Page 6 of The Love Clause

But hey, at least I'll be able to pay rent.

THREE

Elliot

I checkmy watch for the third time in five minutes. Ms. Palmer—Josie—is late. Not significantly, just seven minutes, but in my world, seven minutes is the difference between winning and losing a motion. Seven minutes can cost a client millions. Seven minutes of waiting has my perfectly ordered penthouse feeling suddenly too large, too empty, too…anticipatory. I shouldn't be this unsettled by a woman I've met exactly once.

I adjust a coaster that's already perfectly aligned with the edge of the coffee table. My Manhattan penthouse reflects everything about me—precision, order, success. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline like artwork. The furniture is all clean lines and neutral tones, selected by an interior designer who understood that I wanted functionality without distraction. Nothing is out of place because nothing is allowed to be out of place.

Which is why the idea of Josie Palmer entering this space feels like inviting chaos into a laboratory.

The intercom buzzes, and I press the button with perhaps more force than necessary. "Yes?"

"Sir, there's a Ms. Palmer here for you," the doorman announces, his tone carefully neutral in the way that suggests he's noting a deviation from my usual visitors.

"Send her up."

I straighten my already straight tie, irritated at my own nervousness. This is a business arrangement. A transaction. Nothing more than a particularly unusual legal maneuver to secure a client. The fact that I'm paying her doesn't make this any different from hiring expert testimony or contracting specialized services.

The knock, when it comes, isn't the polite tap I expect but an enthusiastic rhythm that might be trying to approximate a song. I open the door to find Josie Palmer mid-knock, her fist freezing in the air.

"Wow," she says, eyes widening as she peers past me into the apartment. "Did you mug a Restoration Hardware catalog?"

She looks different today—marginally more put together in black jeans and a green sweater that appears to have been stretched in too many washes. Her dark hair is pulled back into what might have been a neat ponytail at some point but has now partially escaped to frame her face in wild tendrils. She's clutching an oversized leather bag that's seen better days, and there's a smudge of something—paint?—on her right cheekbone.

"Please, come in." I step aside, ignoring her comment.

She moves past me, and I catch the scent of something floral mixed with what might be dog shampoo. It's oddly not unpleasant.

"So this is how the other half lives," she muses, turning in a slow circle. "Do you actually use any of this furniture, or is it just for show?"

"It's functional." I close the door. "Would you like coffee? Water?"

"Coffee would be great. Black, no sugar. Like my soul." She grins, dropping her bag onto my pristine sofa with the casual disregard of someone who doesn't realize it costs more than most people's monthly rent.

I move to the kitchen—open concept, of course, because the designer insisted it was "conversational"—and busy myself with the espresso machine.

"So," Josie says, wandering around and touching things I'd prefer she didn't touch, "what's our story? How did the uptight lawyer and the chaotic dog walker fall madly in love?"

"I've prepared a document." I nod toward the leather portfolio on the coffee table. "Our backstory, relevant details about my life you should know, schedule for the weekend, and appropriate behaviors."

She picks it up, flipping through the pages with raised eyebrows. "You made a relationship manual? With bullet points and subsections?"

"Preparation prevents?—"

"Let me guess. Poor performance?" She smirks.

"I was going to say 'embarrassment,'" I correct, handing her the coffee.

"Thanks." She takes a sip, eyes widening slightly. "Damn, that's good. Probably costs more than my rent."

"The beans are imported from a small farm in Ethiopia," I confirm without thinking, then immediately regret it when she rolls her eyes.

"Of course they are." She flops down onto my sofa in a way that makes me wince. "So according to this masterpiece, we met when I was walking dogs in Central Park, and you literally ran into me while jogging?"

"It's plausible. I do run in the park three mornings a week."

"And then you asked me out for coffee to apologize for nearly killing me with your 'powerful stride'?" She reads, voice lilting with amusement. "Did you seriously write 'powerful stride'?"

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