Chapter 6
SIX
Josie
I've seen places like Harrison Lodge in movies—the kind where troubled families reconnect or serial killers hunt down groups of attractive young people. The massive timber beams, stone fireplaces big enough to roast an entire cow, and the kind of rustic-luxury decor that screams "we spent a fortune to look like we chopped down these trees ourselves." What the movies never capture is the smell—a perfect blend of wood smoke, pine, expensive cologne, and money. Lots and lots of money.
"Stop gawking," Elliot murmurs close to my ear as we stand in the grand lobby, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. "You look like you've never seen a lodge before."
"I haven't," I whisper back, trying not to flinch at his touch. Not because it's unpleasant—quite the opposite. His hand is warm and steady, and the casual possessiveness of the gesture makes my stomach do a weird little flip. "The closest I've come to 'mountain luxury' is a tent my college boyfriend set up in Prospect Park."
"Well, act like this is normal," he advises, his voice low. "You're engaged to me, remember? This should be your world now too."
"Right. Totally normal. Just another Friday at the multi-million-dollar log cabin." I plaster on a smile that I hope looks more "happy fiancée" than "terrified impostor."
After arriving, we'd been shown to our room—a spacious suite with a king bed (just one, of course), a stone fireplace, and a bathroom bigger than my entire apartment. Barney had immediately claimed a plush armchair as his territory, much to Elliot's obvious dismay. We'd had just enough time to freshen up before being summoned to the welcome reception in the main hall.
Now, surrounded by what appears to be the cast of "Rich People Monthly," I'm acutely aware of how out of place I feel despite the expensive clothes Elliot provided. These people have a certain ease, a confidence that comes from never having to check their bank account before ordering appetizers.
"Elliot, my boy!" A booming voice cuts through the crowd, and a distinguished older man approaches us, arms outstretched. This must be Mr. Harrison. He has exactly the kind of silver-fox handsomeness that graces financial magazine covers, with kind eyes that nonetheless seem to evaluate everything they see.
"Mr. Harrison." Elliot's posture shifts subtly, his professional mask sliding into place even as his arm curves more definitively around my waist. "Thank you for having us."
"Nonsense! Wouldn't have it any other way." Harrison's attention shifts to me, his eyes bright with curiosity. "And this must be the fiancée I've heard so little about."
"Josie Palmer," I say, extending my hand and hoping it's not visibly shaking. "It's wonderful to meet you, Mr. Harrison. Elliot speaks very highly of you."
"Does he now?" Harrison takes my hand in both of his, his grip warm and firm. "Well, that's a pleasant surprise. Elliot's usually so tight-lipped about everything except contract law."
"He's very…focused," I agree, smiling up at Elliot with what I hope passes for affection.
"Indeed! A quality I deeply admire in my lawyers, though perhaps less so in my dinner companions." Harrison laughs heartily. "Tell me, how did a free spirit like yourself end up engaged to the most serious young attorney in Manhattan?"
I feel Elliot tense beside me, so I jump in with our rehearsed story. "He literally ran into me in Central Park—I was walking dogs, he was jogging. Knocked me right over, and then had the nerve to lecture me about leash laws while helping me up."
Harrison's eyebrows rise with delight. "Is that so?"
"She exaggerates," Elliot says smoothly. "I merely suggested that five dogs might be too many for one person to control effectively."
"And I suggested that maybe he should watch where his 'powerful stride' was taking him," I add, using air quotes and feeling a small thrill when Elliot's cheeks color slightly.
Harrison roars with laughter. "Magnificent! The perfect match—she'll keep you from becoming too stuffy, Elliot."
"She certainly tries," Elliot agrees, with a tight smile that somehow manages to look genuine.
"Well, come along, let me introduce you to everyone." Harrison gestures for us to follow him deeper into the crowd. "We've got quite the group this weekend—partners, clients, family. My granddaughter's even organized a few activities to help everyone get better acquainted."
The next twenty minutes are a blur of introductions. There's Harrison's son and daughter-in-law, his business partners and their spouses, a few clients who seem just as wealthy and traditional as Harrison himself, and an assortment of other connections I'll never remember. I smile until my face hurts, accepting flutes of champagne and making small talk about the lodge, the weather, anything but my fictional relationship with Elliot.
Throughout it all, Elliot stays close, his hand never leaving my back or my waist, occasionally leaning down to whisper context about whoever we're speaking with. To anyone watching, we must look like a couple—comfortable, connected, in sync. If only they could hear my heart hammering against my ribs every time his breath tickles my ear.
"Everyone, if I could have your attention!" A young woman who had been introduced as Harrison's granddaughter, Melissa, stands near the massive stone fireplace, clapping her hands. "Now that we're all here, I thought we'd start the weekend with a fun icebreaker!"
A ripple of polite enthusiasm moves through the crowd, though I notice several of the older businessmen looking as thrilled as if she'd suggested group colonoscopies.
"Since this is a couples' retreat, I've prepared a little game to see how well you all know your partners," Melissa continues, her enthusiasm undeterred by the mixed reaction. "Each couple will take turns answering questions about each other. The pair with the most correct answers wins a special prize!"
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. Elliot and I exchange a quick, panicked glance.
"We're screwed," I mutter through a fixed smile.
"Stay calm," he replies, though I can feel the tension in his fingers where they press against my hip. "We reviewed the basics."
"Basics like your favorite color and middle name, not whatever random questions she's about to throw at us!"
Before Elliot can respond, Melissa is already directing everyone to sit in a circle of couches and chairs arranged around the fireplace. Elliot guides me to a love seat barely big enough for the two of us, forcing us to sit with our thighs pressed together. The contact is distracting in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
"I'll ask each person a question about their partner," Melissa explains, holding up index cards. "Your partner will write down their answer, and we'll see if you match! Simple and fun!"
Simple. Fun. Both words that feel like cruel jokes right now.
"Let's start with..." Her eyes scan the circle before landing on us with predatory delight. "The newly engaged couple! Elliot and Josie, right?"
Of course we're first. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
"Josie," Melissa begins, "what is Elliot's biggest pet peeve?"
Oh god. We never discussed this. I glance at Elliot, who's already writing on the small whiteboard we've been given. His face reveals nothing, which isn't helpful at all.
"Um..." I rack my brain for something plausible. "I'd say…people who don't use coasters?"
A few chuckles ripple through the group. Elliot turns his board: "Inefficiency."
"Ooh, not a match!" Melissa says with far too much enthusiasm. "Elliot, your turn. What would Josie say is her favorite way to relax?"
Elliot's expression tightens almost imperceptibly. We definitely didn't cover this.
"She enjoys…walking dogs," he says after a beat too long.
I reveal my hastily scribbled answer: "Painting."
"Another miss!" Melissa seems positively gleeful. "Let's try once more. Josie, where was your first kiss with Elliot?"
My mind goes completely blank. We have a fake backstory, but we never specified this detail. I look at Elliot in panic, and something in his eyes shifts—a slight softening, a silent message I somehow understand.
"Actually," I say, turning back to Melissa with newfound confidence, "I'm not surprised we're bombing this game. Elliot and I are still learning about each other. That's what makes it exciting, right? He thought I relaxed by walking dogs, but he doesn't realize that's work for me, not relaxation. And I didn't know his biggest pet peeve is inefficiency, though it makes perfect sense given how he organizes his sock drawer by color AND texture."
A warm laugh travels through the group. I'm on a roll now, the familiar feeling of improvising my way through an uncomfortable situation taking over.
"Our first kiss, though," I continue, glancing at Elliot with what I hope looks like affection, "was in Central Park, after our third date. He took me to this fancy restaurant where I couldn't pronounce anything on the menu, and I was so nervous I spilled wine on his ridiculously expensive shirt. Instead of getting mad, he just took off his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and suggested we ditch the place for hot dogs in the park."
Elliot reveals his board, which simply says "Central Park." The group applauds the match.
"I knew you'd remember the location, if not the exact circumstances," Elliot says, playing along perfectly, his voice warm in a way I haven't heard before. "Though you're conveniently omitting how you laughed so hard at my wine-stained shirt that you snorted soda through your nose."
"Elliot!" I gasp in mock outrage, slapping his arm lightly. "That was supposed to be our secret!"
The room erupts in laughter, and I feel the tension easing. Elliot's hand finds mine, his fingers interlacing with mine in a gesture that feels surprisingly natural.
"I think what Josie's trying to say," he adds, addressing the group but looking at me, "is that we're still discovering things about each other. She brings…spontaneity to my life. I bring..."
"Coasters," I finish for him, which earns another round of laughter.
"They say opposites attract," Harrison chimes in, looking delighted by our exchange. "And I must say, you two certainly seem to balance each other beautifully."
The game continues, moving on to other couples who fare much better than we did. Elliot keeps hold of my hand, occasionally rubbing his thumb across my knuckles in a way that seems unconscious. It's distracting and comforting all at once.
When the game finally ends (with Harrison and his late wife posthumously declared the winners based on his perfect recall of her preferences), there's a general movement toward the dining room for dinner. As we stand, my foot catches on the plush carpet—or maybe it's my own nerves making me clumsy—and I stumble forward.
Elliot reacts instantly, his hands catching my waist. But instead of just steadying me, the momentum carries me backward, directly into his lap as he sits back down on the love seat.
Suddenly I'm sitting across Elliot's thighs, his arms around me, our faces inches apart. The room seems to fade away, narrowing to just the startled blue of his eyes, the slight part of his lips, the unexpected strength in his arms.
"Sorry," I whisper, though I make no immediate move to get up. "Gravity hates me."
"I've got you," he replies, his voice low and rough in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.
For a breathless moment, we're frozen in this accidental intimacy, something electric passing between us. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I find myself wondering what would happen if I leaned just a little closer, if I closed the small distance between us.
"You two lovebirds coming to dinner?" Harrison's amused voice breaks the spell. "Or should we leave you alone?"
Reality crashes back. I scramble off Elliot's lap, feeling my cheeks burn as several guests glance our way with knowing smiles.
"Just saving her from a fall," Elliot explains smoothly, rising to his feet with far more composure than I feel. His hand settles on the small of my back again, guiding me toward the dining room. "She's graceful in many ways, but walking in a straight line isn't one of them."
"It's the artist in me," I joke weakly. "Straight lines are boring."
As we follow the group to dinner, Elliot leans down to murmur in my ear, "Quick thinking during the game. You're…surprisingly good at this."
"Thanks," I whisper back. "You're not so bad yourself, considering you're basically allergic to spontaneity."
His lips curve into a small smile. "Perhaps I'm developing an immunity."
The strange tension between us lingers as we take our seats at the dinner table. I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hands on my waist, the solid warmth of his thighs beneath mine. For a terrifying moment during that accidental embrace, I'd forgotten we were pretending.
And judging by the way Elliot's eyes keep finding mine across the table, I'm not entirely sure he didn't forget too.