Page 3 of The Love Clause

Left alone, I sink into my chair, the magnitude of what I've done settling over me like a shroud. One impulsive lie, and now I'm hiring a complete stranger to pretend to love me.

Carringtons don't lie. Carringtons don't panic. Carringtons certainly don't hire fake fiancées.

I'm going to need a very convincing performance.

TWO

Josie

I'm halfwaythrough untangling five different leashes when Pickles—the schnauzer with anxiety issues and a bladder the size of a peanut—decides my left sneaker is the perfect substitute for a fire hydrant. "Seriously, dude? That's the third time this week!" I yank my foot away, but the damage is done. Perfect. Another stellar start to another glamorous day in the life of Josie Palmer: professional dog whisperer, struggling artist, and now, proud owner of urine-soaked footwear.

"It's just establishing dominance," Mrs. Greenberg calls from her doorway, her silk robe and perfectly styled silver hair making me question, as always, why someone who clearly has money doesn't hire a better-dressed dog walker.

"Well, he's definitely the alpha of my shoe collection now," I mutter, forcing a smile. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Of course, dear. Though Pickles has his therapy session at four, so maybe come at two?" She doesn't wait for confirmation before disappearing behind her glossy black door.

I wrangle the rest of my furry charges through the final leg of our morning adventure, dodging joggers and stopping at every interesting smell because I learned the hard way that rushing dogs leads to rebellion, and rebellion leads to poop in unexpected places. By the time I return the final dog—a golden retriever named Chairman Wow—to his hipster owners, my phone shows three texts from my roommate Mandy.

Landlord stopped by. Not happy.

Also your credit card company called.

And your student loan people. Again.

I groan, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. The thing about New York is it makes you feel special—like you're the star of an indie film about making it against the odds—right up until the moment you check your bank balance. Then you're just another statistic in the "millennials killing homeownership" headlines.

The walk back to my apartment in Greenwich Village—a term that suggests charm rather than "four people crammed into a space designed for two"—gives me plenty of time to calculate exactly how screwed I am this month. Art supplies for my latest commission: $240. Dog leashes to replace the ones Barney, my own rescue mutt, chewed through: $85. Rent share that's already two weeks late: $900. The math doesn't add up. It never does.

I trudge up five flights of stairs—the elevator's been "temporarily out of service" since I moved in three years ago—and hear the chaos before I even open the door. Barney's excited barking mingles with what sounds like Mandy's Broadway soundtrack obsession and Marco's attempt to fix our perpetually leaking sink.

"The prodigal dog-walker returns!" Mandy announces when I walk in. She's wearing pajama pants, a sports bra, and a beanie, despite the apartment being approximately the temperature of Satan's armpit. "Please tell me you're suddenly wealthy. The landlord's threatening eviction this time."

"I'm suddenly wealthy," I deadpan, dropping my bag and bending down to greet Barney, who's wiggling like his spine is made of Jell-O. The other two rescue mutts—Pancake and Sir Woofs-a-Lot—are tangled in a wrestling match on our secondhand couch.

"Liar." Marco emerges from under the sink, his face dripping. "The sink is possessed. I've decided we should just never wash dishes again."

"Bold strategy." I collapse onto the one chair not covered in dog hair, student loan notices, or Marco's collection of vintage concert t-shirts he refuses to wear but won't store properly. "Where's the eviction threat?"

Mandy points to a wrinkled paper on our fridge, held up by a magnet shaped like a pizza slice. "Bold of them to assume we can read formal legal language."

I scan the notice and feel the familiar knot in my stomach tighten. "Two weeks to pay up or pack up. Fantastic." I run a hand through my hair, which is probably a mess of tangled curls after chasing five dogs through Washington Square Park. "Anyone want to rob a bank with me? I've watched enough heist movies to know the basics."

"Your wealthy parents still refusing to help?" Marco asks, wiping his hands on a towel that might have once been white.

"They're not wealthy, they're comfortable," I correct him. "And they made it very clear that my 'art phase' ended when they paid for my degree in graphic design. I'm supposed to be at some corporate job designing cereal boxes or whatever by now."

"Too bad you have principles," Mandy says, plopping down on the couch and displacing Pancake, who gives an indignant huff.

"Yeah, principles and three rescue dogs no one else wanted." I reach down to scratch Barney behind his ears, where a chunk is missing from some unknown trauma before I found him. "Super marketable life choices."

My phone pings with an unknown number, and I'm half-tempted to ignore it, assuming it's another debt collector. But the preview shows: "Regarding a unique job opportunity—Claire Thornton."

"Who's Claire Thornton?" I ask nobody in particular, opening the message.

Mandy shrugs. "Sounds like someone who has her life together."

The message reads: "Ms. Palmer, I'm an executive assistant at Blackwell & Reed Law. My employer would like to discuss a short-term, well-compensated opportunity. He can meet you at your convenience today. Please advise if you're interested."

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