Page 7 of The Love Clause

My neck feels warm. "It's descriptive."

"It's hilarious." She continues scanning. "So we've been together for…eight months? That's specific."

"Long enough to be serious, not so long that people would question why they haven't heard of you."

"And I charmed you with my…'refreshing authenticity and artistic perspective'?" She looks up, eyebrow raised. "You make me sound like a manic pixie dream girl from an indie movie."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means this backstory is ridiculous." She tosses the portfolio aside. "No one's going to believe Mr. Corporate America fell for a broke dog walker who can barely match her socks."

"What would you suggest, then?" I ask stiffly.

She considers for a moment. "How about…you were having a terrible day. Some big case went wrong, you were stomping through the park looking murderous, and I was the only person who wasn't afraid to tell you to lighten up."

"That's—"

"More believable," she interrupts. "Because it's closer to the truth. Look at you, all wound up like a watchspring. And look at me." She gestures to herself. "I'm basically a human Golden Retriever. If we really fell for each other, it would be because I got under your skin by refusing to be intimidated by all this." She waves vaguely at my entire existence.

I hate that she has a point. "Fine. Your version works."

"Great!" She claps her hands together. "Now, what's this about 'appropriate displays of affection' on page 12?"

"Mr. Harrison believes in traditional values. We need to appear genuinely in love, but nothing excessive or inappropriate."

"Define 'excessive.'"

I clear my throat. "Hand-holding, occasional embraces, perhaps a brief kiss if the moment requires it."

"So PG-13." She nods sagely. "Have you considered that we might need to practice? Because right now, you look like you'd rather hug a cactus than touch me."

"Practice is…probably advisable." The words feel like gravel in my throat.

"Great!" She stands abruptly, setting her coffee down. "Let's try holding hands. Super basic, entry-level couple stuff."

She approaches me, hand outstretched, and I take it with what I hope is natural ease but probably looks as stiff as it feels. Her hand is smaller than mine, warm, with calluses that speak of work beyond a keyboard.

"You're holding my hand like it's a dead fish," she observes. "Loosen up."

I force my grip to relax, and she intertwines our fingers, stepping slightly closer. Our fingers brush, and I feel a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless.

"Better," she says, looking up at me. "Now try putting your arm around me. Like we're walking together."

I hesitate before placing my arm around her shoulders. It feels awkward, my body rigid.

"Jesus, you're tense," she mutters. "I'm not going to bite. Unless that's part of the backstory you didn't tell me about."

"This isn't something I do often," I admit.

"What, touch people? Or pretend to be engaged to them?"

"Both."

She laughs, the sound unexpectedly musical. "At least you're honest. Okay, let's try something else. Couples look at eachother, you know. Like they're actually interested in each other's faces."

She turns to face me fully, and I find myself looking down into eyes that are a warm brown with flecks of gold—an observation I immediately file away as irrelevant.

"Now put your hands on my waist," she instructs.

---