Page 9

Nine

Ava

“I still can’t believe you said on and off for a few months.”

Logan leaned back against the couch, a lazy grin playing on his lips. “It sounded convincing, didn’t it?”

“No,” I snapped, pacing the length of his living room. “It sounded ridiculous. People are going to ask how we kept it quiet. They’re going to dig, Bennett.”

“Let them dig.” He shrugged, infuriatingly calm. “There’s nothing to find.”

I stopped mid-step and glared at him. “You’re seriously not worried about this blowing up in our faces?”

“Not even a little.” He spread his arms across the back of the couch, his muscles flexing under his thin shirt, the picture of confidence. “Relax, Carlisle. We’ll give them just enough to chew on, and they’ll move on.”

I groaned, running a hand through my hair. His apartment was everything I’d expected—ultra-modern and designed to impress, from the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the glittering Chicago skyline to the sleek leather furniture that probably cost more than my rent. The open floor plan made the space feel even larger, the glossy hardwood floors stretching into a spotless kitchen outfitted with top-of-the-line appliances that looked like they’d never been used.

It felt like Logan: sleek, polished, untouchable. Meanwhile, I felt like a tornado in my cheap boots and worn-out bag, completely out of place in this museum of good taste.

But as my gaze wandered, something caught my eye, something unexpected. On the fireplace mantle, nestled between a minimalist clock and an artfully, and probably purchased, arranged stack of books, was a framed photo. Logan stood with his arm slung around an older man, both of them grinning at the camera, while a smiling woman with kind eyes leaned in from the other side. His grandparents, I realized.

The image didn’t fit with the rest of the apartment’s vibe. It wasn’t polished or posed; it was genuine. A moment frozen in time that felt startlingly personal in a space that otherwise screamed carefully curated.

“Something catch your eye?” Logan’s voice pulled me back, his grin now tinged with curiosity.

I gestured toward the photo. “Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type.”

His gaze flicked to the mantle, and for a brief moment, something softer crossed his face. “What can I say? Grandad insisted I keep it. Said it’d remind me where I came from.”

“And does it?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.

Logan’s grin returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sometimes.”

“You really think this is going to work? Us fake dating, that can't be believeable?” I question, more to myself than to him.

“Well you better believe it baby, and the press is going to eat it up,” He stood, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. “But we need to play it smart. Bavette’s was just the start. We need more appearances. More visibility.” He reached up and tucked a stray golden strand behind my ear.

I crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really? What exactly are you thinking?”

He leaned against the edge of the couch, his grin widening. “Charity gala next week. ASPCA fundraiser. I’ve already got an invite.”

“A gala,” I repeated flatly. “You want me to play dress-up and make small talk with rich people while we smile for the cameras?”

“Pretty much,” he said, not even bothering to deny it. “We’ll make a great entrance. Let them see us together, act like we’ve been doing this forever. It’ll shut down the skeptics.”

“And the others? ya know, the ones who are going to see through this barely constructed facade?!” my voice wavered slightly.

“That’s what the other dates are for,” he said with a shrug, like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Lunch at that little bistro near the park—somewhere casual, low-key, but just public enough to get noticed. Maybe a hockey game, or two if you’re up for it.”

“You’re just full of ideas, aren’t you?”

“Hey, this was your condition, remember?” He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “No surprises, no impromptu stories. I’m laying it all out for you.”

I hated that he sounded so damn reasonable. “Fine,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “But we’re keeping this believable. No over-the-top PDA, no ridiculous backstories.”

“Deal,” he said, holding out his hand. “Come on, baby. Shake on it.”

I rolled my eyes but took his hand, ignoring the warmth of his grip. I stared at him for a moment longer, debating whether I could trust him even this much. But then again, trust didn’t matter. I wasn’t doing this for him. I was doing it for the story, for my career.

I took his hand, his grip warm and steady. “If you screw this up,” I said, “I’ll make sure every paper in Chicago knows it.”

“That’s my girl,” he said with a smirk that made me regret agreeing to this.

***

Back in my apartment, the quiet settled around me like a blanket. The steady hum of traffic outside my window was the only sound as I sank onto my couch, replaying the evening in my head.

Logan was an enigma, a mix of charm and arrogance, confidence and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He made my blood boil one second and caught me off guard the next, like he was playing a game I didn’t know the rules to.

I thought about the drive back to my apartment after we’d wrapped up our “strategy session” at his place. Logan hadn’t pushed, hadn’t tried to blur the boundaries I’d so clearly set. He’d been… easy. Respectful. It surprised me how natural it felt, sitting in the passenger seat of his sleek black SUV while he navigated the city streets.

He didn’t fill the silence with empty chatter, didn’t try to charm me into liking him more. Instead, he let me pick the conversation when I felt like it, and for once, I didn’t mind the company. By the time we pulled up in front of my building, I’d almost forgotten the entire night was part of some elaborate PR stunt.

“Good night, Carlisle,” he’d said as I climbed out, that infuriatingly smooth voice of his making my name sound like it belonged to someone else.

I’d nodded, murmuring a distracted “thanks” before heading inside. It wasn’t until I was halfway up the stairs that I realized I’d been smiling.

Now, sitting alone in my small, quiet apartment, I felt the full weight of what I’d agreed to. This wasn’t just about navigating public appearances or figuring out how to sell a relationship that didn’t exist. It was about Logan—the person behind the headlines. The man who wasn’t as simple as I’d assumed. And that was dangerous, because the more time I spent around him, the harder it was to keep things strictly professional.

But this wasn’t about him. This was about me. My career. My dad’s bills. The byline that could finally put me on the map.

I grabbed my laptop from the coffee table and opened a new document, the cursor blinking at the top of the blank page. “Logan Bennett: The Redemption Arc,” I typed, the title staring back at me like a challenge.

If this was going to work, I’d have to dive in completely. Research his background, his career, and the scandal from every angle. I couldn’t afford to get caught off guard.

My phone buzzed with a text, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Logan

Hope you’re ready for date #2. Big plans coming your way.

I groaned, flopping back against the couch. Charity galas, hockey games, lunches out and about with Logan Bennett and he has an entire playbook mapped out.

The worst part? Some small, treacherous part of me didn’t hate the idea of spending more time with him. This was going to be a long few weeks.