Page 21 of The Love Clause

Elliot disappeared at dawn for what he called a "necessary conference call" but what I suspect was an equally necessary escape from the awkwardness of waking up in the same bed. We'd constructed an elaborate pillow wall between us last night, neither mentioning our near-kiss by the fire. Barney, the traitor, had abandoned me for Elliot's side of the bed, apparentlypreferring the company of someone who'd spent twenty minutes lecturing him about the inappropriateness of dogs on furniture.

"There you are!" Melissa Harrison's cheerful voice cuts through my caffeine-deprived haze. "I've been looking all over. We're starting the morning activities in ten minutes!"

"Morning…activities?" I repeat, envisioning some horrible trust-fall exercise where I accidentally drop someone worth billions.

"Team-building fun!" She claps her hands together. "Nothing too strenuous—just a scavenger hunt around the property. Gets everyone mingling before the more structured events this afternoon."

"Sounds great," I lie, wondering if I can fake a sudden illness. "I should probably find Elliot?—"

"Oh, he's already out on the terrace with Grandpa. Business talk, you know how they are." She rolls her eyes with the fond exasperation of someone who's grown up around type-A personalities. "I'll rescue you from having to look interested in corporate tax structures. Come meet your teammates!"

Before I can protest, she's linking her arm through mine and steering me toward a group gathered near the massive stone fireplace. I recognize a few faces from last night—Harrison's son and his wife, a client whose name I've already forgotten, and a tall man with sandy hair who I don't remember meeting at all.

"Everyone, this is Josie, Elliot's fiancée," Melissa introduces. "Josie, you know my parents, and the Whitmores. And this is Blake Sullivan, an old family friend who's joining us for the weekend."

Blake Sullivan looks like he walked out of a J.Crew catalog—effortlessly handsome in that privileged, outdoorsy way, with the kind of smile that suggests he's never had a dental bill he couldn't easily pay. He extends his hand, and I shake it, noticingthe calluses that suggest he actually does something with his time beyond counting money.

"The famous Josie," he says, his voice carrying a slight Southern drawl. "I heard you made quite an impression at the couples' game last night."

"Famous for all the wrong reasons, then," I laugh. "We were spectacularly bad at that game."

"Honesty trumps performance any day," he replies with a wink. "Besides, it's refreshing to see someone real at these things. Most of the women who come to Harrison events look like they're afraid a genuine emotion might crack their foundation."

I like him immediately for this observation, which echoes my own thoughts about many of the guests. "I'm fresh out of foundation anyway. Artist's budget."

"An artist?" His interest visibly sharpens. "What medium?"

"Mixed media, mostly. Digital illustration for paying gigs, but painting and collage for my own work." It feels strange to talk about my art here, in this temple to capitalism.

"I own a gallery in Charleston," he says, and suddenly his presence makes more sense. "Small, but we focus on emerging artists who blend traditional and digital techniques. I'd love to see your portfolio sometime."

My heart rate kicks up. A gallery owner? Here? The universe is either throwing me a bone or setting me up for spectacular disappointment. "That would be amazing. I mean, I'm still developing my style, but?—"

"Everyone develops their whole life, if they're any good," he interrupts smoothly. "The ones who think they've 'arrived' are usually the ones with the least interesting perspective."

Our conversation is interrupted by Melissa announcing the scavenger hunt rules, which involve finding various objects around the lodge property and taking team selfies with them.Blake ends up on my team along with Melissa's mother and one of the Whitmores. As we head out onto the grounds, I find myself naturally falling into step with Blake, our conversation flowing easily from art to travel to the peculiar social dynamics of wealth.

He's easy to talk to—genuinely interested in my work, full of stories about artists he's discovered, and refreshingly unpretentious despite his obvious privilege. An hour into the scavenger hunt, we've covered most of the western side of the property and discovered a shared love of obscure indie bands, Thai food, and making fun of overly precious artist statements.

We're laughing over his impression of a particularly pompous collector when I spot Elliot watching us from the terrace. He's standing with Harrison and another man, ostensibly engaged in their conversation, but his eyes are fixed on me and Blake. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his posture, the slight downward curve of his mouth.

A petty, childish part of me—the part still smarting from his abrupt "Go to bed, Josie" dismissal last night—feels a spark of satisfaction at his obvious attention. Before I can think better of it, I touch Blake's arm as he speaks, leaning in closer as if completely captivated by whatever he's saying.

Blake, misreading my suddenly flirtatious body language as genuine interest, responds in kind. His hand brushes my lower back as he points out a landmark that might be our next scavenger item. I laugh a little too loudly at his next joke, toss my hair, play all the ridiculous cards from the flirtation deck I usually find eye-roll worthy.

I glance up at the terrace again. Elliot hasn't moved, but his jaw is visibly clenched now. Harrison is looking between Elliot and us, his expression curious.

"So what's the story with you and the lawyer?" Blake asks suddenly, his voice low. "Because he's looking at me like he's calculating how to make my body disappear in these woods."

I feel a flush creep up my neck. "We're engaged."

"Mmhmm." Blake sounds unconvinced. "And you're flirting with me because...?"

"I'm not—" I begin, then stop at his knowing look. "Okay, maybe I am. It's complicated."

"Let me guess. He did something emotionally stunted, and you're trying to make him jealous." Blake's smile is understanding rather than offended. "Don't worry, I'm not taking it personally. I've been the jealousy prop before."

I wince at his accuracy. "Is it that obvious?"

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