Page 14 of The Love Clause

Perfect. A duet.

I attempt to focus on driving, but it's increasingly difficult to ignore the spectacle in my passenger seat. Josie Palmer sings like she does everything else—with complete commitment and zero concern for how she might appear. There's something almost…admirable about it, though I'd rather drive off this highway than admit it out loud.

After the third consecutive pop anthem, during which Josie's performance has grown to include choreography that threatens the safety of my dashboard controls, I reach over and turn the volume down to a reasonable level.

"Hey!" she protests. "We were just getting to the good part!"

"We need to discuss our arrival strategy," I say firmly. "Mr. Harrison will likely be greeting guests personally."

"So you're saying I should wait until after we arrive to show him my interpretive dance to 'Shake It Off'?" She grins, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

"I'm saying we should present a united, convincing front from the moment we arrive." I change lanes with a precise signal, the way I do everything. "That means behaving like a couple who genuinely care for each other."

"As opposed to a man being tortured by a woman whose singing makes him contemplate driving into a ravine?" She's still smiling, but there's a hint of something sharper beneath it. "You're going to have to loosen up a little, Elliot. No one's going to believe you're in love with me if you look like you're calculating tax deductions every time I speak."

"I am perfectly capable of appearing relaxed," I say, aware of how contradictory the tension in my voice makes this statement.

"Right now you look like someone put a rod up your spine and then welded it in place." She reaches over and actually pokes my shoulder. "See? Solid metal."

I ignore the lingering warmth from her touch. "I'm focused on driving."

"You're focused on controlling every element of this situation, which is impossible when other humans are involved." She turns the music back up, though mercifully not to its previous volume. "Especially this human."

As if to prove her point, she resumes singing, this time deliberately making eye contact with me during the mostsaccharine lyrics about eternal love and devotion. It's clearly meant to irritate me, and it's working spectacularly.

"Must you?" I ask during a brief instrumental break.

"Yes, actually, I must." She stops singing just long enough to explain. "This is who I am, Elliot. Loud, occasionally obnoxious, definitely not the kind of polished arm candy you probably usually date. If we're going to convince anyone we're in love, you need to at least look like you can tolerate me being myself."

She has a point, irritatingly enough. Before I can respond, she continues.

"So consider this immersion therapy. By the time we reach the lodge, my singing won't make you wince, and maybe, just maybe, you'll have relaxed enough that your face won't crack if you smile."

With that, she launches into the chorus again, somehow even louder than before. The dog joins in from the back seat, creating a cacophony of enthusiasm that fills my normally pristine, silent car.

I should be annoyed. Iamannoyed. But there's also something else happening—a strange, unfamiliar sensation that takes me a moment to identify as amusement. Josie is so completely, unapologetically herself that it's almost…refreshing. In my world of calculated moves and strategic conversations, her honesty is like stepping into cold water—a shock to the system that's both jarring and oddly invigorating.

We pass the hour mark with Josie having worked through what she calls her "Essential Road Trip Playlist." The dog has settled down, apparently exhausted from his vocal contributions. The landscape outside shifts from highway to the beginning of more rural scenery as we approach the Catskills.

"We should stop for gas and a bathroom break," I announce, noticing the fuel gauge.

"Thank god," Josie says. "I've had to pee for like twenty minutes but I didn't want to interrupt my concert."

"Your sacrifice is noted."

She looks at me in surprise. "Was that…a joke? From Elliot Carrington, Esq.? Someone alert the media."

"I am capable of humor," I say, taking the exit toward a service station.

"Could have fooled me. You've been scowling at the road like it personally offended you." She stretches in her seat, arms raised in a way that makes her borrowed sweater ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above her jeans. I force my eyes back to the road.

"I prefer to take driving seriously."

"You prefer to take everything seriously." She unbuckles as I pull into the gas station. "That's going to be our biggest challenge this weekend. No one's going to believe you swept me off my feet if you can't occasionally look at me like I'm not a problem to be solved."

Before I can respond, she's out of the car, grabbing the dog tote and heading for the convenience store. I watch her go, struck by the easy confidence in her stride, the way she nods hello to a stranger without hesitation. Everything about her is open, unguarded in a way I haven't been since…possibly ever.

I fill the tank methodically, my mind working through her words. She's right, though I'm reluctant to admit it. Our fundamental incompatibility might actually be the biggest threat to our charade. Not our different backgrounds or social circles, but the fact that I approach life like a chess match while she treats it like an improvisational dance.

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