Page 9 of Claimed By my Fake Husband

"If these people are anything like the upper-crust types who show up to newspaper galas, you'd be surprised."

His eyes flick down my body, narrowing slightly. "We'll need formal attire. Did you bring anything?"

"Oh, I've got just the thing."

I step into the house across the street from the one I'm being forced to live in, wearing the one "fancy" dress I packed. It's not bad, exactly. It just doesn't scream tradwife.

Compared to the women stuffed into this glossy, contemporary house, it looks almost plain.

Black, sheer long sleeves, square neckline, hits just above the knee. Simple black heels I'm already regretting, hair piled on top of my head.

My figure's on full display, which means the Betty Crockers in here are getting an eyeful of my hips and my cleavage. Not my fault. I'm curvy, and I refuse to hide it.

Okay, fine, maybe it's a little my fault. Screw them anyway.

"The guests of honor have arrived!"

Polly, calling out as she bears down on us. I want to turn around and leave. We're not even late—two minutes past five, exactly when she told us to be here.

Logan's hand finds the small of my back, and the warmth of it bleeds straight through the thin fabric of my dress. I swallow hard.

"Thank you so much for having us," Logan says, smooth as anything, guiding me inside toward the living room.

I manage a smile while Polly chatters on about the neighborhood—quiet, clean, safe. If I didn't know better, I'd think she moonlighted as a realtor.

"But let me steal you for the girls! Leave the men to their boy stuff."

My stomach drops. I've always hated this—men and women peeling off into separate corners like it's 1955. I've never been much of a girly girl, and I have nothing in common with the women who are.

But I don't get a vote.

Names pile up faster than I can track them as I'm folded into a circle of women in the dining room, all trading talk of redecorating, gardens, and their useless husbands.

"Why not just make him help? If you're running the whole house, the least he could do is the dishes."

Every eye cuts to me. I regret it instantly.

"Oh, you know how men are," Polly waves off, and I frown.

"No, actually, I don't. Marriage is a partnership. You split the work, fifty-fifty. Being a stay-at-home wife doesn't mean you're not working just as hard—so why shouldn't the dad chip in?"

Dead silence. I'm not winning anyone over tonight. I excuse myself and beeline straight for Logan.

"Get me out of here," I whisper against his ear. "I've officially angered the tradwives."

He chuckles, setting his glass down on the bar behind him. "Oh, good. I was about to get dragged outside for cigars and putting."

I laugh before I can stop myself, and it hits me—underneath all that stoic armor, there's a guy with a sense of humor, and apparently the same read on this party that I have.

He smiles at me, tipping his head toward the door, and my breath catches somewhere in my throat. Logan's gorgeous, sure. That's a given. But when hesmiles?—

Daaamn.

His hand finds the small of my back again, and I can't pretend I don't like it. He's warm and solid against my side, heating my blood in a way I've never quite felt before.

It's rare I even consider being intimate with someone—rare enough that I've never actually gone through with it—and here I am wondering what my bodyguard looks like underneath that black shirt and tie.

It doesn't take much to slip out, citing some vague client emergency and a looming deadline. The nice part is we only have to cross the street. Even so, my fake husband stays close the whole walk, eyes cutting through every shadow for trouble.