Page 22 of The Love Clause

"Only to someone who's seen it play out before." He shrugs good-naturedly. "Besides, I'm actually seeing someone back home. But I'm happy to help with your little object lesson, if it's what you need."

I should feel embarrassed at being so transparent, but instead, I'm relieved at having an accomplice. "You're weirdly cool about this."

"Like I said, I enjoy authenticity. And whatever's going on between you two seems genuinely interesting." He leans closer, speaking just loud enough to be overheard by anyone paying attention. "So, your studio in Brooklyn—does it have good natural light?"

I play along, describing my nonexistent studio with enthusiastic detail, complete with gestures that conveniently involve touching his arm occasionally. Blake nods with exaggerated interest, maintaining just enough physical proximity to suggest intimacy without crossing into actual discomfort.

We've just located another scavenger hunt item—a carved wooden bear hidden near the boathouse—when Elliot materializes beside us with suspicious timing.

"There you are," he says, his voice carrying a formality that wasn't there yesterday. "Mr. Harrison was asking for you. He'd like to continue our conversation from last night."

"Elliot!" I inject extra brightness into my greeting. "Have you met Blake? He owns an art gallery in Charleston."

"I don't believe we've been introduced." Elliot extends his hand with precise politeness that doesn't reach his eyes. "Elliot Carrington."

"Blake Sullivan." They shake hands with what appears to be slightly more pressure than necessary. "Josie was just telling me about her work. You've got yourself quite a talented fiancée."

"Yes, she's exceptional in many ways," Elliot agrees, his hand finding the small of my back in a gesture that feels distinctly possessive. "Which is why Mr. Harrison is so eager to continue their conversation."

"Of course." Blake steps back, eyes twinkling with barely suppressed amusement. "Don't let me keep you. Josie, I meant what I said about sending me your portfolio. I'm always looking for new artists to feature."

He hands me a business card that appears from nowhere, and I take it with genuine gratitude. Gallery opportunity aside, I'm thankful for his good-natured participation in my childish scheme.

"I definitely will. Thanks for the art talk." I smile, then turn to Elliot. "Lead the way to Mr. Harrison."

As we walk away, Elliot's hand remains firmly on my back, guiding me toward the main lodge. His touch feels different than before—more deliberate, somehow weighted with an emotion I can't quite identify.

"Harrison isn't actually looking for me, is he?" I ask once we're out of earshot.

"He mentioned wanting to continue your conversation at some point today," Elliot replies, his tone carefully neutral. "The timing seemed opportune."

"Opportune," I repeat, fighting a smile. "Nothing to do with me talking to Blake, then?"

"I was merely ensuring you weren't being monopolized by someone you just met." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "These events are about relationship building with key clients, not networking with random gallery owners."

"He's hardly random. He's an old family friend of the Harrisons."

"Regardless, we're here to present a united front."

"Hard to present a united front when you disappear for a mysterious dawn conference call," I point out.

"It was a legitimate client emergency."

"Uh-huh." We've reached the wide stone steps leading to the terrace, and I pause, turning to face him. "Admit it. You were jealous."

"That would be absurd," he says too quickly. "This is a business arrangement."

"A business arrangement you seemed pretty invested in protecting just now."

"I'm invested in my fifty-thousand-dollar arrangement functioning as intended," he clarifies, but there's a flush creeping up from his collar that contradicts his composed tone.

"Sure, big guy." I pat his chest patronizingly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night—on your side of the pillow wall."

Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, confusion, and something hotter I don't want to name. For a moment, I think he might actually say what he's really feeling, might acknowledgethe strange current that's been running between us since our practice kiss in his apartment.

Instead, he checks his watch in a painfully obvious deflection. "We should get ready for lunch. The hiking excursion starts at two."

"Hiking? In these mountains?" I gesture to my distinctly non-athletic self. "Are you trying to kill me?"

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