Chapter 7
SEVEN
Elliot
I don't do campfires. I don't do rustic outdoor seating fashioned from logs, or stargazing, or any of the deliberately quaint activities that wealthy people engage in to feel momentarily connected to something primal. Yet here I sit, a tumbler of expensive scotch in hand, watching the flames leap and dance while Harrison regales the group with stories of business deals from decades past. The fire casts everyone in amber light, softening edges, creating an illusion of warmth that goes beyond temperature. I tell myself I'm merely playing my part, the devoted fiancé enjoying a couples' retreat. I tell myself the strange tightness in my chest when I watch Josie laugh across the fire circle is just concern about our charade.
Dinner had been a carefully choreographed affair—five courses, each paired with an appropriate wine, served in the lodge's grand dining room beneath antler chandeliers. Josie had handled it with surprising grace, only using the wrong fork once and covering it with a self-deprecating joke that charmed even the most proper guests. We'd been seated apart during the meal, a strategic error I hadn't anticipated, giving me too much time to observe her from a distance.
Now, as the evening has moved outdoors to this elaborate fire pit surrounded by Adirondack chairs and strategically placed blankets, I find myself once again watching her more than is strictly necessary for our arrangement.
She's across the circle, engaged in animated conversation with Melissa Harrison and her husband. The firelight catches in her hair, turning the dark strands to burnished copper in places. She's wearing one of the outfits Claire selected—a soft sweater in deep green and fitted jeans—but she's added her own flair with a colorful scarf I don't recognize. She gestures as she speaks, her entire body involved in whatever story she's telling. Melissa throws her head back in laughter, and even her more reserved husband chuckles behind his hand.
I should be pleased. Josie is ingratiating herself with Harrison's family, exactly as our arrangement requires. Instead, I feel a peculiar irritation at how easily she connects with these strangers, how natural she seems in this setting despite being so far from her usual world.
"Quite a woman you've found yourself," comments a voice beside me. I turn to find Harrison himself has taken the empty seat to my right, his own scotch in hand. "Not what I expected for you, I must admit."
"In what way?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
"She's alive, my boy." Harrison chuckles. "Most of the women at these corporate functions, they're like beautiful furniture—decorative but ultimately inanimate. Your Josie, she's a firecracker."
I glance back at her, now demonstrating something that involves a dramatic mime of walking multiple dogs. "She's certainly unique."
"The best ones are." Harrison's eyes grow distant, focused on some memory. "My Margaret was like that. Completely inappropriate at formal events, always saying exactly what everyone was thinking but too polite to mention. Drove my mother to distraction." His smile is fond. "Forty-two years together, and she never stopped surprising me."
I don't know how to respond to this sudden intimacy, this glimpse into a love I'm supposedly emulating. "She sounds remarkable."
"She was." Harrison nods toward Josie. "Hold onto that one, Elliot. Legal brilliance is common enough. A woman who makes you laugh—truly laugh, not that polite chuckle you do at client meetings—that's rare."
Before I can formulate a response that won't sound defensive or dismissive, he pats my shoulder and rises, moving to join another group. I'm left with his words echoing uncomfortably in my mind, a prescription for a condition I don't have.
Across the fire, Josie glances over and catches me watching her. Instead of looking away, she smiles—a genuine smile that reaches her eyes—and gives a small wave. Something shifts in my chest, a subtle recalibration that I refuse to examine too closely.
The evening progresses, conversations flowing as freely as the alcohol. The temperature drops steadily as night deepens, the mountains stealing the last of the day's warmth. I notice Josie hugging herself, rubbing her arms despite the sweater. She's too stubborn to go inside, too engaged in conversation to acknowledge her discomfort.
When she finally makes her way back to my side of the circle, dropping into the empty chair beside me, her teeth are nearly chattering.
"You should have brought a jacket," I observe, noticing the goosebumps on her exposed skin.
"Thanks, Captain Obvious," she retorts, tucking her hands into her sleeves. "I didn't realize mountain nights got this cold. It's still summer, technically."
"The elevation?—"
"I don't need a meteorology lesson," she interrupts, but there's no real bite in her tone. "Just let me steal some of your body heat. You seem to run hot."
She leans slightly toward me, our shoulders touching. Even through layers of clothing, I feel the contact with unexpected intensity.
"Your dog is probably enjoying our suite more than we are," I say, changing the subject. "He claimed the bed immediately."
"Barney's an opportunist," she agrees, smiling. "He knows luxury when he sees it. I guarantee he's living his best life right now, probably sleeping on your pillow specifically."
The thought would have horrified me yesterday. Tonight, I find it merely amusing.
A particularly sharp breeze sweeps through the gathering, making the fire dance and sending a visible shiver through Josie. Without conscious decision, I reach for the blanket folded beside my chair—cashmere, naturally—and offer it to her.
"Here."
She looks at the blanket, then at me, surprise evident in her expression. "Won't you be cold?"
"I'm fine."
She hesitates, then instead of taking it from me, she shifts closer and says, "We could share? It's bigger than both of us need individually."
It's a perfectly logical suggestion. Practical, even. It would also maintain our couple facade for anyone watching. There's no reason for the momentary panic that seizes me at the thought of such deliberate proximity.
"If you prefer," I say, my voice carefully neutral.
I unfold the blanket and she moves closer, so our chairs are touching. The blanket settles over both of us, and suddenly we're in a small, shared space, knees touching, her shoulder against mine. She sighs contentedly as the warmth envelops her.
"Better?" I ask, aware of how intimate my voice sounds in this small space between us.
"Much." She turns slightly toward me, her face close enough that I can see individual freckles across her nose, barely visible in the firelight. "Thanks for being slightly less robot and slightly more human."
"I'm always human," I reply, oddly stung by the characterization.
"Are you, though?" Her tone is teasing, but there's a genuine question beneath it. "Sometimes I think you've trained yourself to override all your basic human impulses. Like needing connection, or having fun, or doing something just because it feels good."
"Some of us have responsibilities."
"Everyone has responsibilities, Elliot." She shifts under the blanket, and her hand accidentally brushes against mine. Neither of us moves away. "But most people don't use them as an excuse to never live."
"I live perfectly adequately."
She laughs softly. "Adequately. That's such an Elliot word. Do you want your life to be adequate? Your experiences to be sufficient? Your relationships to be satisfactory?"
"You've known me for exactly three days," I remind her, uncomfortable with how accurately she's reading me. "That's hardly enough time for this level of psychological assessment."
"Sometimes an outside perspective sees things more clearly." Her fingers move slightly against mine, not quite taking my hand but not pulling away either. "Besides, I'm a good reader of people. Comes with the territory when you're constantly hustling to make rent."
Around us, conversations continue, but in our small cocoon beneath the blanket, it feels like we're alone. The fire crackles and spits, sending embers swirling into the night sky where they join the stars.
"What do you want, then?" I ask, surprising myself with the question. "Beyond 'adequate.'"
She considers this for a moment, her profile thoughtful in the flickering light. "I want my art to matter to someone. I want mornings where I don't wake up dreading my bank balance. I want to feel connected—to my work, to people, to myself." She turns to face me fully. "I want intensity. Moments that matter. I want to be proven wrong when I'm too cynical, and I want to be surprised by joy when I least expect it."
Her earnestness is disarming. In my world, people don't speak so openly about desire, about yearning. We discuss objectives, strategies, outcomes—not the raw, human wanting that underpins it all.
"That's…ambitious," I say finally, inadequately.
"Is it? Seems pretty basic to me." Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. "What about you? What does the great Elliot Carrington want beyond making partner and impressing old men with traditional values?"
The question catches me off guard. What do I want? I've been working toward partnership for so long that I've hardly considered what comes after. Success, certainly. Recognition. Security. But those are outcomes, not wants in the way Josie means.
"I want..." I begin, then falter, uncomfortable with the sudden vulnerability. "I want to build something lasting. Something that matters."
"A legacy," she supplies.
"Yes."
"What about joy?" she asks softly. "What about connection?"
"Those are…peripheral benefits." Even as I say it, I recognize the hollow ring of the words.
"They're the whole point," she counters, her voice low but intense. "The rest is just framework."
Under the blanket, her fingers deliberately entwine with mine now, a small act of connection that feels disproportionately significant. Her hand is cool against my warm one, smaller but surprisingly strong.
"You're cold," I murmur, my other hand moving without conscious thought to cover hers.
"Getting warmer," she replies, her eyes never leaving mine.
Around us, the gathering has thinned somewhat as couples retire to their rooms. The fire has died down to glowing embers, casting less light but somehow more warmth. In this dimmer light, with most attention elsewhere, our small world beneath the blanket feels private, almost secret.
I'm acutely aware of her proximity—the subtle scent of her shampoo, the rise and fall of her breathing, the slight part of her lips as she looks up at me. Something is happening between us, something unplanned and potentially dangerous to our arrangement.
"Elliot?" she whispers, and I'm not sure if she's leaning closer or if I am, but the distance between us is definitely decreasing.
"Yes?" My voice is rougher than I intend.
"Are we still practicing?" The question holds a tremor of uncertainty that I've never heard from her before.
The word 'practicing' acts like a bucket of cold water, reminding me sharply of our situation. This is an arrangement. A transaction. I'm paying her to pretend, and I'm forgetting the parameters of our agreement.
"Go to bed, Josie," I say, more harshly than intended, pulling my hand from hers and standing abruptly. The blanket falls away, letting in the cold night air. "It's late, and tomorrow will be a full day."
She blinks up at me, confusion and something that might be hurt flashing across her features before she composes herself. "Right. Of course. The fiancée simulation needs a recharge."
She stands too, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill. Without the blanket, without the intimacy of our shared space, we're back to being two people with a business arrangement, pretending at emotions neither of us should actually feel.
"Goodnight, then," she says, her voice carefully light. "Try not to let Barney hog all the pillows."
I watch her walk away, joining the general movement toward the lodge, stopping to say goodnight to various guests with that easy charm that seems so natural to her. My hands feel oddly empty without hers, a sensation I refuse to acknowledge.
I remain by the dying fire for a few more minutes, finishing my scotch and trying to regain my equilibrium. Whatever just happened—or almost happened—was an anomaly. A product of the setting, the late hour, perhaps even the alcohol. Nothing more.
Tomorrow, I'll be more careful. Tomorrow, I'll remember the boundaries of our arrangement. Tomorrow, I'll be the controlled, strategic person I've always been.
But as I finally head toward our shared suite, I can still feel the phantom warmth of her hand in mine, still see the question in her eyes as she asked if we were practicing.
The truth, which I'm not ready to examine too closely, is that in that moment beneath the blanket, I wasn't practicing anything at all.