Chapter 5
FIVE
Elliot
I check the trunk of my Audi one final time, ensuring everything is precisely arranged. Two leather weekend bags (mine), garment bag for suits (mine), garment bag for formal wear (Josie's), and a small cooler of water and appropriate travel snacks (essential for the three-hour drive). Everything has its place, everything is accounted for. Control begins with preparation. At least, that's what I keep telling myself as I check my watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Josie is late. Again.
After the dress incident yesterday—a situation I've been actively trying not to replay in my mind—we agreed I would pick her up at precisely 11:00 AM. It's now 11:17, and my carefully calculated timeline is already derailing. We need to reach the lodge by 3:00 PM at the latest to make the welcome reception, which means accounting for traffic, one brief stop for fuel, and the increasingly likely scenario that I might commit homicide before we reach our destination.
The sound of hurried footsteps draws my attention to her building's entrance, where Josie bursts through the door in a whirlwind of motion. She's dragging what appears to be a duffel bag that's seen better decades, clutching a paper coffee cup, and wearing oversized sunglasses despite the cloudy day. Most concerning is the large canvas tote slung over her shoulder that appears to be…moving.
"I know, I know, I'm late, don't give me the lawyer death stare," she calls out before I can say anything. "My alarm didn't go off, and then Barney ate my phone charger, and then Mandy needed help with the sink again."
"We agreed on 11:00," I say, checking my watch pointedly.
"And now it's 11:17, which means I'm only seventeen minutes late, which is practically early in artist time." She reaches the car and drops her duffel with a thud that makes me wince. "Where do you want this?"
"You're bringing that?" I eye the battered bag skeptically. "I provided everything you could possibly need for the weekend."
"Yes, but this has my stuff. My art supplies, my comfort sweatshirt, my emergency chocolate stash." She pushes the sunglasses up on her head, revealing eyes that are bright despite the early hour. "Essential survival gear."
"I've accounted for all essential items in the packing list I provided."
"Your packing list didn't include gummy bears or my lucky paintbrushes, so it was deeply flawed." She peers into the trunk. "Wow, do you arrange your luggage with a ruler?"
Before I can respond, the tote bag over her shoulder emits a distinctive whine.
"Is that…a dog?" I ask, though I already know the horrifying answer.
"No, it's a very small, very hairy person," she deadpans. "Yes, it's a dog. Specifically, it's Barney. My smallest dog, who has separation anxiety and who my roommates can't handle alone because they're both working double shifts this weekend."
"You can't bring a dog to a luxury couples' retreat."
"Actually, I called the lodge yesterday and checked. They're pet-friendly as long as the dog is under twenty pounds and well-behaved." She smiles triumphantly. "Barney is eighteen pounds and moderately behaved."
"You called the lodge?" This unexpected display of foresight catches me off guard.
"I can be responsible too, you know. Just in my own way." She holds up the tote, from which a tiny brown furry face peers out. "Barney won't be any trouble. He's the best-behaved of my three dogs, which admittedly isn't saying much, but still."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache. "Fine. But he's your responsibility. And if he damages anything?—"
"I know, I know, you'll deduct it from my Cinderella fund." She rolls her eyes. "Now can we get this show on the road? I haven't been to a mountain lodge since…ever, actually."
I take her duffel and place it in the trunk, rearranging everything to accommodate the unexpected addition. The dog tote goes in the back seat, secured with a seatbelt in a way that makes me question my life choices.
Once we're both seated in the car—Josie immediately touching every button on the console like a child in a cockpit—I pull away from the curb with perhaps more acceleration than necessary.
"So, three hours, huh?" she says, settling into the leather seat. "That's a lot of quality time for two people who barely know each other. We should use it wisely." She reaches for the touch screen controlling the audio system.
"What are you doing?" I ask as her fingers hover over my meticulously organized media interface.
"Finding some road trip music. It's a rule." She starts scrolling through options.
"We don't need music. We should use this time to review the information about the weekend. The guests, the schedule, our backstory?—"
"We've been over all that three times already." She continues browsing, wrinkling her nose at my playlist labeled 'Classical - Focus.' "Don't tell me you're one of those people who only listens to dead composers and NPR podcasts."
"I appreciate music that doesn't interfere with clear thinking."
"Well, I appreciate music that doesn't sound like it belongs in a funeral home or a dentist's office." She finally stops on something and grins triumphantly. "Perfect!"
Suddenly, the car's premium sound system—a feature I specifically selected for its nuanced delivery of Rachmaninoff—blares with a pop song so aggressively upbeat it practically assaults my eardrums.
"What is this?" I wince, resisting the urge to immediately shut it off.
"Taylor Swift. Everyone knows Taylor Swift." She looks at me like I've admitted to not knowing what the sun is. "Wait, do you not know Taylor Swift?"
"I'm aware of her existence."
"But you don't listen to her music? What do you do when you go through a breakup? Just sit in silence and brood?"
"I don't 'go through breakups,'" I say stiffly, keeping my eyes on the road as we merge onto the highway. "I have amicable conclusions to relationships that no longer serve their purpose."
Josie stares at me for a beat before bursting into laughter. "Oh my god, you're a breakup robot. 'This relationship no longer computes. Must terminate emotional connection.'" She mimics a robotic voice that sounds nothing like me.
"I prefer clarity and mutual respect over dramatic displays."
"Says the man who hired a fake fiancée because he panicked and lied to a client." She smirks, then turns the music up a notch. "Just embrace the pop music, Elliot. It won't kill you to enjoy something mainstream for once."
I could argue further, but something tells me it would only encourage her. Instead, I focus on navigating through the increasingly heavy traffic, trying to tune out both the pulsing beat and Josie's fingers tapping along on the dashboard.
My strategy works for approximately seven minutes. Then the song changes, and Josie gasps with delight.
"Oh, I LOVE this one!" She turns it up even louder and begins to sing along.
If her speaking voice is expressive, her singing voice is a force of nature—enthusiastic, completely unself-conscious, and almost impressively off-key. She knows every word, throwing herself into the performance with abandon, complete with hand gestures that occasionally invade my peripheral vision.
She seems to be singing directly to me, leaning into my space.
I look around her. “I need to watch the road.”
“You need to lighten up and feel the music!” she shouts over the music. "It's called having fun!"
"It's called being distracting," I mutter, but she's already launched into the chorus again, this time with added shoulder movements that make the dog in the back seat start to howl along.
Perfect. A duet.
I attempt to focus on driving, but it's increasingly difficult to ignore the spectacle in my passenger seat. Josie Palmer sings like she does everything else—with complete commitment and zero concern for how she might appear. There's something almost…admirable about it, though I'd rather drive off this highway than admit it out loud.
After the third consecutive pop anthem, during which Josie's performance has grown to include choreography that threatens the safety of my dashboard controls, I reach over and turn the volume down to a reasonable level.
"Hey!" she protests. "We were just getting to the good part!"
"We need to discuss our arrival strategy," I say firmly. "Mr. Harrison will likely be greeting guests personally."
"So you're saying I should wait until after we arrive to show him my interpretive dance to 'Shake It Off'?" She grins, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
"I'm saying we should present a united, convincing front from the moment we arrive." I change lanes with a precise signal, the way I do everything. "That means behaving like a couple who genuinely care for each other."
"As opposed to a man being tortured by a woman whose singing makes him contemplate driving into a ravine?" She's still smiling, but there's a hint of something sharper beneath it. "You're going to have to loosen up a little, Elliot. No one's going to believe you're in love with me if you look like you're calculating tax deductions every time I speak."
"I am perfectly capable of appearing relaxed," I say, aware of how contradictory the tension in my voice makes this statement.
"Right now you look like someone put a rod up your spine and then welded it in place." She reaches over and actually pokes my shoulder. "See? Solid metal."
I ignore the lingering warmth from her touch. "I'm focused on driving."
"You're focused on controlling every element of this situation, which is impossible when other humans are involved." She turns the music back up, though mercifully not to its previous volume. "Especially this human."
As if to prove her point, she resumes singing, this time deliberately making eye contact with me during the most saccharine lyrics about eternal love and devotion. It's clearly meant to irritate me, and it's working spectacularly.
"Must you?" I ask during a brief instrumental break.
"Yes, actually, I must." She stops singing just long enough to explain. "This is who I am, Elliot. Loud, occasionally obnoxious, definitely not the kind of polished arm candy you probably usually date. If we're going to convince anyone we're in love, you need to at least look like you can tolerate me being myself."
She has a point, irritatingly enough. Before I can respond, she continues.
"So consider this immersion therapy. By the time we reach the lodge, my singing won't make you wince, and maybe, just maybe, you'll have relaxed enough that your face won't crack if you smile."
With that, she launches into the chorus again, somehow even louder than before. The dog joins in from the back seat, creating a cacophony of enthusiasm that fills my normally pristine, silent car.
I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. But there's also something else happening—a strange, unfamiliar sensation that takes me a moment to identify as amusement. Josie is so completely, unapologetically herself that it's almost…refreshing. In my world of calculated moves and strategic conversations, her honesty is like stepping into cold water—a shock to the system that's both jarring and oddly invigorating.
We pass the hour mark with Josie having worked through what she calls her "Essential Road Trip Playlist." The dog has settled down, apparently exhausted from his vocal contributions. The landscape outside shifts from highway to the beginning of more rural scenery as we approach the Catskills.
"We should stop for gas and a bathroom break," I announce, noticing the fuel gauge.
"Thank god," Josie says. "I've had to pee for like twenty minutes but I didn't want to interrupt my concert."
"Your sacrifice is noted."
She looks at me in surprise. "Was that…a joke? From Elliot Carrington, Esq.? Someone alert the media."
"I am capable of humor," I say, taking the exit toward a service station.
"Could have fooled me. You've been scowling at the road like it personally offended you." She stretches in her seat, arms raised in a way that makes her borrowed sweater ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above her jeans. I force my eyes back to the road.
"I prefer to take driving seriously."
"You prefer to take everything seriously." She unbuckles as I pull into the gas station. "That's going to be our biggest challenge this weekend. No one's going to believe you swept me off my feet if you can't occasionally look at me like I'm not a problem to be solved."
Before I can respond, she's out of the car, grabbing the dog tote and heading for the convenience store. I watch her go, struck by the easy confidence in her stride, the way she nods hello to a stranger without hesitation. Everything about her is open, unguarded in a way I haven't been since…possibly ever.
I fill the tank methodically, my mind working through her words. She's right, though I'm reluctant to admit it. Our fundamental incompatibility might actually be the biggest threat to our charade. Not our different backgrounds or social circles, but the fact that I approach life like a chess match while she treats it like an improvisational dance.
When she returns, arms full of snacks I definitely didn't approve in our travel plan, I've made a decision.
"You're right," I say as she slides back into the passenger seat.
"I usually am, but about what specifically?" She tears open a bag of something neon orange that will undoubtedly leave residue on my leather seats.
"About needing to appear more…compatible." I choose my words carefully. "For this weekend to succeed, I need to demonstrate that I'm capable of…appreciating your particular energy."
She looks at me for a moment, then laughs. "Wow, that was almost a compliment, wrapped in lawyer-speak. 'Particular energy' is probably the nicest way anyone's ever called me chaotic."
"I didn't say chaotic."
"You thought it." She offers me one of her orange abominations. I decline with a slight shake of my head. "So what's your plan, counselor? How do you intend to convince the world you're madly in love with my 'particular energy'?"
"I'm going to make an effort to be more…receptive." The word feels inadequate, but it's the best I can manage.
"Receptive," she repeats, considering. "Well, it's a start. How about we begin with the music? I promise to pick something less aggressive if you promise not to look like you're being slowly tortured."
It's a small concession, but the smile it brings to her face makes it seem more significant. She scrolls through options and selects something with a mellower vibe—still contemporary, still not what I would choose, but at least the bass isn't threatening to reorganize my internal organs.
As we pull back onto the highway, she starts singing again, but softer this time, less performative. I find myself listening to her voice, imperfect but genuine, as the landscape grows more rural and mountainous around us.
"You know," she says during a break between songs, "for this to work, you're going to have to touch me sometimes. Without looking like you're bracing for impact."
"I'm aware."
"Are you? Because yesterday you held my hand like it might be contagious."
"I was being respectful."
"You were being weird." She turns in her seat to face me more directly. "Couples touch casually all the time. A hand on the back, fingers brushing, that kind of thing. Natural stuff."
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, but her words have sent my thoughts in an unwelcome direction—specifically, to how it felt when we practiced kissing in my apartment. The momentary lapse in my usually ironclad control, the surprising softness of her lips, the scent of her hair...
"You have a stick up your?—"
"Careful," I warn, though there's less edge in my voice than I intended.
"—attitude," she finishes with a smirk. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Counselor."
The final hour of our drive passes with less singing but more conversation. Josie asks questions about the lodge, about the other guests, about how I became a lawyer. I find myself answering more fully than necessary, drawn out by her seemingly genuine interest. She has a way of listening that makes even casual conversation feel meaningful—head tilted, eyes focused, occasional questions that cut to the heart of what matters.
As the GPS announces our approach to Harrison's Lodge, I realize with some surprise that the drive has been…not unpleasant. Challenging, certainly. Unpredictable, absolutely. But also strangely energizing, like I've been speaking a new language that uses muscles I didn't know I had.
"Home sweet temporary home," Josie says as the impressive timber and stone structure comes into view through the trees. "Ready to convince a bunch of rich people we're madly in love?"
"As ready as possible, given the circumstances."
"Such romance," she teases. "Try looking at me like you can't believe your luck instead of like you're calculating the hourly rate for this torture."
I turn to her briefly as I navigate the winding driveway. Her hair is slightly windblown from having the window cracked open, her cheeks flushed with excitement or nerves or both. For a moment, I allow myself to really look at her—not as a solution to a problem or an element to be managed, but as a woman who is undeniably alive in a way few people in my circles ever allow themselves to be.
"Better," she says softly, something shifting in her expression. "Do more of that, and we might just pull this off."
I pull into a parking space, steeling myself for the weekend ahead. Beside me, Josie gathers her things, talking softly to the dog in the back seat. She's a complication I never anticipated, a variable I can't fully control.
And as I watch her prepare to step into my world, I realize with uncomfortable clarity that I'm watching her far more than strictly necessary for our arrangement.