Chapter 3
THREE
Elliot
I check my watch for the third time in five minutes. Ms. Palmer—Josie—is late. Not significantly, just seven minutes, but in my world, seven minutes is the difference between winning and losing a motion. Seven minutes can cost a client millions. Seven minutes of waiting has my perfectly ordered penthouse feeling suddenly too large, too empty, too…anticipatory. I shouldn't be this unsettled by a woman I've met exactly once.
I adjust a coaster that's already perfectly aligned with the edge of the coffee table. My Manhattan penthouse reflects everything about me—precision, order, success. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline like artwork. The furniture is all clean lines and neutral tones, selected by an interior designer who understood that I wanted functionality without distraction. Nothing is out of place because nothing is allowed to be out of place.
Which is why the idea of Josie Palmer entering this space feels like inviting chaos into a laboratory.
The intercom buzzes, and I press the button with perhaps more force than necessary. "Yes?"
"Sir, there's a Ms. Palmer here for you," the doorman announces, his tone carefully neutral in the way that suggests he's noting a deviation from my usual visitors.
"Send her up."
I straighten my already straight tie, irritated at my own nervousness. This is a business arrangement. A transaction. Nothing more than a particularly unusual legal maneuver to secure a client. The fact that I'm paying her doesn't make this any different from hiring expert testimony or contracting specialized services.
The knock, when it comes, isn't the polite tap I expect but an enthusiastic rhythm that might be trying to approximate a song. I open the door to find Josie Palmer mid-knock, her fist freezing in the air.
"Wow," she says, eyes widening as she peers past me into the apartment. "Did you mug a Restoration Hardware catalog?"
She looks different today—marginally more put together in black jeans and a green sweater that appears to have been stretched in too many washes. Her dark hair is pulled back into what might have been a neat ponytail at some point but has now partially escaped to frame her face in wild tendrils. She's clutching an oversized leather bag that's seen better days, and there's a smudge of something—paint?—on her right cheekbone.
"Please, come in." I step aside, ignoring her comment.
She moves past me, and I catch the scent of something floral mixed with what might be dog shampoo. It's oddly not unpleasant.
"So this is how the other half lives," she muses, turning in a slow circle. "Do you actually use any of this furniture, or is it just for show?"
"It's functional." I close the door. "Would you like coffee? Water?"
"Coffee would be great. Black, no sugar. Like my soul." She grins, dropping her bag onto my pristine sofa with the casual disregard of someone who doesn't realize it costs more than most people's monthly rent.
I move to the kitchen—open concept, of course, because the designer insisted it was "conversational"—and busy myself with the espresso machine.
"So," Josie says, wandering around and touching things I'd prefer she didn't touch, "what's our story? How did the uptight lawyer and the chaotic dog walker fall madly in love?"
"I've prepared a document." I nod toward the leather portfolio on the coffee table. "Our backstory, relevant details about my life you should know, schedule for the weekend, and appropriate behaviors."
She picks it up, flipping through the pages with raised eyebrows. "You made a relationship manual? With bullet points and subsections?"
"Preparation prevents?—"
"Let me guess. Poor performance?" She smirks.
"I was going to say 'embarrassment,'" I correct, handing her the coffee.
"Thanks." She takes a sip, eyes widening slightly. "Damn, that's good. Probably costs more than my rent."
"The beans are imported from a small farm in Ethiopia," I confirm without thinking, then immediately regret it when she rolls her eyes.
"Of course they are." She flops down onto my sofa in a way that makes me wince. "So according to this masterpiece, we met when I was walking dogs in Central Park, and you literally ran into me while jogging?"
"It's plausible. I do run in the park three mornings a week."
"And then you asked me out for coffee to apologize for nearly killing me with your 'powerful stride'?" She reads, voice lilting with amusement. "Did you seriously write 'powerful stride'?"
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 each other, 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.
"Is that necessary?"
"If we're supposed to be madly in love, yes. Engaged people touch each other, Elliot. They don't maintain a government-recommended six feet of distance at all times."
Reluctantly, I place my hands on her waist. The material of her sweater is soft, worn thin in places, and I can feel the warmth of her body beneath it.
"There you go," she encourages. "Now you only look mildly constipated instead of actively dying inside."
"Your feedback is invaluable," I say dryly.
She grins. "I live to serve. Okay, the final frontier—we should probably practice kissing. Just so you don't look like you're being tortured when it happens in front of people."
"Is that really?—"
"Necessary? Yes. Engaged people kiss, Counselor. It's like, the law."
I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close she is, how her body fits against mine in a way that's undeniably pleasant despite the awkwardness of the situation.
"Fine," I concede. "A brief demonstration should suffice."
"So romantic," she teases. "Just a heads up—I'm going to stand on my tiptoes because you're unnecessarily tall, and you should probably meet me halfway unless you want me to get a neck cramp."
Before I can respond, she places her hands on my shoulders and rises on her toes. I bend down automatically, and then her lips are on mine—soft, warm, and tasting faintly of coffee.
It's meant to be clinical, a technical exercise, but something happens the moment we connect. A current runs through me, unexpected and powerful. My hands tighten on her waist instinctively, and for a heartbeat—just one—I forget that this is pretend.
Then she pulls back, her expression unreadable for a split second before she bursts into laughter.
"Oh my god," she gasps between giggles. "That was—you were so—" She can't even finish her sentence, doubling over with mirth.
My face burns with a combination of embarrassment and irritation. "I fail to see what's so amusing."
"You kissed me like you were afraid I might shatter," she manages, wiping her eyes. "Or like you were being graded on your technique by a panel of stern judges."
"I was being respectful," I say stiffly.
"You were being ridiculous," she counters, still grinning. "Look, if we're going to pull this off, you need to relax. No one's going to believe we're engaged if you look like you're calculating tax deductions every time you touch me."
"Perhaps if you provided clearer instructions?—"
"It's kissing, not assembling IKEA furniture. There aren't instructions." She shakes her head. "Maybe we should try again, but this time, pretend I'm someone you actually want to kiss."
The suggestion that I don't want to kiss her is oddly offensive, though I can't articulate why. "Fine."
This time, I don't wait for her to initiate. I step forward, slide one hand to the small of her back, and the other to gently cup her face. Her eyes widen in surprise, but she doesn't pull away. I lean down and press my lips to hers, with purpose this time, with intent.
The kiss lasts perhaps five seconds, but it feels significant—a departure from the script, a moment of genuine connection in this fabricated scenario. When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed, and she's not laughing anymore.
"That was…better," she says, her voice slightly breathless.
"Adequate?"
"Heading in the right direction." She steps back, breaking our contact, and I feel the absence acutely. "Just remember—we're supposed to be in love, not conducting a business merger."
"Noted." I straighten my tie, a habitual gesture that helps me regain composure. "Perhaps we should review the schedule for the weekend."
"Running away from the physical stuff already?" She smirks. "Relax, grumpy pants. I'm not gonna fall in love with you."
"Good. Because that would be highly unprofessional." The words come out sharper than intended.
She studies me for a moment, head tilted to one side like one of her dogs assessing a strange sound. "You know what's funny? I actually believe you're worried about that. Like I might mistake this bizarre arrangement for something real."
"I simply prefer clarity in all arrangements."
"Well, let me be clear, then." She crosses her arms. "This is a job. You're paying me to play a part. I won't forget that, and neither should you."
"Perfect. Then we're aligned."
"Completely." She picks up the portfolio again. "So tell me more about this Harrison guy. What exactly are we trying to convince him of?"
I'm grateful for the return to business. This, I can handle. Facts, strategy, objectives—these make sense in a way that the lingering warmth of her lips on mine does not.
"Mr. Harrison is old-school," I begin, falling into the familiar rhythm of case preparation. "Traditional values, believes in marriage and family as the foundation of success..."
As I brief her on the details, I find myself watching the way she nods, the expressive movements of her hands as she asks questions, the curl of her lip when she finds something amusing. She's so unlike anyone in my usual circles—unfiltered, unpolished, unapologetically herself.
For the first time, I wonder if perhaps Claire's suggestion wasn't as ridiculous as I initially thought. Josie Palmer might just be convincing enough to pull this off.
As long as I can keep my own unexpected reactions in check.