Page 38 of The Love Clause

I don't rise to the bait, focusing instead on a particularly complex email from a junior associate about a case I've been neglecting during this weekend charade. Behind me, I hear the rustle of fabric as she dresses, the quiet clicks and snaps of her morning routine. The domesticity of it is unsettling.

"We need to be at breakfast by nine," I say, still not turning. "Harrison expects all guests to attend the farewell buffet."

"God forbid we disappoint Harrison," she replies, her voice closer now. "Look at me, Elliot."

I save my draft response and close my laptop before turning to face her. She's dressed in jeans and a simple blouse—one of the outfits Claire selected, though she's paired it with her own worn leather jacket rather than the cashmere cardigan that came with it. Her hair is damp around her shoulders, her face free of makeup, and she's looking at me with an expression that's equal parts frustration and determination.

"You gonna pretend that didn't happen?" she asks, gesturing toward the bed where, hours ago, I'd lost myself in her completely. "Because I'm not great at pretense, despite our whole arrangement."

I should lie. Should find some diplomatic middle ground that would get us through the next few hours without confrontation. Instead, I hear myself say, "...Yes."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Yes? You're actually going to pretend we didn't have sex?"

"What would you prefer, Josie?" I stand, needing the physical advantage of height, of movement. "That we analyze it? Dissect what was clearly a momentary lapse in judgment?"

"Wow." She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her. "A 'momentary lapse in judgment.' That's…clinical. Even for you."

"It was a mistake," I say, the words feeling hollow even as I speak them. "One that complicates an already complex situation unnecessarily."

"Unnecessarily," she repeats, eyes flashing. "Right. Because god forbid anything happen in your perfect life that isn't scheduled and approved and filed in triplicate."

"This isn't about organization. It's about professionalism. About maintaining appropriate boundaries in what is, fundamentally, a business relationship."

"Bullshit." She steps closer, undeterred by my height or my attempt at emotional distance. "This isn't about professionalism. It's about you being terrified of feeling something real."

"I'm not terrified," I counter, my voice sharper than intended. "I'm practical. This arrangement has a defined endpoint. In approximately five hours, we will sign the contracts, thank Harrison for his hospitality, and return to the city. At which point, you will receive your payment and we will go our separate ways. That was always the agreement."

"The agreement didn't include you making me come twice and then looking at me the way you did afterward," she says, her bluntness making me flinch. "Like maybe I meant something to you."

"It was physically satisfying," I concede, retreating to clinical language like armor. "That doesn't change the fundamental parameters of our arrangement."

Her eyes search mine, looking for something I refuse to give her access to. After a moment, her expression hardens. "You're a coward, Elliot."

The accusation lands with unexpected force. I've been called many things in my life—cold, calculating, obsessive—but never cowardly. "Exercising appropriate restraint isn't cowardice."

"It is when you're hiding behind 'restraint' to avoid admitting what you actually feel." She grabs her coffee mug, gesturing with it as she speaks. "You know what? Fine. We'll play it your way. We'll go to breakfast, smile for Harrison, sign your precious contracts, and pretend last night never happened. But at least I'm honest enough to admit I wanted it. That I still do."

She brushes past me, the scent of hotel shampoo and something uniquely her momentarily overwhelming my senses. At the door, she pauses, looking back with a challenge in her eyes. "Coming, fiancé? Wouldn't want to be late for our final performance."

The word 'final' shouldn't feel like a blow. This was always temporary, always artificial. The fact that something genuine emerged in the artificial framework doesn't change the fundamental reality: in a few hours, this ends. As it should.

So why do my hands feel numb when I reach for my jacket? Why does my chest constrict with what feels uncomfortably like regret?

I follow her silently to breakfast, maintaining a careful distance as we navigate the lodge's hallways. Other guests smile at us knowingly, obviously assuming our slightly disheveled appearance and the tension between us is the natural result of an enthusiastic night together. They're not entirely wrong.

Barney trots alongside us, occasionally looking between Josie and me as if confused by the change in atmosphere. Animals are supposedly sensitive to human emotions. If so, he must be detecting the complicated mess of frustration, desire, and denial emanating from both of us.

As we approach the dining room, Josie stops abruptly, turning to face me. "For what it's worth," she says, her voice lower now, almost gentle, "I don't regret it. Not for a second."

Before I can respond—before I can decide what response would even be appropriate—she plasters on a bright smile and walks into the dining room, greeting Harrison and the other guests with an enthusiasm that seems impossible given our exchange minutes ago.

I watch her for a moment, this chaotic, unpredictable woman who has somehow wormed her way past defenses I thought impenetrable. Who called me a coward and looked at me like she could see straight through me.

Who might, terrifyingly, be right.

FIFTEEN

Josie

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