Page 8 of Claimed By my Fake Husband

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."