Page 4 of The Love Clause

"Is this a scam?" I wonder aloud, showing Mandy the phone.

She squints at it. "Blackwell & Reed is real. Like, super fancy Wall Street lawyers real. Maybe one of their partners needs dog portraits for their mansion?"

"Or it's human trafficking," Marco chimes in helpfully. "But you know, desperate times..." He gestures toward the eviction notice.

I text back: "What kind of opportunity? I walk dogs and do art commissions." No point getting my hopes up for something requiring, I don't know, professional qualifications or the ability to afford matching socks.

The response comes back immediately: "The opportunity is of a personal nature and requires discretion. Mr. Carrington isprepared to compensate you very generously for a weekend of your time."

"Okay, definitely human trafficking," Marco says, reading over my shoulder.

"Or a weird rich person sex thing," Mandy adds.

"Either way, might solve our eviction problem," I say, only half-joking. I respond: "He can come by this afternoon. 4 PM. I need to know what exactly this involves before agreeing to anything."

After sending my address, I spend the next three hours in a frenzy of minimal cleaning (moving the mess from visible areas to less visible areas), trying to finish a commissioned digital illustration that's already a week late, and wondering if I should be more concerned about inviting a complete stranger to my apartment.

At precisely 4:00 PM, a knock on the door sends all three dogs into a barking frenzy.

"I'll get it," I call out, though neither of my roommates seems particularly inclined to move. "Down, monsters. Let me at least see if he's worth being eaten."

I open the door and literally have to tilt my head back to look up at the man standing there. He's tall—like, unnecessarily tall—with dark hair cut in that precise way that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His suit is a shade of navy so perfect it makes all other blues seem like sad imitations, and his tie has a dimple so precise it could only be intentional. He looks like someone cut him out of a "How to Dress for Success" magazine and pasted him into my dingy hallway.

"Ms. Palmer?" His voice is deep, with that cultivated upper-class accent that suggests either old money or someone who's worked very hard to sound like old money.

"That depends on who's asking and why they're asking." I cross my arms, suddenly conscious of my paint-splattered jeans and the worn NYU t-shirt I've had since freshman year.

"Elliot Carrington. From Blackwell & Reed." His eyes, an intense shade of blue-gray, scan over my shoulder to the chaos that is our apartment. His expression tightens slightly, like he's just discovered he's allergic to mediocrity.

"Right. The mysterious job opportunity." I step back reluctantly. "Come in, if you dare. Fair warning—there are three dogs and they all have questionable judgment about strangers."

As if on cue, Barney approaches and begins sniffing Elliot's immaculate pant leg with alarming intensity.

"They're…friendly," Elliot says, the word sounding foreign on his tongue as he carefully steps over the threshold.

"Mostly. Sir Woofs-a-Lot once bit a mailman, but in his defense, the guy was wearing a truly offensive Hawaiian shirt." I close the door behind him. "So, Mr. Wall Street, what's this very discreet, very personal job that you couldn't explain over text?"

Elliot looks around, clearly searching for somewhere pristine enough to sit. There is no such place.

"Perhaps we could speak privately?" His gaze darts to Mandy, who isn't even pretending not to eavesdrop from the kitchen counter.

"That's my roommate. She stays, or you leave. House rule for strange men with mysterious propositions." I gesture to what is theoretically our living room. "The other roommate is out, and the dogs have all heard worse."

Elliot's jaw tightens, but he gives a curt nod. "Very well." He still doesn't sit. "I find myself in need of someone to...accompany me to an important business event this weekend. To play a specific role."

"Like a secretary? Personal assistant?" I raise an eyebrow. "Because I should warn you, my organizational skills are largely theoretical."

"Not exactly." He clears his throat. "I need someone to pretend to be my fiancée."

The words hang in the air for a moment before Mandy lets out a bark of laughter. "Holy shit, he's for real?"

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. When none comes, I shake my head. "You want to pay me to what now?"

"To pretend to be engaged to me for a three-day retreat with my most important client." His voice is strained, like each word is being forcibly extracted. "It's a misunderstanding that...escalated."

"You accidentally told someone you were engaged?" I can't help but laugh. "What, did you trip and fall onto a diamond ring?"

His eyes narrow. "The situation is complicated. The client is traditional, values family commitments. I may have implied I was engaged to...facilitate our business relationship."

---