Page 20 of The Love Clause

"That's…ambitious," I say finally, inadequately.

"Is it? Seems pretty basic to me." Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. "What about you? What does the great Elliot Carrington want beyond making partner and impressing old men with traditional values?"

The question catches me off guard. What do I want? I've been working toward partnership for so long that I've hardly considered what comes after. Success, certainly. Recognition. Security. But those are outcomes, not wants in the way Josie means.

"I want..." I begin, then falter, uncomfortable with the sudden vulnerability. "I want to build something lasting. Something that matters."

"A legacy," she supplies.

"Yes."

"What about joy?" she asks softly. "What about connection?"

"Those are…peripheral benefits." Even as I say it, I recognize the hollow ring of the words.

"They're the whole point," she counters, her voice low but intense. "The rest is just framework."

Under the blanket, her fingers deliberately entwine with mine now, a small act of connection that feels disproportionately significant. Her hand is cool against my warm one, smaller but surprisingly strong.

"You're cold," I murmur, my other hand moving without conscious thought to cover hers.

"Getting warmer," she replies, her eyes never leaving mine.

Around us, the gathering has thinned somewhat as couples retire to their rooms. The fire has died down to glowing embers, casting less light but somehow more warmth. In this dimmer light, with most attention elsewhere, our small world beneath the blanket feels private, almost secret.

I'm acutely aware of her proximity—the subtle scent of her shampoo, the rise and fall of her breathing, the slight part of her lips as she looks up at me. Something is happening between us, something unplanned and potentially dangerous to our arrangement.

"Elliot?" she whispers, and I'm not sure if she's leaning closer or if I am, but the distance between us is definitely decreasing.

"Yes?" My voice is rougher than I intend.

"Are we still practicing?" The question holds a tremor of uncertainty that I've never heard from her before.

The word 'practicing' acts like a bucket of cold water, reminding me sharply of our situation. This is an arrangement. A transaction. I'm paying her to pretend, and I'm forgetting the parameters of our agreement.

"Go to bed, Josie," I say, more harshly than intended, pulling my hand from hers and standing abruptly. The blanket falls away, letting in the cold night air. "It's late, and tomorrow will be a full day."

She blinks up at me, confusion and something that might be hurt flashing across her features before she composes herself. "Right. Of course. The fiancée simulation needs a recharge."

She stands too, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill. Without the blanket, without the intimacy of our shared space, we're back to being two people with a business arrangement, pretending at emotions neither of us should actually feel.

"Goodnight, then," she says, her voice carefully light. "Try not to let Barney hog all the pillows."

I watch her walk away, joining the general movement toward the lodge, stopping to say goodnight to various guests with that easy charm that seems so natural to her. My hands feel oddly empty without hers, a sensation I refuse to acknowledge.

I remain by the dying fire for a few more minutes, finishing my scotch and trying to regain my equilibrium. Whatever just happened—or almost happened—was an anomaly. A product of the setting, the late hour, perhaps even the alcohol. Nothing more.

Tomorrow, I'll be more careful. Tomorrow, I'll remember the boundaries of our arrangement. Tomorrow, I'll be the controlled, strategic person I've always been.

But as I finally head toward our shared suite, I can still feel the phantom warmth of her hand in mine, still see the question in her eyes as she asked if we were practicing.

The truth, which I'm not ready to examine too closely, is that in that moment beneath the blanket, I wasn't practicing anything at all.

EIGHT

Josie

Morning at Harrison Lodgeis the kind of picturesque scene that belongs on a syrup bottle—golden light filtering through pine trees, mist rising off the lake, and wealthy people in cashmere loungewear sipping coffee on wrap-around porches. I'm hiding in the great room with a mug of liquid caffeine the size of my head, trying not to think about last night's almost-moment with Elliot by the fire. I'm wearing borrowed designer jeans and a sweater soft enough to make me question all my life choices, but I still feel like I have "IMPOSTOR" stamped on my forehead in invisible ink that only the truly rich can see.

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