Chapter 4
FOUR
Josie
"Does poverty have a smell?" I ask Mandy, who's sprawled across my bed watching me have a full-blown wardrobe crisis. I'm holding up a black dress that might have been fashionable during the Obama administration, squinting at a suspicious stain near the hemline. "Because I think these clothes are giving off eau de food stamps, and I'm pretty sure rich people can smell desperation like sharks smell blood."
"If poverty has a smell, your closet is basically a scratch-and-sniff adventure," Mandy replies helpfully, not looking up from her phone. "Maybe you could make a statement? Like, 'I'm so secure in my wealth I don't need to prove it with fancy clothes.'"
"Yeah, because nothing says 'secure in my wealth' like three-year-old Target clearance items." I toss the dress onto the growing rejection pile and dive back into my closet, which is actually just a metal rack in the corner of my room because New York apartments weren't designed for people who wear clothes.
Tomorrow, I'm heading to some luxury mountain retreat to pretend I'm madly in love with a man who probably irons his underwear. After yesterday's "practice session" at Elliot's museum-like apartment, the reality of what I've agreed to is hitting me like a subway at rush hour.
"What does one even wear to a couples' retreat for rich people?" I moan, pulling out a jumpsuit that I bought for a gallery opening last year. It has a suspicious stain near the crotch that might be wine. Or blood. Art openings get weird sometimes.
"Designer labels," Mandy supplies. "Diamonds. The pelts of endangered species."
"Super helpful." I throw a balled-up sock at her head. She dodges without looking up.
"Just wear your normal clothes," she suggests. "You're supposed to be the quirky artist who captured his cold, dead heart with your authentic spirit or whatever."
"I need to look like I could plausibly be engaged to a man who probably has his dress shirts color-coded." I extract a blouse that I think might actually be one of Marco's. How did that get in here? "Not like I found my wardrobe in a dumpster behind a community theater."
"But that's your charm," Mandy insists, finally looking up. "You're the free spirit who taught him to love again."
"This isn't a Hallmark movie." I hold up a sundress with a pattern that can only be described as "aggressively floral." "This is me trying not to embarrass a man who's paying me fifty thousand dollars to be convincingly fiancée-like."
"The fact that you're stressing about this means you care what he thinks," Mandy points out with infuriating accuracy. "Which means you totally have a thing for Mr. Perfect Hair."
"I have a thing for not getting humiliated in front of rich people, and for earning my obscene paycheck." I throw the sundress onto the "maybe if we're really desperate" pile. "Also, his hair is not that perfect."
"You literally described it as 'hair so perfect it makes me want to mess it up just to see if it's real' last night," Mandy reminds me.
"I was drunk on cheap wine and the memory of awkward kissing," I mutter, pulling out a pair of jeans that might pass for designer if you squint and have cataracts. "Speaking of which, did I tell you about the kissing practice?"
"Only seventeen times." Mandy rolls onto her stomach. "Practice session number two is tomorrow, right? Before you guys leave?"
"Yeah. Apparently I need to learn the family history of everyone at his law firm and memorize his favorite foods in case someone quizzes me on my fiancé's preference in breakfast cereals."
"What is his favorite cereal?" Mandy asks.
"He doesn't eat cereal. He has some protein smoothie delivered fresh each morning by virgins who harvest the ingredients at dawn." I'm only partially joking. Elliot Carrington seems exactly like the type of person who has never experienced the simple joy of Lucky Charms for dinner.
My phone pings with a text, and I dig it out from under a pile of rejected sweaters.
It’s Elliot.
I'll be at your apartment in 20 minutes. We need to discuss wardrobe for the weekend.
"Speak of the devil," I mutter, showing Mandy the text.
"He's coming HERE? NOW?" Mandy leaps off the bed with sudden energy. "This place is a disaster!"
"He's been here before," I remind her, but she's already scooping up random items from the floor.
"Yeah, but that was before you agreed to be his fake fiancée. Before you practiced kissing him and admitted his eyes are, and I quote, 'unfairly blue.'"
"I never said that."
"You absolutely did. Right after your second glass of Pinot Grigio."
I groan and start frantically shoving clothes back into my closet. "Just help me make it look like functional adults live here!"
Twenty-two minutes later (because of course he's exactly on time), there's a precise knock at our door. I've managed to contain the chaos to about 60% of its usual level, which feels like a personal best.
I open the door to find Elliot standing there looking like he stepped out of a men's fashion magazine, even though it's just a casual Thursday afternoon. He's wearing dark jeans and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that are…distractingly nice. He's also holding several shopping bags with fancy logos I recognize from stores I've only ever window-shopped at.
"You're…bringing me presents?" I ask, eyeing the bags skeptically.
"Not presents. Necessities." He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, surveying our apartment with the barely contained horror of someone entering a biohazard zone without protective gear. "I took the liberty of acquiring appropriate attire for the weekend."
"You bought me clothes?" I close the door, torn between offense and relief. "Without asking?"
"I asked my assistant to select a suitable wardrobe based on the retreat's activities and expected dress codes." He sets the bags down on our coffee table/cable spool. "It seemed more efficient than shopping together."
"And how exactly did your assistant know my size?" I cross my arms, suddenly self-conscious.
"She made an educated guess based on the brief interaction you had. She has an eye for these things." He says this like it's perfectly normal to have your assistant size up a woman like she's livestock at auction.
"That's not creepy at all." I peek into one of the bags and pull out a silky blue top with a price tag that makes me gasp. "Holy shit, this costs more than my monthly student loan payment!"
"It's all part of the job," Elliot says dismissively. "The attire needs to be convincing."
"And you don't think people will find it suspicious that the dog-walking artist suddenly has a closet full of designer clothes?"
"We'll explain that I enjoy treating you. It fits our narrative—the successful lawyer indulging his creative fiancée." He says this with such matter-of-fact confidence that I can't tell if it's insulting or just pragmatic.
Mandy chooses this moment to emerge from her room, wearing what appears to be an attempt at looking put together—which for Mandy means matching sweatpants and sweatshirt instead of mismatched ones.
"Oh! Mr. Lawyer Man!" She grins too widely. "Josie was just having a crisis about not owning anything that costs more than a sandwich."
"Mandy," I hiss.
"What? It's true," she says, examining the bags with undisguised curiosity. "Oh wow, is this Valentino?"
"I need to ensure Ms. Palmer looks the part," Elliot explains, his tone suggesting this is a business expense like ordering office supplies.
"It's Josie," I remind him. "If we're supposedly madly in love, you should probably stop calling me 'Ms. Palmer' like I'm being called into the principal's office."
He nods stiffly. "Josie. Of course."
"Well, don't just stand there," Mandy says, pulling more clothes from the bags. "Try these on! I want to see if his assistant's 'educated guess' was right."
I glare at her, knowing exactly what she's doing. "I can try them later."
"No time like the present!" She shoves a bundle of fabric into my arms. "Go on, the bathroom's all yours."
Trapped, I reluctantly head to our tiny bathroom with the first outfit. It's a simple but elegant sundress in a soft sage green that probably costs more than everything else I own combined. I slip it on, surprised by how perfectly it fits, how the material feels against my skin. Looking in the cracked mirror above our sink, I barely recognize myself.
I step out, feeling oddly vulnerable. "So…verdict?"
Mandy whistles. Elliot, who's standing awkwardly by the window like he's afraid to touch anything, turns and goes completely still. His eyes widen just slightly, a subtle reaction that nonetheless sends a weird little flutter through my stomach.
"The color is…suitable," he says, his voice oddly formal.
"High praise," I say dryly. "Should I try the next one?"
This proceeds for the next forty-five minutes—me disappearing into the bathroom and emerging in increasingly fancy outfits, Mandy making inappropriate comments, and Elliot offering clinical assessments that give nothing away except for the occasional tightening of his jaw or slight darkening of his eyes.
The clothes are beautiful, I have to admit. There's a pair of tailored pants that make my legs look a mile long, silk blouses in jewel tones, a casual but clearly expensive jeans-and-sweater combo that somehow looks elegant instead of basic, and even a few cocktail dresses that make me feel like I should be holding a martini and discussing yacht purchases.
"Last one," Mandy announces, pulling a garment bag from the bottom of the pile. "This looks promising."
She unzips it to reveal a red dress that makes both of us gasp for different reasons. Mine is panic, hers is delight.
"I can't wear that," I protest immediately. "That's not a dress, it's a signal flare with a zipper."
"It's for the formal dinner on Saturday night," Elliot explains, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Claire selected it based on the dress code information."
"Claire has a much higher opinion of my body than reality warrants," I mutter, but Mandy is already shoving the dress into my arms.
"Try it on," she insists. "If it's awful, we'll know now rather than when you're surrounded by rich people with judgmental eyebrows."
With extreme reluctance, I take the red dress into the bathroom. It's a deep crimson, with a sophisticated cut that looks deceptively simple on the hanger but reveals its true nature once I squeeze into it. The material hugs every curve I didn't even know I had, with a neckline that dips just low enough to be interesting without crossing into tacky. The back dips even lower, a waterfall of fabric that leaves most of my spine exposed.
I stare at my reflection, hardly recognizing the woman looking back at me. I look…expensive. Like someone who might believably be engaged to Elliot Carrington.
"Are you alive in there?" Mandy calls. "Or did the dress eat you?"
"I'm contemplating climbing out the window," I call back.
"Don't you dare! Let us see!"
With a deep breath, I open the door and step out, feeling like I'm wearing someone else's skin. The immediate silence is deafening.
Mandy recovers first. "Holy. Shit."
Elliot says nothing. His eyes meet mine, drop to take in the dress, and then snap back up to my face with an intensity that makes my cheeks heat. His expression is impossible to read, but there's something in his gaze that wasn't there before—a darkness, a heat.
"So…no good?" I ask awkwardly, fighting the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
"It's..." Elliot clears his throat. "It's appropriate for the occasion."
"That's the understatement of the century," Mandy mutters. "You look like a movie star."
I turn to look at myself in the full-length mirror we've propped against the living room wall. The dress transforms me from struggling artist to someone who might attend galas and charity auctions. Someone who might stand beside Elliot without looking like a charity case.
"Your assistant has uncanny taste," I admit reluctantly.
"Claire is efficient," Elliot says, his voice slightly rougher than usual. He's still looking at me with that unreadable expression, his posture rigid.
I can't resist teasing him, if only to break the strange tension. "Don't drool, Mr. Lawyer. It's just fabric and good lighting."
His jaw tightens. "I assure you, I wasn't?—"
"Relax, I'm joking." I turn back to the mirror, smoothing my hands over the silky material. "But this dress is serious business. Are you sure it's not too much?"
"It's perfect," he says, with unexpected firmness. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and for a moment, something passes between us—an acknowledgment, perhaps, that this charade is becoming more complicated than either of us anticipated.
"Well then," I say lightly, breaking the moment, "I guess I'm ready to be a convincing fiancée. Clothes make the woman and all that."
"There's more to the role than appearance," he reminds me, seemingly relieved to return to practicalities. "We should review the information packet again before tomorrow."
"Right. The packet." I roll my eyes. "God forbid I forget your mother's maiden name or your favorite color."
"Blue," he says automatically. "Navy blue, specifically. And my mother's maiden name is Westfield."
"See? Already learning." I gesture toward the bathroom. "Let me change back into my poverty clothes, and we can go through your relationship manual again."
As I close the bathroom door, I catch a glimpse of Elliot's reflection in the mirror. He's watching me with an expression that seems almost…conflicted. Like he's surprised by something—maybe the dress, maybe me, maybe this whole bizarre situation.
For fifty thousand dollars, I remind myself as I carefully unzip the red dress, I can handle a few complicated looks and some designer clothes. This is just a job, no matter how the dress makes me feel or how his eyes followed me across the room.
Just a job. Nothing more.
So why am I already dreading the moment I'll have to give all this back?