Page 8 of The Love Clause

"Is that necessary?"

"If we're supposed to be madly in love, yes. Engaged people touch each other, Elliot. They don't maintain a government-recommended six feet of distance at all times."

Reluctantly, I place my hands on her waist. The material of her sweater is soft, worn thin in places, and I can feel the warmth of her body beneath it.

"There you go," she encourages. "Now you only look mildly constipated instead of actively dying inside."

"Your feedback is invaluable," I say dryly.

She grins. "I live to serve. Okay, the final frontier—we should probably practice kissing. Just so you don't look like you're being tortured when it happens in front of people."

"Is that really?—"

"Necessary? Yes. Engaged people kiss, Counselor. It's like, the law."

I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close she is, how her body fits against mine in a way that's undeniably pleasant despite the awkwardness of the situation.

"Fine," I concede. "A brief demonstration should suffice."

"So romantic," she teases. "Just a heads up—I'm going to stand on my tiptoes because you're unnecessarily tall, and you should probably meet me halfway unless you want me to get a neck cramp."

Before I can respond, she places her hands on my shoulders and rises on her toes. I bend down automatically, and then her lips are on mine—soft, warm, and tasting faintly of coffee.

It's meant to be clinical, a technical exercise, but something happens the moment we connect. A current runs through me, unexpected and powerful. My hands tighten on her waist instinctively, and for a heartbeat—just one—I forget that this is pretend.

Then she pulls back, her expression unreadable for a split second before she bursts into laughter.

"Oh my god," she gasps between giggles. "That was—you were so—" She can't even finish her sentence, doubling over with mirth.

My face burns with a combination of embarrassment and irritation. "I fail to see what's so amusing."

"You kissed me like you were afraid I might shatter," she manages, wiping her eyes. "Or like you were being graded on your technique by a panel of stern judges."

"I was being respectful," I say stiffly.

"You were being ridiculous," she counters, still grinning. "Look, if we're going to pull this off, you need to relax. No one's going to believe we're engaged if you look like you're calculating tax deductions every time you touch me."

"Perhaps if you provided clearer instructions?—"

"It's kissing, not assembling IKEA furniture. There aren't instructions." She shakes her head. "Maybe we should try again, but this time, pretend I'm someone you actually want to kiss."

The suggestion that I don't want to kiss her is oddly offensive, though I can't articulate why. "Fine."

This time, I don't wait for her to initiate. I step forward, slide one hand to the small of her back, and the other to gently cup her face. Her eyes widen in surprise, but she doesn't pull away. I lean down and press my lips to hers, with purpose this time, with intent.

The kiss lasts perhaps five seconds, but it feels significant—a departure from the script, a moment of genuine connectionin this fabricated scenario. When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed, and she's not laughing anymore.

"That was…better," she says, her voice slightly breathless.

"Adequate?"

"Heading in the right direction." She steps back, breaking our contact, and I feel the absence acutely. "Just remember—we're supposed to be in love, not conducting a business merger."

"Noted." I straighten my tie, a habitual gesture that helps me regain composure. "Perhaps we should review the schedule for the weekend."

"Running away from the physical stuff already?" She smirks. "Relax, grumpy pants. I'm not gonna fall in love with you."

"Good. Because that would be highly unprofessional." The words come out sharper than intended.

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