Page 52 of The Love Clause

She leaves without waiting for a response, closing the door with a quiet click that nonetheless seems to echo in the sudden silence of my office.

Claire is right, though I'm reluctant to admit it even to myself. I've been miserable—functionally and efficiently miserable, but miserable nonetheless. Work, which has always been my sanctuary, now feels hollow. Success, which has driven me since childhood, tastes like ash. My apartment, once a perfectly ordered haven, now seems sterile and empty without Josie's chaos to balance it.

I miss her. Not just physically, though that ache is constant. I miss her laugh, her unfiltered commentary, the way she challenged me without fear or deference. I miss how she made me feel—not just desired, but seen. As if the person beneath the suits and credentials and family expectations was worth knowing.

And I threw it away. Based on a fragment of conversation, on my own deepest insecurities, I pushed away the one person who'd managed to breach the walls I've spent a lifetime constructing.

The realization crystallizes with sudden, painful clarity: nothing I achieve professionally will matter if I don't at least try to fix what I've broken with Josie. Partnership, success, Harrison's approval—none of it fills the Josie-shaped void in my life.

I stand abruptly, decision made. "Claire," I call, opening my door. "Cancel my remaining appointments for today."

"Already done," she replies, not even pretending not to have been eavesdropping. "And I took the liberty of having these delivered to your apartment an hour ago." She shows me a photo on her phone—a stunning arrangement of wildflowers, colorful and chaotic and perfect for Josie. "The doorman will give them to you on your way out."

For perhaps the first time in our professional relationship, I'm speechless.

"Go," she says simply. "Before you overthink it."

The drive to Greenwich Village is an exercise in anxiety I haven't experienced since my first major court appearance. I rehearse what to say, discard each attempt as inadequate, start again. Nothing seems sufficient to address the magnitude of my mistake or the depth of what I feel for her.

By the time I park near her building—a walk-up that's seen better decades—I've worked myself into a state of nervous tension that would shock anyone who knows me professionally. I retrieve the flowers from the passenger seat, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to my navy suit and the gray day around us.

The building has no doorman, just a panel of buzzers with handwritten names beside them. I find "Palmer/Chen/Rodriguez" beside apartment 4C and press it before I can second-guess myself.

"If you're the pizza guy, we didn't order yet but please wait while I find my wallet," a male voice answers—one of her roommates, presumably.

"I'm not…delivering pizza," I reply, feeling ridiculous. "I'm here to see Josie Palmer."

A pause, then the voice returns, noticeably cooler. "And you are?"

"Elliot Carrington."

Another pause, longer this time, followed by a muffled conversation I can't quite make out. Finally, the buzzer sounds, unlocking the door. I step into a narrow hallway that smells faintly of curry and disinfectant, then begin the climb to the fourth floor.

Each step seems to increase the weight in my chest. What if she refuses to see me? What if she's moved on? What if thedamage I've done is irreparable? I've faced hostile witnesses, aggressive opposing counsel, even my father's disappointment, yet nothing has terrified me like the prospect of Josie Palmer closing her door in my face.

I reach 4C, adjusting my tie in a nervous gesture I never allow myself in professional settings. Before I can knock, the door swings open, revealing a lanky young man with a skeptical expression.

"So you're the suit," he says, giving me a once-over that makes me feel like I'm being assessed for dissection. "Marco. Roommate. Currently debating whether to let you in or push you back down the stairs."

"I understand your hesitation," I reply, striving for a tone that's conciliatory without being defensive. "I'd like to speak with Josie, if she's willing."

"She's not," a familiar voice calls from inside the apartment. "Tell him to leave his flowers and his apology at the door and go back to his tower, Marco."

My heart contracts at the sound of her voice, even laced with anger as it is. "Josie, please. Five minutes."

Marco looks between the door and me, clearly torn between loyalty to his friend and some other consideration. "The flowers are nice," he offers, as if this might help my case. "Very not-boring."

"Marco, I swear to god, if you let him in—" Josie appears in the doorway, freezing mid-sentence when she sees me. She looks both exactly as I remember and somehow different—hair piled messily atop her head, paint smudged across one cheekbone, wearing overalls splattered with colors that should clash but somehow work together. She's beautiful in a way that makes my rehearsed speeches evaporate instantly.

"You have some nerve," she says after a moment of charged silence.

"I know." I hold out the flowers like an offering, like a shield. "These are for you. Though they're entirely inadequate."

"Damn right they are." But she takes them, her fingers brushing mine in the exchange. Their fingers brushed, and they felt a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolted them nonetheless. "Five minutes. Then you leave."

Marco slips away with surprising tact, disappearing into another room and closing the door. Josie leads me into a small living room cluttered with mismatched furniture, art supplies, and what appears to be a half-assembled dog bed. The space is chaotic but vibrant, so essentially Josie that it makes my chest ache.

"Well?" She sets the flowers on a coffee table made from what looks like a repurposed cable spool. "Four minutes and thirty seconds left."

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