Page 37 of The Love Clause

"Stop thinking so hard," I murmur, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Just for tonight. We can go back to pretending tomorrow if that's what you want."

"Is that what you want?" he asks, and beneath the careful neutrality, I hear a genuine question.

"No," I admit, too tired and too satisfied to maintain my own pretenses. "But I'll take what I can get."

He's quiet for so long I think he might have fallen asleep. Then he presses a kiss to my forehead that feels like a promise neither of us is ready to name.

"Sleep, Josie," he whispers, but this time it's not a dismissal. This time, wrapped in his arms with my body still humming from his touch, I do.

FOURTEEN

Elliot

I wake before sunrise,my body recognizing the unfamiliar weight against my chest before my mind fully registers what—who—it is. Josie sleeps curled against me, one arm thrown across my torso, her face peaceful in a way I've never seen when she's awake. Last night replays in vivid detail—her lips, her skin, the sounds she made when I touched her. The memory triggers an immediate physical response that I refuse to acknowledge, just as I refuse to acknowledge the uncomfortable warmth in my chest, a sensation dangerously close to contentment.

This was a mistake. A catastrophic lapse in judgment that threatens everything—the Harrison account, my professional boundaries, the careful distance I've maintained my entire adult life.

I ease away from her slowly, extracting myself inch by careful inch until I can slide out of bed without waking her. She makes a small sound of protest in her sleep, reaching for the warmthI've taken with me, but doesn't wake. Her hair is spread across my pillow like spilled ink, her bare shoulder exposed above the sheets. I force myself to look away.

The small dog—Barney—raises his head from his spot at the foot of the bed, watching me with surprisingly judgmental eyes.

"Don't start," I whisper to him, unsure when I began speaking to the animal as if he understands.

In the bathroom, I brace my hands against the marble counter, staring at my reflection. I look different somehow. Less composed. There's a mark on my neck that I don't remember receiving, a physical reminder of Josie's enthusiasm. Of my own lack of control.

The shower provides temporary sanctuary, hot water sluicing over skin that still seems to tingle with the memory of her touch. I scrub harder than necessary, as if I could wash away the evidence of what happened. Of what I allowed to happen.

I'm a strategic thinker. I plan contingencies for contingencies. Yet I hadn't planned for this—for Josie Palmer to dismantle my defenses as easily as she'd dismantled that ridiculous pillow barrier. For the way she'd looked at me in the darkness, asking for honesty I wasn't prepared to give. For how right it had felt to hold her afterward, as if she belonged in my arms.

My phone buzzes on the counter—a calendar alert reminding me of the 11:00 AM closing meeting with Harrison, where the contracts will be signed. Four hours from now. Four hours to recalibrate, to rebuild the walls I let her breach, to remember why I'm here in the first place.

When I emerge, towel secured around my waist, Josie is awake. She's sitting cross-legged on the rumpled bed, wearing my shirt again, hair piled messily atop her head. The sight of her in my clothing sends an unwelcome surge of possessiveness through me.

"Morning, sunshine," she says, a smile spreading across her face that's far too knowing, too satisfied. "Sleep well?"

"Adequately," I reply, moving to my suitcase and selecting clothes with more care than necessary. "The checkout time is noon. We should prepare to depart after the contract signing."

Her smile falters slightly. "Wow. Straight to business, huh? Not even a 'good morning, Josie, thanks for the earth-shattering sex last night'?"

"I have a conference call at eight," I say instead of acknowledging her comment. "I'll make coffee while you shower."

"Seriously?" She uncurls from the bed, approaching with a directness that makes me tense. "That's how we're doing this? Pretending last night didn't happen?"

"I'm not pretending anything. I'm prioritizing the actual purpose of this weekend." I select a tie, focusing intently on the pattern rather than meeting her gaze. "The contract signing is in four hours."

"And we can't spare five minutes to talk about the fact that we had sex last night? Really good sex, in case your memory's fuzzy."

My memory is anything but fuzzy. If anything, it's too sharp, too present—the way she'd arched beneath me, the softness of her skin, how perfectly she'd fit against me afterward. I shove the thoughts away.

"I need to dress," I say, gesturing toward the bathroom. "The shower's free."

She stands her ground, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "Fine. I'll shower. But this conversation isn't over, Counselor."

The bathroom door closes behind her with more force than necessary. I dress quickly, armor myself in tailored clothing and routine. By the time she emerges twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towel with her hair dripping, I've made coffee and amresponding to emails on my laptop at the small desk by the window.

"There's coffee," I say without looking up. "Black, no sugar, as you prefer."

"Thanks," she mutters, rummaging through her bag for clothes. "Very generous of you to remember how I take my coffee while forgetting everything else."

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