Page 9 of The Love Clause

She studies me for a moment, head tilted to one side like one of her dogs assessing a strange sound. "You know what's funny? I actually believe you're worried about that. Like I might mistake this bizarre arrangement for something real."

"I simply prefer clarity in all arrangements."

"Well, let me be clear, then." She crosses her arms. "This is a job. You're paying me to play a part. I won't forget that, and neither should you."

"Perfect. Then we're aligned."

"Completely." She picks up the portfolio again. "So tell me more about this Harrison guy. What exactly are we trying to convince him of?"

I'm grateful for the return to business. This, I can handle. Facts, strategy, objectives—these make sense in a way that the lingering warmth of her lips on mine does not.

"Mr. Harrison is old-school," I begin, falling into the familiar rhythm of case preparation. "Traditional values, believes in marriage and family as the foundation of success..."

As I brief her on the details, I find myself watching the way she nods, the expressive movements of her hands as she asks questions, the curl of her lip when she finds something amusing. She's so unlike anyone in my usual circles—unfiltered, unpolished, unapologetically herself.

For the first time, I wonder if perhaps Claire's suggestion wasn't as ridiculous as I initially thought. Josie Palmer might just be convincing enough to pull this off.

As long as I can keep my own unexpected reactions in check.

FOUR

Josie

"Does poverty have a smell?"I ask Mandy, who's sprawled across my bed watching me have a full-blown wardrobe crisis. I'm holding up a black dress that might have been fashionable during the Obama administration, squinting at a suspicious stain near the hemline. "Because I think these clothes are giving off eau de food stamps, and I'm pretty sure rich people can smell desperation like sharks smell blood."

"If poverty has a smell, your closet is basically a scratch-and-sniff adventure," Mandy replies helpfully, not looking up from her phone. "Maybe you could make a statement? Like, 'I'm so secure in my wealth I don't need to prove it with fancy clothes.'"

"Yeah, because nothing says 'secure in my wealth' like three-year-old Target clearance items." I toss the dress onto the growing rejection pile and dive back into my closet, which is actually just a metal rack in the corner of my room because New York apartments weren't designed for people who wear clothes.

Tomorrow, I'm heading to some luxury mountain retreat to pretend I'm madly in love with a man who probably irons his underwear. After yesterday's "practice session" at Elliot's museum-like apartment, the reality of what I've agreed to is hitting me like a subway at rush hour.

"What does one even wear to a couples' retreat for rich people?" I moan, pulling out a jumpsuit that I bought for a gallery opening last year. It has a suspicious stain near the crotch that might be wine. Or blood. Art openings get weird sometimes.

"Designer labels," Mandy supplies. "Diamonds. The pelts of endangered species."

"Super helpful." I throw a balled-up sock at her head. She dodges without looking up.

"Just wear your normal clothes," she suggests. "You're supposed to be the quirky artist who captured his cold, dead heart with your authentic spirit or whatever."

"I need to look like I could plausibly be engaged to a man who probably has his dress shirts color-coded." I extract a blouse that I think might actually be one of Marco's. How did that get in here? "Not like I found my wardrobe in a dumpster behind a community theater."

"But that's your charm," Mandy insists, finally looking up. "You're the free spirit who taught him to love again."

"This isn't a Hallmark movie." I hold up a sundress with a pattern that can only be described as "aggressively floral." "This is me trying not to embarrass a man who's paying me fifty thousand dollars to be convincingly fiancée-like."

"The fact that you're stressing about this means you care what he thinks," Mandy points out with infuriating accuracy. "Which means you totally have a thing for Mr. Perfect Hair."

"I have a thing for not getting humiliated in front of rich people, and for earning my obscene paycheck." I throw thesundress onto the "maybe if we're really desperate" pile. "Also, his hair is not that perfect."

"You literally described it as 'hair so perfect it makes me want to mess it up just to see if it's real' last night," Mandy reminds me.

"I was drunk on cheap wine and the memory of awkward kissing," I mutter, pulling out a pair of jeans that might pass for designer if you squint and have cataracts. "Speaking of which, did I tell you about the kissing practice?"

"Only seventeen times." Mandy rolls onto her stomach. "Practice session number two is tomorrow, right? Before you guys leave?"

"Yeah. Apparently I need to learn the family history of everyone at his law firm and memorize his favorite foods in case someone quizzes me on my fiancé's preference in breakfast cereals."

"What is his favorite cereal?" Mandy asks.

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