Page 33 of Claimed By my Fake Husband

"You'll see." He stands, lifting me with him until my feet hit the floor, and I wobble as I find my balance. "Come on. Roof."

"The roof?"

We've gone up a few times since I moved in—great view, and it's the one place in this city that feels like it can't touch us.

I follow him out the door and down the hall to the private stairwell. Logan makes good money working for Boss, and apparently that's exactly why he bought the penthouse—so he'd be the only one with roof access.

When we get up top, I stop dead. Candles. Dozens of them, glowing across the whole roof, tracing a path to a blanket laid out with another bottle of wine and enough flowers to have my allergies staging a full protest.

"How did you—" I shoot him a look, playful but pointed. "You've clearly been home a while."

"A few hours. Wanted it perfect before I surprised you."

That earns him a kiss, and I can't stop grinning like an idiot. "I love it. Though fair warning, you're the one dragging us back inside once it gets cold."

"Deal, sweetheart."

He takes my hand and leads me to the blanket, where I sink into a nest of pillows in soft white and lilac—my favorite colors, of course.

Then he reaches for the wine in the basket. As he pulls the bottle free, something small tumbles out and lands in my lap.

"Oops, you dropped?—"

I freeze. It's a little square box. Velvet.

My heart takes off, and I look up at him, speechless.

"Well? Open it."

My hands are shaking as I lift the lid. Inside sits a stunning princess-cut diamond, flanked by two small amethysts, set in white gold.

"Oh my god, Logan. This isexactlythe one I described. This is... holy shit."

We're both laughing now as he takes my hand and slides the ring onto my finger. "There we go. Step one of making you my wife."

"Oh, so you're just assuming I'll say yes?" I try to hold the look, but it doesn't last two seconds before we're both cracking up, and then his mouth is on mine, kissing me senseless.

"So... yes?" He grins, and God help me, I fall in love with him all over again.

"Yes. On one condition." He narrows his eyes, and I lift my chin, daring him to argue. "No Stepford."

The memory hits us both at once—that first night, that ridiculous safe house—and something soft crosses his face.

Fond, this time. Not annoyed.

"Never," he says. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good." I nod once, satisfied. "Now take me inside. I'm cold. And you've got some warming up to do."

"Done. Anything for my wife."