Page 19 of The Love Clause

"You should have brought a jacket," I observe, noticing the goosebumps on her exposed skin.

"Thanks, Captain Obvious," she retorts, tucking her hands into her sleeves. "I didn't realize mountain nights got this cold. It's still summer, technically."

"The elevation?—"

"I don't need a meteorology lesson," she interrupts, but there's no real bite in her tone. "Just let me steal some of your body heat. You seem to run hot."

She leans slightly toward me, our shoulders touching. Even through layers of clothing, I feel the contact with unexpected intensity.

"Your dog is probably enjoying our suite more than we are," I say, changing the subject. "He claimed the bed immediately."

"Barney's an opportunist," she agrees, smiling. "He knows luxury when he sees it. I guarantee he's living his best life right now, probably sleeping on your pillow specifically."

The thought would have horrified me yesterday. Tonight, I find it merely amusing.

A particularly sharp breeze sweeps through the gathering, making the fire dance and sending a visible shiver through Josie. Without conscious decision, I reach for the blanket folded beside my chair—cashmere, naturally—and offer it to her.

"Here."

She looks at the blanket, then at me, surprise evident in her expression. "Won't you be cold?"

"I'm fine."

She hesitates, then instead of taking it from me, she shifts closer and says, "We could share? It's bigger than both of us need individually."

It's a perfectly logical suggestion. Practical, even. It would also maintain our couple facade for anyone watching. There's no reason for the momentary panic that seizes me at the thought of such deliberate proximity.

"If you prefer," I say, my voice carefully neutral.

I unfold the blanket and she moves closer, so our chairs are touching. The blanket settles over both of us, and suddenly we're in a small, shared space, knees touching, her shoulder against mine. She sighs contentedly as the warmth envelops her.

"Better?" I ask, aware of how intimate my voice sounds in this small space between us.

"Much." She turns slightly toward me, her face close enough that I can see individual freckles across her nose, barely visible in the firelight. "Thanks for being slightly less robot and slightly more human."

"I'm always human," I reply, oddly stung by the characterization.

"Are you, though?" Her tone is teasing, but there's a genuine question beneath it. "Sometimes I think you've trained yourself to override all your basic human impulses. Like needing connection, or having fun, or doing something just because it feels good."

"Some of us have responsibilities."

"Everyone has responsibilities, Elliot." She shifts under the blanket, and her hand accidentally brushes against mine. Neither of us moves away. "But most people don't use them as an excuse to never live."

"I live perfectly adequately."

She laughs softly. "Adequately. That's such an Elliot word. Do you want your life to be adequate? Your experiences to be sufficient? Your relationships to be satisfactory?"

"You've known me for exactly three days," I remind her, uncomfortable with how accurately she's reading me. "That's hardly enough time for this level of psychological assessment."

"Sometimes an outside perspective sees things more clearly." Her fingers move slightly against mine, not quite taking my hand but not pulling away either. "Besides, I'm a good reader ofpeople. Comes with the territory when you're constantly hustling to make rent."

Around us, conversations continue, but in our small cocoon beneath the blanket, it feels like we're alone. The fire crackles and spits, sending embers swirling into the night sky where they join the stars.

"What do you want, then?" I ask, surprising myself with the question. "Beyond 'adequate.'"

She considers this for a moment, her profile thoughtful in the flickering light. "I want my art to matter to someone. I want mornings where I don't wake up dreading my bank balance. I want to feel connected—to my work, to people, to myself." She turns to face me fully. "I want intensity. Moments that matter. I want to be proven wrong when I'm too cynical, and I want to be surprised by joy when I least expect it."

Her earnestness is disarming. In my world, people don't speak so openly about desire, about yearning. We discuss objectives, strategies, outcomes—not the raw, human wanting that underpins it all.

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