Page 29 of The Love Clause

"Something wrong, honey?" she asks, all wide-eyed innocence that doesn't fool me for a second.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" My voice is low, controlled, but with an edge I rarely allow myself.

"Having breakfast?" She tilts her head, the picture of confusion. "Being an adoring fiancée? Following our script?"

"The script didn't include you wearing my clothing and making suggestive comments throughout the entire meal."

"Suggestive? Me?" Her hand flutters to her chest in mock offense, the movement drawing my eyes to where the topbuttons of my shirt remain undone, revealing the gentle slope of her breasts. "I'm just playing my part, Elliot. Convincingly, I might add. Harrison is completely sold."

"This isn't about convincing Harrison."

"No?" She steps closer, invading my personal space in a way that makes my pulse quicken despite my best efforts. "What's it about, then?"

I should step back. Establish distance. But something keeps me rooted in place, unwilling to cede ground in whatever game she's playing.

"You're deliberately trying to provoke me," I say instead, my voice dropping lower as a couple passes by, nodding politely. "Testing boundaries."

"And if I am?" She doesn't deny it, her eyes challenging me. "Isn't that part of our arrangement? Playing the besotted couple? Or is it only acceptable when it's scripted in your little relationship manual?"

The memory of our kiss in the canoe flashes unbidden—unscripted, unplanned, undeniably real. Something she clearly hasn't forgotten either, judging by the heat in her gaze.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Josie." The words come out rougher than intended, a warning as much to myself as to her.

She doesn't back down. If anything, she leans closer, close enough that I can smell the faint chocolate on her breath, close enough that I could count each individual eyelash.

"Maybe I like dangerous games," she murmurs. "Maybe I'm tired of pretending I don't feel anything when you look at me like you want to either strangle me or kiss me senseless."

Her words hit with precision accuracy, leaving me momentarily speechless. The air between us feels charged, electric with possibility.

Before I can formulate a response that won't reveal how dangerously close to the mark she is, a door opens nearby, and Melissa emerges from the spa area.

"There you are!" she calls, oblivious to the tension she's interrupted. "We're setting up for the massages now. You two should get ready!"

Josie steps back, composure perfectly intact while I'm still struggling to steady my breathing. She smiles at Melissa, all casual charm. "Perfect timing! We'll be right there."

She turns back to me, triumph evident in her expression. "Guess we'll have to continue this conversation later, Mr. Carrington." She adjusts the collar of my shirt, her fingers deliberately brushing against my neck. "But for what it's worth? I think you're playing a pretty dangerous game yourself."

With that, she saunters off toward Melissa, leaving me in the hallway with the distinct feeling that despite my warning, I'm the one who's been outmaneuvered. Again.

ELEVEN

Josie

There arefew things more awkward than stripping down to your underwear knowing the man you've been fake-engaged to for three days and real-kissed exactly once will be lying nearly naked on a massage table three feet away from you. I clutch the plush white spa robe tighter around my body, scanning the dimly lit couples' massage room like I'm casing it for escape routes.

"The therapists will return in a few minutes," the serene spa attendant informs us. "Please disrobe to your comfort level and lie face down beneath the sheets." She lights another scented candle, adding to the ambiance that would be romantic under literally any other circumstances. "Would you prefer the privacy screen between your tables?"

Before I can say "yes, absolutely, and maybe a concrete wall too," Elliot answers.

"That won't be necessary."

The attendant nods, obviously charmed by what she perceives as our loving intimacy rather than the truth—which is that Elliot Carrington refuses to show weakness in any form, even if it means watching me awkwardly strip down while maintaining his lawyer poker face.

"Enjoy your experience," she says, floating out of the room on a cloud of essential oils and leaving us alone with two massage tables, flickering candles, and enough sexual tension to power a small city.

"So..." I rock back on my heels, the plush carpet soft beneath my bare feet. "How are we doing this?"

Elliot checks his watch—a habit I've noticed emerges when he's uncomfortable. "Efficiently, I imagine. We disrobe, lie down, and endure the prescribed relaxation."

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