Page 13 of The Love Clause

"You called the lodge?" This unexpected display of foresight catches me off guard.

"I can be responsible too, you know. Just in my own way." She holds up the tote, from which a tiny brown furry face peers out. "Barney won't be any trouble. He's the best-behaved of my three dogs, which admittedly isn't saying much, but still."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache. "Fine. But he's your responsibility. And if he damages anything?—"

"I know, I know, you'll deduct it from my Cinderella fund." She rolls her eyes. "Now can we get this show on the road? I haven't been to a mountain lodge since…ever, actually."

I take her duffel and place it in the trunk, rearranging everything to accommodate the unexpected addition. The dog tote goes in the back seat, secured with a seatbelt in a way that makes me question my life choices.

Once we're both seated in the car—Josie immediately touching every button on the console like a child in a cockpit—I pull away from the curb with perhaps more acceleration than necessary.

"So, three hours, huh?" she says, settling into the leather seat. "That's a lot of quality time for two people who barely know each other. We should use it wisely." She reaches for the touch screen controlling the audio system.

"What are you doing?" I ask as her fingers hover over my meticulously organized media interface.

"Finding some road trip music. It's a rule." She starts scrolling through options.

"We don't need music. We should use this time to review the information about the weekend. The guests, the schedule, our backstory?—"

"We've been over all that three times already." She continues browsing, wrinkling her nose at my playlist labeled 'Classical - Focus.' "Don't tell me you're one of those people who only listens to dead composers and NPR podcasts."

"I appreciate music that doesn't interfere with clear thinking."

"Well, I appreciate music that doesn't sound like it belongs in a funeral home or a dentist's office." She finally stops on something and grins triumphantly. "Perfect!"

Suddenly, the car's premium sound system—a feature I specifically selected for its nuanced delivery of Rachmaninoff—blares with a pop song so aggressively upbeat it practically assaults my eardrums.

"What is this?" I wince, resisting the urge to immediately shut it off.

"Taylor Swift. Everyone knows Taylor Swift." She looks at me like I've admitted to not knowing what the sun is. "Wait, do you not know Taylor Swift?"

"I'm aware of her existence."

"But you don't listen to her music? What do you do when you go through a breakup? Just sit in silence and brood?"

"I don't 'go through breakups,'" I say stiffly, keeping my eyes on the road as we merge onto the highway. "I have amicable conclusions to relationships that no longer serve their purpose."

Josie stares at me for a beat before bursting into laughter. "Oh my god, you're a breakup robot. 'This relationship no longer computes. Must terminate emotional connection.'" She mimics a robotic voice that sounds nothing like me.

"I prefer clarity and mutual respect over dramatic displays."

"Says the man who hired a fake fiancée because he panicked and lied to a client." She smirks, then turns the music up a notch. "Just embrace the pop music, Elliot. It won't kill you to enjoy something mainstream for once."

I could argue further, but something tells me it would only encourage her. Instead, I focus on navigating through the increasingly heavy traffic, trying to tune out both the pulsing beat and Josie's fingers tapping along on the dashboard.

My strategy works for approximately seven minutes. Then the song changes, and Josie gasps with delight.

"Oh, I LOVE this one!" She turns it up even louder and begins to sing along.

If her speaking voice is expressive, her singing voice is a force of nature—enthusiastic, completely unself-conscious, and almost impressively off-key. She knows every word, throwing herself into the performance with abandon, complete with hand gestures that occasionally invade my peripheral vision.

She seems to be singing directly to me, leaning into my space.

I look around her. “I need to watch the road.”

“You need to lighten up and feel the music!” she shouts over the music. "It's called having fun!"

"It's called being distracting," I mutter, but she's already launched into the chorus again, this time with added shoulder movements that make the dog in the back seat start to howl along.

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