Page 50 of The Love Clause

"Nothing that dramatic," Marco assures me, setting a plate of something that looks too sophisticated for our apartment on the coffee table. "We just…we're worried about you. This is an intervention disguised as a celebration."

"An intervention?" I look between them, bewildered. "For what? I'm not the one who spent rent money on weed last month, Marco."

"That was one time!" he protests, then shakes his head. "No, this is about Mr. Lawyer Man. The walking suit. The guy whohas you looking like someone killed your puppy for two weeks straight."

My stomach drops. "I don't want to talk about Elliot."

"We know," Mandy says gently, sitting beside me. "That's the problem. You paid the rent, caught up every bill, even bought us these cute pillows—which, by the way, Pancake has already tried to murder—but you haven't said his name once since you came back from his office."

"Because there's nothing to say," I insist, taking a large swallow of the blue drink, which turns out to be surprisingly potent. "It was a business arrangement that got complicated, and now it's over. End of story."

"Bullshit," Marco says cheerfully, sitting on my other side so I'm effectively trapped between them. "You're miserable. You've been sleeping with his shirt."

I choke on my drink. "I have not!"

"The blue Oxford," Mandy confirms. "It's under your pillow. And you talk in your sleep, by the way. Mostly his name and some creative expletives."

Heat rises to my cheeks. I didn't realize I'd taken the shirt—must have accidentally packed it when gathering my things from his apartment. The fact that I've been sleeping with it is…problematic.

"Fine," I admit, slumping back against the couch. "I miss him. Happy now? I miss a man who made it abundantly clear that I was nothing but a paid escort to him."

"He said that?" Marco looks genuinely outraged.

"Not in those exact words." I stare into my drink, watching the blue liquid swirl as I tilt the glass. "But he implied it. Said he heard me talking about the money and realized that was all I really wanted from him."

"But that's not true," Mandy says, frowning. "I mean, yes, you needed the money. We all did. But that's not why you stayed athis place after the weekend. That's not why you've been moping around like someone canceled all dog walking forever."

"It doesn't matter why," I say, the words tasting bitter. "He made his decision. I went to his office, I confronted him, and he literally said, 'This was never real.' Case closed."

Marco exchanges another look with Mandy. "Okay, but what if he's just as miserable as you are? What if he's sitting in his fancy apartment right now, drinking fancy scotch and staring at his fancy walls, thinking about you?"

"He's not," I say with more certainty than I feel. "Elliot Carrington doesn't do 'miserable.' He does controlled and logical and completely devoid of messy emotions."

"The guy hired a fake fiancée because he panicked and lied to a client," Mandy points out. "That doesn't scream 'logical' to me."

She has a point, but I'm not ready to concede it. "Whatever. Can we eat pasta and not psychoanalyze my disaster of a love life? Please?"

They relent, moving to the table where Marco serves his signature dish with a flourish that makes me smile despite myself. The food is delicious, the wine I brought pairs perfectly, and for brief stretches of conversation, I almost forget the constant ache in my chest.

Almost.

"So," Mandy says when we're on our second bottle of wine, her tone deliberately casual. "Blake called today. The gallery owner? He wanted to know if you were free for dinner this weekend."

I blink, caught off guard. "Blake? From the retreat? How did he even get our number?"

“He’s rich,” Marco supplies. "And he's in town for some art thing and thought of you. He seemed nice on the phone. Very charming Southern gentleman vibe."

"He is nice," I admit, remembering his easy smile, his genuine interest in my work. "And he does own a gallery..."

"And he's hot," Mandy adds helpfully. "Based on that photo on his website. Very rugged-but-refined silver fox energy."

I consider it for a moment. Blake is attractive, successful, and we had good chemistry—even if most of our interaction had been deliberately designed to make Elliot jealous. A date could be exactly what I need. Something normal. Something uncomplicated.

"I'll think about it," I say finally, though the prospect generates none of the excitement it should.

Later that night, after too much wine and pasta, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, Barney curled against my side. Despite my best efforts not to, I've extracted the blue shirt from under my pillow, the fabric soft against my fingers. It still smells faintly of Elliot's cologne, that expensive scent I couldn't name but would recognize anywhere.

The truth I've been avoiding crashes over me with the clarity that only comes in the quiet darkness of 3 AM: I'm in love with him. Not just falling for him, not just attracted to him, but fully, stupidly in love. With his control-freak tendencies and his perfect ties and the way he'd looked at me in unguarded moments, like I was something wonderful he'd discovered unexpectedly.

---