outside for cigars and putting."
I laugh before I can stop myself, and it hits me—underneath all that stoic armor, there's a guy with a sense of humor, and apparently the same read on this party that I have.
He smiles at me, tipping his head toward the door, and my breath catches somewhere in my throat. Logan's gorgeous, sure. That's a given. But when he smiles—
Daaamn.
His hand finds the small of my back again, and I can't pretend I don't like it. He's warm and solid against my side, heating my blood in a way I've never quite felt before.
It's rare I even consider being intimate with someone—rare enough that I've never actually gone through with it—and here I am wondering what my bodyguard looks like underneath that black shirt and tie.
It doesn't take much to slip out, citing some vague client emergency and a looming deadline. The nice part is we only have to cross the street. Even so, my fake husband stays close the whole walk, eyes cutting through every shadow for trouble.
There isn't any. We head straight up to the bedroom.
"Well, hopefully I scared off the Pollyannas enough to dodge future invitations." I laugh to myself, already in the closet, unzipping the cocktail dress. "If I have to live in this house, I'm perfectly fine skipping the neighbors."
The dress goes in the laundry bin, and I reach for the long nightgown I packed.
Except that's not what's in the drawer.
I pull it open, and instead of the nightgown, there's a single piece of lingerie I bought myself back in college, back when I thought I might actually try this whole dating thing. It's sat in a drawer for years, untouched.
Somehow it made the trip in my duffel. The nightgown didn't.
"Fuck."
I'm still staring at it when I hear the floor creak near the door. Logan's coming, and I need this thing on before he sees me bare.
I yank the nightie over my head, tugging the silky black fabric down as far as it'll go, cursing the hem that barely covers anything. All I need to do is dive into bed and stay buried until he leaves for coffee in the morning.
The floor creaks again.
Shit. Go, go, go.
I spin around and slam straight into Logan's chest. His hands come up on instinct, catching my arms, and I'm pinned there against him, looking up into those dark eyes.
The closet light is way too bright, and heat floods my cheeks as I realize exactly how good a look he's getting.
"What the—"
Oh, hell.