Page 32 of The Love Clause

Her honesty makes several guests laugh, Harrison included. That's the thing about Josie—she doesn't pretend to be something she's not. Her lack of pretension is refreshing in a world where appearances are currency. Or it would be refreshing if it weren't so dangerous to our carefully constructed narrative.

"Josie has a remarkable palate," I interject smoothly, hoping to redirect the conversation. "She can identify subtle notes most people miss."

This is a complete fabrication, but Josie plays along with impressive quickness. "That's true. For instance, this champagne has notes of..." she takes another contemplative sip, "...expensive. With undertones of 'I can't afford this in a million years.'"

More laughter, even from the stuffier guests who initially seemed put off by her casual approach. She's winning them over without even trying, something I've witnessed repeatedly throughout this weekend. Josie Palmer doesn't fit into this world of old money and careful pretense, yet somehow she makes everyone wish they could be more like her—authentic, unfiltered, alive.

Including, uncomfortably, me.

"So tell us, Josie," says Mrs. Whitmore, a client's wife who's been watching us with curious eyes all evening, "how did you know our Elliot was the one? He's always been so focused on his career, we were beginning to think he'd marry his law books!"

I tense, though I maintain my pleasant expression. We've rehearsed our backstory, but Josie has been increasingly prone to improvisations that leave me scrambling to keep up.

"Oh, I didn't know right away," Josie says, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Actually, I thought he was kind of a jerk."

I nearly choke on my water. This is definitely not in our script.

"He was so buttoned-up, so serious all the time." She gestures with her champagne glass, nearly sloshing the contents. "But then I started noticing things. Like how he always remembers everyone's coffee orders. Or how he pretends not to care about my dog but secretly gives him treats when he thinks I'm not looking."

The details she's invented are so specific, so plausible, I almost believe them myself for a moment. More concerning is how closely she's watching me as she speaks, as if searching for a reaction beyond my careful facade.

"And," she continues, her gaze still locked with mine across the table, "there was the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention. Like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out but couldn't stop trying to solve."

The description is unsettlingly accurate. I look away first, reaching for my wine glass more to break eye contact than from any desire to drink.

"That's so romantic," sighs Melissa, who's obviously had her fair share of champagne as well. "Finding the soft center beneath the hard exterior."

"Oh, there's nothing soft about Elliot," Josie quips, then immediately flushes deeper as she realizes the double entendre. "I mean, he's very…determined. When he wants something."

The table erupts in knowing laughter, and I find myself fighting an inappropriate smile despite the precariousness of the situation. Josie catches my expression and raises her glass in a small toast, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"To determined men," she says, loud enough for only me to hear over the general conversation.

I shouldn't encourage her, especially given her increasingly uninhibited state, but I find myself raising my glass in response. "To women who can't be solved."

She blinks, surprise flickering across her features before she smiles—a genuine smile, not the performative one she's been offering the table, but something softer, more real.

The moment is broken when servers arrive with the main course, a perfectly seared steak that would normally command my full attention. Instead, I find myself watching Josie as she enthuses over the food, making the chef who emerges briefly from the kitchen blush with her effusive compliments.

"This might be the best thing I've ever eaten," she declares, closing her eyes in exaggerated bliss as she takes another bite.

The expression on her face—pure pleasure, uninhibited appreciation—sends my thoughts in directions entirely inappropriate for a formal dinner. I force myself to focus on my own meal, on the conversations happening around us, on anything but the way her lips part slightly as she savors another bite.

By the time dessert is served—some elaborate chocolate construction that looks more like architecture than food—Josie has finished her fourth glass of champagne and moved on to the paired dessert wine. She's not sloppy drunk, just loosened,her gestures more expansive, her laugh quicker, her filters noticeably thinned.

"So," Melissa asks as the conversation circles back to relationships, "have you two set a date yet? For the wedding?"

"We're taking our time," I answer smoothly, the rehearsed response coming automatically. "With both our schedules?—"

"We're enjoying the sex too much to rush into paperwork," Josie interrupts, then immediately claps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with a combination of horror and amusement at her own candor.

The table goes momentarily silent before Harrison lets out a booming laugh. "Honesty! That's what I appreciate about your Josie, Elliot. No games, no pretense."

If only he knew.

"Maybe we should switch to coffee," I suggest, covering Josie's wine glass with my hand when she reaches for it.

"Party pooper," she mutters, but doesn't fight the intervention.

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