Page 31 of The Love Clause

"Thorough," Elliot supplies, his voice sounding strained.

"Right. Thorough." I risk a glance his way, only to find him still lying perfectly still, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to the universe.

"You should dress first," he says, not looking at me. "I'll wait."

"Such a gentleman," I mutter, though I'm secretly grateful for the reprieve. I sit up carefully, keeping the sheet wrapped around me as I reach for my robe. "No peeking."

"I assure you, I can control myself," he says stiffly.

The statement—so perfectly Elliot in its formal denial—makes me want to test exactly how much control he actually has. Instead, I slide into my robe as quickly as possible, securing the belt with a double knot. "All clear, counselor. Your turn."

I make a show of examining my nails while he dresses, though I can't resist stealing a glance from beneath my lashes. The brief glimpse I catch—broad shoulders, narrow waist, legs far more athletic than a desk job should allow—does nothing to calm the riot in my bloodstream.

"Ready?" he asks, fully robed once more, composure apparently restored despite the lingering intensity in his eyes.

"Born ready," I quip, aiming for lightness and missing by a mile.

We exit the spa in uncomfortable silence, making our way back toward our suite. Other guests pass us in the hallway, smiling knowingly at our matching robes, obviously assumingwe're taking our "relaxation" back to our room for an entirely different kind of couples' activity.

If only they knew the truth—that we're both wound so tight we might snap, trapped in this bizarre limbo of fake engagement and very real attraction that neither of us seems willing to acknowledge directly.

Elliot swipes the key card to our suite, holding the door for me with formal courtesy that feels absurd given we were nearly naked together five minutes ago. Barney greets us enthusiastically, oblivious to the tension thick enough to choke on.

"I should get dressed," I say, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. "The picnic lunch is in an hour."

"Of course." Elliot nods, maintaining a careful distance. "I'll use the gym until then."

Of course he will. Running away—or in this case, working out—rather than addressing the elephant in the room. The elephant being that underneath our careful pretense of professionalism, we both know exactly what would happen if either of us were brave enough to cross that line.

I gather my clothes—my own this time, thankfully returned by the laundry service—and retreat to the bathroom. The mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. I look aroused, which is mortifying yet completely accurate.

Splashing cold water on my face, I give myself a stern talking-to. This is business. A transaction. The fact that Elliot Carrington has a body that would make Greek statues envious doesn't change anything. The fact that I now know exactly what he looks like with only a thin sheet preserving his modesty doesn't change anything. The fact that I'm having increasingly vivid fantasies about what might happen if I marched back into that room and dropped my robe—that definitely doesn't change anything.

Except it changes everything, doesn't it?

I press my forehead against the cool mirror, exhaling slowly. One more day. One more night. Then this charade ends, I get my money, and Elliot Carrington becomes nothing more than an unusually attractive blip in my financial recovery plan.

So why does that thought make my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with physical attraction?

I straighten, pushing away from the mirror. Whatever this is, it isn't real. Can't be real. I need to remember that, no matter how convincing our performance becomes—even to ourselves.

But as I dress for the picnic, I can't help wondering if Elliot is having the same internal battle. If beneath all that iron control, he's imagining what might have happened if those massage tables had been just a little bit closer. If the therapists hadn't returned. If one of us had been brave enough—or reckless enough—to act on this current running between us.

And I can't help wondering what might happen when that control finally breaks.

TWELVE

Elliot

I've negotiatedbillion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. I've faced down hostile witnesses without blinking. I've even survived annual dinners with my father's judgmental colleagues. But nothing in my carefully constructed life has prepared me for sitting across from Josie Palmer at Harrison's formal dinner as she takes her third glass of champagne with a gleam in her eye that warns me this evening is about to go off-script in spectacular fashion.

The dining room has been transformed for tonight's closing dinner—crystal chandeliers dimmed to a golden glow, tables arranged in an intimate semicircle around a central fireplace, white roses and candles creating an ambiance that would be romantic if I weren't so preoccupied with maintaining professional boundaries that seem increasingly determined to collapse.

After the couples' massage—an exercise in self-control I never want to repeat—I'd spent an hour in the gym, pushingmy body to exhaustion in hopes of purging the image of Josie's flushed skin and parted lips from my mind. It hadn't worked. If anything, the physical exertion had only heightened my awareness of exactly how long it's been since I've been with a woman. A fact that becomes increasingly problematic as I watch Josie raise her glass to her lips, her throat working as she swallows.

"The '96 is exceptional, isn't it?" Harrison comments, noticing her appreciation of the champagne. "I've been saving it for a special occasion."

"It's amazing," Josie agrees, her smile looser than usual, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "I usually buy whatever's on sale at the corner store, so this is definitely an upgrade."

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