Page 27 of The Love Clause

Barney tilts his head, clearly unconvinced by my rationalization. Smart dog.

The sound of the shower running fills the silence of the suite, a background noise that fails to drown out the memory of Josie's words on the lake. The worst part is, I can't honestly say she's wrong. About any of it.

I have been hot and cold. I did hate seeing her with Blake. And I absolutely felt something by the fire last night, just as I felt something—far too much—when I kissed her in that damned canoe.

The question now is what to do about it. The logical answer is: nothing. We have a job to do this weekend, a specific objective to accomplish. Personal feelings—whatever they might be—are irrelevant complications.

But as I sit there, soaking wet and oddly hollow, with the ghost of her kiss still lingering, logic feels woefully inadequate for the first time in my carefully ordered life.

TEN

Elliot

I wake before the alarm,disoriented by the unfamiliar weight against my side. Josie is curled against me, her breathing deep and even, one arm thrown across my chest. The canoe disaster. The way Josie looked soaking wet, teeth chattering, hair plastered against her face.

The kiss…

That damned kiss…

Carefully, I extricate myself from her grip, trying not to wake her. She makes a small sound of protest in her sleep but doesn't wake, instead burrowing deeper into the pillow—my pillow. I stand beside the bed, watching her for a moment longer than necessary. Her dark hair is splayed across the white pillowcase, her expression peaceful in sleep.

I need distance. Perspective. Control that seems increasingly elusive in her presence.

The shower provides temporary sanctuary, hot water sluicing away the confusion of waking up with her in my arms. I focus onpractical matters—the Harrison contract, today's itinerary, the careful balance required to maintain our charade for one more day. Not on the lingering scent of her shampoo on my skin, or the way she'd felt pressed against me in the darkness.

By the time I emerge, dressed in pressed slacks and a fresh button-down, I've almost convinced myself I've regained equilibrium. Until I step into the bedroom and see her.

She's standing at the window, back to me, wearing nothing but my shirt—the light blue Oxford I'd laid out for today. The hem falls to mid-thigh, revealing long legs I've been trying not to notice since this arrangement began. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.

My mouth goes dry.

"Morning," she says, turning with a casual smile, as if borrowing my clothing is a perfectly normal occurrence. "Hope you don't mind. The laundry service called—there was some mix-up with our clothes from yesterday. They won't be ready until after breakfast.”

I should say something. Object to this unauthorized appropriation of my wardrobe. But all I can focus on is how the shirt hangs off one shoulder, revealing a collarbone I suddenly want to trace with my fingertips, or how she's rolled the sleeves up to her elbows in a way that should look sloppy but somehow looks deliberate. Enticing.

"That's my shirt," I finally manage, the observation so obvious it's almost painful.

"Very astute, counselor." She grins, looking far too pleased with herself. "Don't worry, I'll change as soon as my clothes arrive. But unless you want me to go to breakfast in that tiny hotel robe or yesterday's hiking clothes, this seemed like the best option."

She's right, logically. But logic has nothing to do with the way my heart rate accelerates at the sight of her in my clothing, orhow something primitive and possessive stirs at the thought of everyone else seeing her this way—obviously wearing my shirt, implying an intimacy that doesn't actually exist.

"I have other shirts," I point out, my voice stiffer than intended.

"True, but this one matches my eyes." She bats her lashes exaggeratedly, then laughs at my expression. "Lighten up, Elliot. It sells our story, right? The besotted fiancée borrowing her man's shirt? Very rom-com."

"We're trying to convince Harrison of our engagement, not star in a romantic comedy."

"Same difference." She shrugs, the movement causing the shirt to slip further off her shoulder. "You ready for breakfast? I'm starving."

Before I can suggest waiting for her clothes, she's already moving toward the door, Barney trotting at her heels. "Come on. Even your dog is hungry."

"He's not my—" I begin, but she's already in the hallway.

I follow, increasingly certain this day is determined to test my sanity.

The walk to the dining room feels interminable. Every guest we pass seems to notice Josie's attire, expressions ranging from knowing smiles to raised eyebrows. She, of course, is completely unaffected, greeting everyone with her usual easy charm while I fight the urge to wrap my suit jacket around her like a shield.

"There they are!" Harrison calls as we enter the dining room, waving us over to a large table where he sits with his family and several guests. "Our canoe champions!"

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