Page 39 of The Love Clause

Hell hathno fury like a woman whose fake fiancé pretends they didn't rock each other's worlds the night before. I sip my mimosa with deceptive casualness, watching Elliot charm the Harrisons across the room like nothing happened between us. Like I haven't seen him completely undone, my name on his lips, his perfect control shattered. His deliberate distance since our confrontation this morning has been surgical—precise cuts designed to sever whatever connection formed in the darkness. Fine. If Elliot Carrington wants to pretend, I can play games too. And I play to win.

The lodge's farewell gathering is in full swing, a champagne brunch buffet spread across tables in the grand hall. The same room where I made my drunken confessions last night, now the stage for my next performance. Elliot has been masterfully avoiding being alone with me since breakfast, always ensuring at least three other people in our immediate vicinity. The contractsigning is in an hour, and then this whole charade will be over. But not before I get some kind of real reaction from Mr. Robot.

I scan the room, looking for the perfect accomplice, and spot him by the windows—Blake Sullivan, the gallery owner with the easy smile and knowing eyes. The man who'd previously helped me make Elliot jealous, even while recognizing exactly what I was doing.Perfect.

I straighten my shoulders, adjust the neckline of my blouse to show just a hint more cleavage, and make my way toward him, deliberately passing within Elliot's line of sight. I feel his eyes track me as I move, though he never breaks his conversation with Harrison.

"Blake! I was hoping I'd see you before we left," I say, touching his arm lightly as I approach. My voice is pitched just a touch louder than necessary, ensuring it carries.

"Josie!" His eyes flick briefly over my shoulder—undoubtedly noting Elliot's attention—before returning to me with a warm smile. "I was just thinking about you. Did you have a chance to look at those gallery submission guidelines I mentioned?"

"Not yet, but I definitely will." I lean in slightly, lowering my voice to something more intimate. "Actually, I was hoping to pick your brain a bit more about the Charleston art scene. I've been thinking about visiting the South."

Blake's eyebrow ticks up slightly, but he rolls with it beautifully. "It's a vibrant community. Smaller than New York, of course, but that makes it more…personal."

"I like personal," I say, letting the double entendre hang in the air.

From the corner of my eye, I see Elliot's posture stiffen, though he continues nodding at whatever Harrison is saying. His jaw is clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

"You'd certainly make an impression," Blake replies, smoothly playing along. "We could always use fresh talent witha…unique perspective." He gestures toward an alcove with a small seating area. "Why don't we sit? I can tell you all about the Charleston gallery scene."

"Perfect." I place my hand on his forearm as we walk, not quite proprietary but definitely friendly. The touch is innocent enough to be defensible, intimate enough to be provocative—especially to someone watching us.

And Elliot is definitely watching, despite his apparent engrossment in Harrison's conversation. I can feel his gaze like a physical weight between my shoulder blades.

Blake and I settle into the alcove, partially visible to the main room but with enough privacy to suggest a tête-à-tête. He leans forward, voice dropping to a murmur.

"So, trouble in fake paradise?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

I sigh, dropping the flirtatious act momentarily. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's paying attention." He tips his head subtly toward where Elliot stands. "And he's definitely paying attention. Though trying very hard to pretend he's not."

"Good." I take a sip of my mimosa. "Let him stew."

"Can I ask what happened?."

"It's complicated." I twist a strand of hair around my finger, an unconscious habit when I'm uncomfortable.

"Ah." Blake nods sagely. "The classic 'panic after passion' routine."

"Exactly." I lean closer, making sure my body language reads as absorbed in our conversation. "So I'd appreciate if you could play along for a few more minutes. Just until he looks like he might actually combust."

Blake's laugh is genuine. "Happy to help with the combustion. But fair warning—your lawyer looks like he might actually kill me."

"He's not my lawyer," I correct automatically, then feel a flush creep up my neck at Blake's knowing look.

"If you say so." He settles back, deliberately placing his arm along the back of my chair—not touching me, but suggesting intimacy to anyone watching. "So, about Charleston. It really is beautiful in the spring..."

We continue our conversation, which is actually informative—Blake knows his art scene and offers genuinely useful advice about gallery submissions and regional preferences. But I make sure to laugh a little too often, touch his arm occasionally, and lean in close enough that it might look like whispered confidences to an observer.

Every time I glance toward Elliot, his expression has darkened further. He's barely maintaining his part in the conversation with Harrison now, his responses becoming increasingly clipped, his eyes returning to our alcove with the regularity of a metronome.

"Your plan is working," Blake murmurs after about fifteen minutes of this performance. "He's excused himself from Harrison and appears to be coming this way. And he does not look happy."

My pulse quickens, both from anticipation and a thread of nervousness. I've seen Elliot irritated, exasperated, even momentarily jealous. But the man approaching us looks genuinely angry in a way I haven't witnessed before.

"Thanks for the heads up," I whisper, then deliberately throw my head back in a laugh as if Blake has just said something hilariously charming.

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