Page 12 of The Love Clause

I can't resist teasing him, if only to break the strange tension. "Don't drool, Mr. Lawyer. It's just fabric and good lighting."

His jaw tightens. "I assure you, I wasn't?—"

"Relax, I'm joking." I turn back to the mirror, smoothing my hands over the silky material. "But this dress is serious business. Are you sure it's not too much?"

"It's perfect," he says, with unexpected firmness. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and for a moment, something passesbetween us—an acknowledgment, perhaps, that this charade is becoming more complicated than either of us anticipated.

"Well then," I say lightly, breaking the moment, "I guess I'm ready to be a convincing fiancée. Clothes make the woman and all that."

"There's more to the role than appearance," he reminds me, seemingly relieved to return to practicalities. "We should review the information packet again before tomorrow."

"Right. The packet." I roll my eyes. "God forbid I forget your mother's maiden name or your favorite color."

"Blue," he says automatically. "Navy blue, specifically. And my mother's maiden name is Westfield."

"See? Already learning." I gesture toward the bathroom. "Let me change back into my poverty clothes, and we can go through your relationship manual again."

As I close the bathroom door, I catch a glimpse of Elliot's reflection in the mirror. He's watching me with an expression that seems almost…conflicted. Like he's surprised by something—maybe the dress, maybe me, maybe this whole bizarre situation.

For fifty thousand dollars, I remind myself as I carefully unzip the red dress, I can handle a few complicated looks and some designer clothes. This is just a job, no matter how the dress makes me feel or how his eyes followed me across the room.

Just a job. Nothing more.

So why am I already dreading the moment I'll have to give all this back?

FIVE

Elliot

I checkthe trunk of my Audi one final time, ensuring everything is precisely arranged. Two leather weekend bags (mine), garment bag for suits (mine), garment bag for formal wear (Josie's), and a small cooler of water and appropriate travel snacks (essential for the three-hour drive). Everything has its place, everything is accounted for. Control begins with preparation. At least, that's what I keep telling myself as I check my watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Josie is late. Again.

After the dress incident yesterday—a situation I've been actively trying not to replay in my mind—we agreed I would pick her up at precisely 11:00 AM. It's now 11:17, and my carefully calculated timeline is already derailing. We need to reach the lodge by 3:00 PM at the latest to make the welcome reception, which means accounting for traffic, one brief stop for fuel, and the increasingly likely scenario that I might commit homicide before we reach our destination.

The sound of hurried footsteps draws my attention to her building's entrance, where Josie bursts through the door in a whirlwind of motion. She's dragging what appears to be a duffel bag that's seen better decades, clutching a paper coffee cup, and wearing oversized sunglasses despite the cloudy day. Most concerning is the large canvas tote slung over her shoulder that appears to be…moving.

"I know, I know, I'm late, don't give me the lawyer death stare," she calls out before I can say anything. "My alarm didn't go off, and then Barney ate my phone charger, and then Mandy needed help with the sink again."

"We agreed on 11:00," I say, checking my watch pointedly.

"And now it's 11:17, which means I'm only seventeen minutes late, which is practically early in artist time." She reaches the car and drops her duffel with a thud that makes me wince. "Where do you want this?"

"You're bringing that?" I eye the battered bag skeptically. "I provided everything you could possibly need for the weekend."

"Yes, but this has my stuff. My art supplies, my comfort sweatshirt, my emergency chocolate stash." She pushes the sunglasses up on her head, revealing eyes that are bright despite the early hour. "Essential survival gear."

"I've accounted for all essential items in the packing list I provided."

"Your packing list didn't include gummy bears or my lucky paintbrushes, so it was deeply flawed." She peers into the trunk. "Wow, do you arrange your luggage with a ruler?"

Before I can respond, the tote bag over her shoulder emits a distinctive whine.

"Is that…a dog?" I ask, though I already know the horrifying answer.

"No, it's a very small, very hairy person," she deadpans. "Yes, it's a dog. Specifically, it's Barney. My smallest dog, who hasseparation anxiety and who my roommates can't handle alone because they're both working double shifts this weekend."

"You can't bring a dog to a luxury couples' retreat."

"Actually, I called the lodge yesterday and checked. They're pet-friendly as long as the dog is under twenty pounds and well-behaved." She smiles triumphantly. "Barney is eighteen pounds and moderately behaved."

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