Page 5 of Claimed By my Fake Husband

Once everything checks out, I stop in the master bedroom and set the suitcase on the bed.

"Everything's clean and ready. If you want to unpack, the closet's over there." I nod toward the walk-in. "I'll order groceries and supplies."

"Make sure you put a bottle of nice wine on that list. And better scotch."

Her jaw is tight, brows raised. Apparently hiding her disagreement with this situation isn't part of the plan.

"You need to at least pretend to tolerate me in public, Ms. Beaumont. This is our cover. If it's blown, you'll be relocated. Again."

"I'll try." She moves to the bed, fingers finding the zipper on her bag. "And shouldn't you be calling me Tess?"

Something in my spine goes rigid, my pulse skipping. "Right. Tess."

"Well, go on then, darling. I'm hopping in the shower."

Without looking at me, she reaches for the zipper on the side of her pants and starts dragging it down.

I've never left a room faster. The lustful, irritating part of me wants to stay, wants to watch her undress. I shut it down hard.

Sex complicates everything. I've gone years without it because I won't let my work slip. I've never had trouble keeping that vow to myself.

Until now.

No, Logan. Don't. Just go order food. And alcohol. So much alcohol.

The groceries are put away, and Tess and I have eaten a quick meal — steam-in-bag veggies, precooked chicken. Not much, but it's food.

The dishes hum quietly in the dishwasher. Tess is on her second glass of wine. I'm nursing a scotch, both of which I had to actually drive to the store for, since they won't deliver alcohol.

Leaving the house was good for me, honestly. I needed the distance — especially after she came out of the shower smelling like lilacs, her hair wet and wavy.

Now we sit at the table. She's on her phone, I've got my laptop open, checking in with Boss and the Feds. I tell them we arrived safely, that I've briefed Tess on the cover story.

Neither of us talks. I glance at her every so often, telling myself to keep some distance, but I can't stop my eyes from tracing her features.

Expressive brows sit low over unusual gray eyes. Her small nose, her full lips, parted slightly as she reads.

She's changed out of her work clothes — black sweatpants, a plain white tank. Casual. Simple.

And goddamn that shirt.

She's not wearing a bra. I know because of that tank, and now my brain is supplying all sorts of images I have no business having.

"I'm going to bed. Or at least into the bed. I've had enough of today." She stands, and my eyes snap up to her. "Pretend you did something wrong and you're in the doghouse. Because I'm not sharing."

I narrow my eyes at her. She's really not going to let me sleep in the one bed in this house. Sure, it's technically a five-bedroom, but only the master is furnished.

I stand, arms folding as I approach her carefully. I've had about enough of her attitude.

This wasn't my idea. It was the Feds'. I'm just doing my job — protecting her.

She glares up at me. "It's the only bed. And I'm not sleeping on the couch."

"The floor isn't exactly my first choice either." She shrugs. "But you do you."

"You know," I unfold my arms and point at her, "I didn't get you into this. You hired me to keep you safe. I don't control what the FBI decides."

She scoffs. "Sure. Because you all weren't in perfect agreement that I should play the good little wife."