Page 34 of The Love Clause

"Josie," I say quietly, pitching my voice for her ears only. "Are you alright?"

She looks up, surprise evident in her expression—perhaps at the genuine concern in my tone. "Just peachy. Why wouldn't I be? I only announced to a table full of strangers that I've had mediocre sex my entire life. No big deal."

"You also implied we've had earth-shattering sex," I point out, keeping my voice low. "Which might be difficult to deliver on given that we haven't actually slept together."

"Yet," she says, then immediately looks startled by her own response. "I mean—that wasn't—I'm drunk."

"I noticed."

"Not that drunk," she clarifies, meeting my eyes with surprising steadiness. "Just drunk enough to say things I shouldn't. Not drunk enough to not mean them."

The implication hangs between us, charged with possibility. My hands grip my napkin under the table, muscles tense withthe effort of remaining seated when every instinct urges me to pull her away from this crowd, to find somewhere private where we can explore exactly what she means.

Instead, I say, "We should get you some water."

"Always the responsible one," she sighs, but accepts the water glass I push toward her. "Don't worry, I won't embarrass you any further. Your big contract is safe."

But safety is the last thing on my mind as I watch her lips press against the water glass, as I recall her casual admission about never experiencing transcendent physical connection, as I imagine being the one to show her exactly how earth-shattering intimacy can be when both partners are fully invested.

For the remainder of the dinner, I engage in appropriate small talk, respond to business inquiries, and maintain the appearance of professional composure. But beneath the table, my free hand remains clenched in a white-knuckled fist, and each time I catch Josie's gaze across the candlelight, the unspoken tension between us ratchets higher.

By the time we finally rise to leave, the physical awareness between us is so palpable I'm certain everyone at the table can sense it. Josie's hand finds mine as we walk toward the exit, her fingers lacing through mine with deliberate pressure that feels nothing like our practiced public displays of affection.

This is no longer pretense. No longer a business arrangement. As we move silently through the lodge toward our shared room, I know with absolute certainty that we're approaching a precipice from which there will be no return.

And for the first time in my meticulously controlled life, I find myself welcoming the fall.

THIRTEEN

Josie

The ceiling has becomemy personal movie screen, playing back every humiliating moment from dinner on an endless loop. Four champagnes past my limit, and suddenly I'm announcing my sexual history to a table full of strangers while Elliot's face performed an impressive range of micro-expressions, each one screaming "abort mission" louder than the last. I can't sleep. Can't stop thinking about the heat in his eyes when I said "yet"—that tiny, loaded word hanging between us like a lit fuse.

I roll onto my side, facing the pillow barricade Elliot insisted on rebuilding between us despite last night's nightmare that had left us tangled together by morning. Barney is curled at the foot of the bed, having made peace with both of us as acceptable sleeping companions.

From the other side of Mount Cushion, I hear Elliot shift for the dozenth time. He's not sleeping either. The digital clock on the nightstand glows 2:17 AM in accusatory red digits.

"Elliot?" My voice sounds too loud in the darkness.

A pause, then, "Yes?"

"Are you awake?"

"Evidently."

Even now, he can't help being a smartass. "I can't sleep."

"You should try counting sheep. Or reviewing tax codes. I find Title 26 particularly soporific."

I sit up, peering over the pillow wall. In the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, I can just make out his form. He's lying on his back, hands folded over his chest like a vampire in repose.

"Can we talk about what happened at dinner?"

"I'd rather not."

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," I say, the words coming out in a rush. "The champagne was really good and I wasn't keeping track and?—"

"You didn't embarrass me." His voice is tight, controlled. "Go to sleep, Josie."

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