Page 33 of The Love Clause

The conversation mercifully shifts to business matters as coffee is served, giving me a reprieve from monitoring Josie's increasingly unfiltered commentary. She seems content to sit back, occasionally interjecting but mostly watching the interplay of longtime associates with curious eyes.

I begin to think we might make it through the evening without further incident when Harrison's son asks about our first date.

"Elliot took me to this ridiculously fancy restaurant," Josie answers, leaning forward with exaggerated secrecy. "I couldn't pronounce anything on the menu and drank too much wine because I was nervous. Total disaster."

This is actually close to our rehearsed story, so I relax slightly.

"But," she continues, "it turned out okay in the end. We discovered we had amazing chemistry, even if we're completely different people."

"The best partnerships often are," Harrison nods sagely. "Margaret and I couldn't have been more different. Made for some spectacular arguments—and even more spectacular making up."

Several guests chuckle knowingly, and the conversation drifts to other couples' meeting stories. I allow myself to breathe easier, crisis apparently averted.

Then Blake Sullivan—the gallery owner who'd been increasingly friendly with Josie throughout the weekend—asks the question that derails the entire evening.

"So what's the secret to your relationship's success? Besides the obvious chemistry." His gaze flicks between us with subtle assessment that suggests he's not entirely convinced by our performance.

"Communication," I answer firmly, reaching for the safest possible response.

At exactly the same moment, Josie says, "Animal attraction."

She grins at the contradiction, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "What Elliot means is that we communicate very well in certain…situations. Right, honey?"

"Josie," I say, a warning note in my voice that only seems to encourage her.

"Oh come on, Elliot. These are all adults." She waves her hand to encompass the table. "Everyone here knows that physical compatibility is important. And you're very..."

"Perhaps we should discuss something else," I interrupt, trying to redirect the increasingly dangerous conversation.

"Now you've got us all curious," Melissa laughs, obviously enjoying the direction things are taking. "Don't hold out on us, Josie. What's Mr. Serious like behind closed doors?"

I steel myself for whatever outrageous fiction Josie might invent, but her answer surprises me.

"He pays attention," she says, her voice suddenly less playful, almost thoughtful. "That's rarer than you'd think."

The simple statement, delivered without embellishment, somehow feels more intimate than any exaggerated tale might have been. Several women at the table nod in understanding, exchanging knowing looks.

"Most men don't bother," Mrs. Whitmore agrees. "Too focused on their own…destination."

"Exactly!" Josie points at her, warming to the topic. "It's always wham, bam, did you finish? No? Oh well, maybe next time. Except there never is a next time because they never learn."

"Josie," I try again, increasingly concerned about where this is heading.

"What? It's true." She turns to me, an earnestness in her expression that suggests she's forgotten this is supposed to be an act. "Before you, I'd never actually had, you know, earth-shattering sex. The kind they write about in books. Where you see stars and lose track of where your body ends and theirs begins."

The table has gone completely silent, all attention fixed on us. My collar feels suddenly too tight, my skin too hot. "Perhaps this isn't the most appropriate dinner conversation."

"Wait," Blake interjects, looking genuinely surprised. "Are you serious? Never?"

Josie shrugs, the motion fluid with alcohol's loosening effect. "Not everyone is as lucky in their partners as I am now. Before Elliot, it was mostly selfish man-children who thought foreplay was buying dinner."

"Not all of us sleep with supermodels, Mr. Carrington," she adds, addressing me directly with a mix of challenge and something more vulnerable in her gaze.

The comment hits like a physical blow, not because of its accuracy—I've dated attractive women, certainly, but hardly supermodels—but because of the insecurity it reveals. Does she truly believe I'd find her lacking compared to my past relationships? The thought is so absurd it momentarily robs me of response.

In the awkward silence, Harrison clears his throat. "I think we could all use a digestif. The lodge makes an excellent brandy."

The conversation shifts, allowing Josie and me a moment of reprieve from the spotlight. She seems to realize belatedly how personal her comments were, a slight crease appearing between her brows as she focuses intently on rearranging her dessert fork.

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