Page 3 of Claimed By my Fake Husband

“Let me grab my bag and lock up.”

I reach for the suitcase, and a hand beats me to the handle. I glance over my shoulder as he carries it into the hall.

“Oh—thanks.” I lock the door behind us, twisting the key so the place stays safe while I’m gone. “All right, let’s go.”

“My car’s downstairs. We head to the safe house immediately. I’ve spoken with the FBI agents on this case, and we’ve reached an accord.”

“Anaccord?” I raise a brow as we head down the hallway. “Do you always talk like a lawyer?”

“I prefer as little miscommunication as possible.”

Fair enough answer, but the whole vibe coming off this guy is wound tight. I just nod.

His car is black, unmarked, forgettable. He opens my door, stows my suitcase in the trunk, and I buckle in.

We haven’t said much, and the quiet feels too heavy to break.

He gets in, starts the engine, and pulls out without a word. We’re on the road in minutes, headed somewhere I’ve never been, my driver about as chatty as a corpse.

It takes a while to reach the house—out past the city limits, in a suburb called Oakendale. The kind of place built for families with two-point-five kids and white picket fences. My stomach sinks lower with every narrow street we pass, until we stop in front of a house with a SOLD sign staked in the lawn.

He kills the engine and grabs my bag. I notice his own duffel on the curb, far smaller than mine.

How he plans to survive a month on that is beyond me.

Without another word, he walks to the door—straight out of aBetter Homes & Gardensspread—and lets us in.

I catch up just as he glances back, holding the door for me while he rolls both suitcases over the pristine wood floors.

I’ve barely stepped inside, taking in the staged, sterile décor, when the door slams behind me and I jump.

“Apologies.” He locks it, then guides me toward the living room with a hand at my back.

He draws the drapes so no one can see in while I stand frozen in the middle of the room, thrown by all of it.

When he turns to face me again, I finally ask the question that’s been eating at me.

“So what’s the actual deal here? I know you’re supposed to keep me safe, but what did you work out with the Feds?”

Something crosses his face—handsome, maddeningly unreadable—something beyond the stoicism.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he does a slow sweep of the lower floor, checking every lock, closing every curtain.

When he finally comes back, he stops right in front of me, close enough that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes.

“I discussed it with the FBI. We agreed a cover story would be best while we’re here. There are neighbors. Blending in keeps up appearances—and keeps us safe.”

“Oookay,” I drag out, “but that still doesn’t answer my question. What’s the cover? What am I supposed to do?”

“We’ll be new homeowners.” He pauses, and the silence stretches long enough to choke on. “Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”

My jaw drops, stomach falling straight through the floor. “I’m sorry, did you just say?—”

“Yes. I’ll be your husband. Congratulations.”

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Logan