Chapter 8
EIGHT
Josie
Morning at Harrison Lodge is the kind of picturesque scene that belongs on a syrup bottle—golden light filtering through pine trees, mist rising off the lake, and wealthy people in cashmere loungewear sipping coffee on wrap-around porches. I'm hiding in the great room with a mug of liquid caffeine the size of my head, trying not to think about last night's almost-moment with Elliot by the fire. I'm wearing borrowed designer jeans and a sweater soft enough to make me question all my life choices, but I still feel like I have "IMPOSTOR" stamped on my forehead in invisible ink that only the truly rich can see.
Elliot disappeared at dawn for what he called a "necessary conference call" but what I suspect was an equally necessary escape from the awkwardness of waking up in the same bed. We'd constructed an elaborate pillow wall between us last night, neither mentioning our near-kiss by the fire. Barney, the traitor, had abandoned me for Elliot's side of the bed, apparently preferring the company of someone who'd spent twenty minutes lecturing him about the inappropriateness of dogs on furniture.
"There you are!" Melissa Harrison's cheerful voice cuts through my caffeine-deprived haze. "I've been looking all over. We're starting the morning activities in ten minutes!"
"Morning…activities?" I repeat, envisioning some horrible trust-fall exercise where I accidentally drop someone worth billions.
"Team-building fun!" She claps her hands together. "Nothing too strenuous—just a scavenger hunt around the property. Gets everyone mingling before the more structured events this afternoon."
"Sounds great," I lie, wondering if I can fake a sudden illness. "I should probably find Elliot?—"
"Oh, he's already out on the terrace with Grandpa. Business talk, you know how they are." She rolls her eyes with the fond exasperation of someone who's grown up around type-A personalities. "I'll rescue you from having to look interested in corporate tax structures. Come meet your teammates!"
Before I can protest, she's linking her arm through mine and steering me toward a group gathered near the massive stone fireplace. I recognize a few faces from last night—Harrison's son and his wife, a client whose name I've already forgotten, and a tall man with sandy hair who I don't remember meeting at all.
"Everyone, this is Josie, Elliot's fiancée," Melissa introduces. "Josie, you know my parents, and the Whitmores. And this is Blake Sullivan, an old family friend who's joining us for the weekend."
Blake Sullivan looks like he walked out of a J.Crew catalog—effortlessly handsome in that privileged, outdoorsy way, with the kind of smile that suggests he's never had a dental bill he couldn't easily pay. He extends his hand, and I shake it, noticing the calluses that suggest he actually does something with his time beyond counting money.
"The famous Josie," he says, his voice carrying a slight Southern drawl. "I heard you made quite an impression at the couples' game last night."
"Famous for all the wrong reasons, then," I laugh. "We were spectacularly bad at that game."
"Honesty trumps performance any day," he replies with a wink. "Besides, it's refreshing to see someone real at these things. Most of the women who come to Harrison events look like they're afraid a genuine emotion might crack their foundation."
I like him immediately for this observation, which echoes my own thoughts about many of the guests. "I'm fresh out of foundation anyway. Artist's budget."
"An artist?" His interest visibly sharpens. "What medium?"
"Mixed media, mostly. Digital illustration for paying gigs, but painting and collage for my own work." It feels strange to talk about my art here, in this temple to capitalism.
"I own a gallery in Charleston," he says, and suddenly his presence makes more sense. "Small, but we focus on emerging artists who blend traditional and digital techniques. I'd love to see your portfolio sometime."
My heart rate kicks up. A gallery owner? Here? The universe is either throwing me a bone or setting me up for spectacular disappointment. "That would be amazing. I mean, I'm still developing my style, but?—"
"Everyone develops their whole life, if they're any good," he interrupts smoothly. "The ones who think they've 'arrived' are usually the ones with the least interesting perspective."
Our conversation is interrupted by Melissa announcing the scavenger hunt rules, which involve finding various objects around the lodge property and taking team selfies with them. Blake ends up on my team along with Melissa's mother and one of the Whitmores. As we head out onto the grounds, I find myself naturally falling into step with Blake, our conversation flowing easily from art to travel to the peculiar social dynamics of wealth.
He's easy to talk to—genuinely interested in my work, full of stories about artists he's discovered, and refreshingly unpretentious despite his obvious privilege. An hour into the scavenger hunt, we've covered most of the western side of the property and discovered a shared love of obscure indie bands, Thai food, and making fun of overly precious artist statements.
We're laughing over his impression of a particularly pompous collector when I spot Elliot watching us from the terrace. He's standing with Harrison and another man, ostensibly engaged in their conversation, but his eyes are fixed on me and Blake. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his posture, the slight downward curve of his mouth.
A petty, childish part of me—the part still smarting from his abrupt "Go to bed, Josie" dismissal last night—feels a spark of satisfaction at his obvious attention. Before I can think better of it, I touch Blake's arm as he speaks, leaning in closer as if completely captivated by whatever he's saying.
Blake, misreading my suddenly flirtatious body language as genuine interest, responds in kind. His hand brushes my lower back as he points out a landmark that might be our next scavenger item. I laugh a little too loudly at his next joke, toss my hair, play all the ridiculous cards from the flirtation deck I usually find eye-roll worthy.
I glance up at the terrace again. Elliot hasn't moved, but his jaw is visibly clenched now. Harrison is looking between Elliot and us, his expression curious.
"So what's the story with you and the lawyer?" Blake asks suddenly, his voice low. "Because he's looking at me like he's calculating how to make my body disappear in these woods."
I feel a flush creep up my neck. "We're engaged."
"Mmhmm." Blake sounds unconvinced. "And you're flirting with me because...?"
"I'm not—" I begin, then stop at his knowing look. "Okay, maybe I am. It's complicated."
"Let me guess. He did something emotionally stunted, and you're trying to make him jealous." Blake's smile is understanding rather than offended. "Don't worry, I'm not taking it personally. I've been the jealousy prop before."
I wince at his accuracy. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's seen it play out before." He shrugs good-naturedly. "Besides, I'm actually seeing someone back home. But I'm happy to help with your little object lesson, if it's what you need."
I should feel embarrassed at being so transparent, but instead, I'm relieved at having an accomplice. "You're weirdly cool about this."
"Like I said, I enjoy authenticity. And whatever's going on between you two seems genuinely interesting." He leans closer, speaking just loud enough to be overheard by anyone paying attention. "So, your studio in Brooklyn—does it have good natural light?"
I play along, describing my nonexistent studio with enthusiastic detail, complete with gestures that conveniently involve touching his arm occasionally. Blake nods with exaggerated interest, maintaining just enough physical proximity to suggest intimacy without crossing into actual discomfort.
We've just located another scavenger hunt item—a carved wooden bear hidden near the boathouse—when Elliot materializes beside us with suspicious timing.
"There you are," he says, his voice carrying a formality that wasn't there yesterday. "Mr. Harrison was asking for you. He'd like to continue our conversation from last night."
"Elliot!" I inject extra brightness into my greeting. "Have you met Blake? He owns an art gallery in Charleston."
"I don't believe we've been introduced." Elliot extends his hand with precise politeness that doesn't reach his eyes. "Elliot Carrington."
"Blake Sullivan." They shake hands with what appears to be slightly more pressure than necessary. "Josie was just telling me about her work. You've got yourself quite a talented fiancée."
"Yes, she's exceptional in many ways," Elliot agrees, his hand finding the small of my back in a gesture that feels distinctly possessive. "Which is why Mr. Harrison is so eager to continue their conversation."
"Of course." Blake steps back, eyes twinkling with barely suppressed amusement. "Don't let me keep you. Josie, I meant what I said about sending me your portfolio. I'm always looking for new artists to feature."
He hands me a business card that appears from nowhere, and I take it with genuine gratitude. Gallery opportunity aside, I'm thankful for his good-natured participation in my childish scheme.
"I definitely will. Thanks for the art talk." I smile, then turn to Elliot. "Lead the way to Mr. Harrison."
As we walk away, Elliot's hand remains firmly on my back, guiding me toward the main lodge. His touch feels different than before—more deliberate, somehow weighted with an emotion I can't quite identify.
"Harrison isn't actually looking for me, is he?" I ask once we're out of earshot.
"He mentioned wanting to continue your conversation at some point today," Elliot replies, his tone carefully neutral. "The timing seemed opportune."
"Opportune," I repeat, fighting a smile. "Nothing to do with me talking to Blake, then?"
"I was merely ensuring you weren't being monopolized by someone you just met." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "These events are about relationship building with key clients, not networking with random gallery owners."
"He's hardly random. He's an old family friend of the Harrisons."
"Regardless, we're here to present a united front."
"Hard to present a united front when you disappear for a mysterious dawn conference call," I point out.
"It was a legitimate client emergency."
"Uh-huh." We've reached the wide stone steps leading to the terrace, and I pause, turning to face him. "Admit it. You were jealous."
"That would be absurd," he says too quickly. "This is a business arrangement."
"A business arrangement you seemed pretty invested in protecting just now."
"I'm invested in my fifty-thousand-dollar arrangement functioning as intended," he clarifies, but there's a flush creeping up from his collar that contradicts his composed tone.
"Sure, big guy." I pat his chest patronizingly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night—on your side of the pillow wall."
Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, confusion, and something hotter I don't want to name. For a moment, I think he might actually say what he's really feeling, might acknowledge the strange current that's been running between us since our practice kiss in his apartment.
Instead, he checks his watch in a painfully obvious deflection. "We should get ready for lunch. The hiking excursion starts at two."
"Hiking? In these mountains?" I gesture to my distinctly non-athletic self. "Are you trying to kill me?"
"The trail is rated 'easy to moderate,'" he says, some of the tension leaving his expression. "Though I suppose I could carry you if necessary."
The image of Elliot carrying me up a mountain path—his arms secure around me, his face close to mine—sends an unwelcome heat through my body. "I'll manage," I say quickly. "Though you might need to help Barney. His little legs weren't made for mountain climbing."
"I draw the line at carrying the dog."
"We'll see," I tease, falling into step beside him as we head inside. "He can be very persuasive when he wants to be."
As we walk through the lodge toward our suite, I'm acutely aware of Elliot beside me—his measured stride, the lingering warmth of his hand on my back, the way other guests smile knowingly at us as we pass. We're playing our parts well, perhaps too well. The line between pretense and reality feels increasingly blurry.
Blake's business card sits in my pocket like a talisman—a reminder that there's a real world waiting beyond this weekend, beyond this strange bubble where I'm temporarily someone else. Someone who belongs on the arm of a man like Elliot Carrington.
The problem is, I'm starting to forget that it's all pretend. Worse still, I'm starting to wish it wasn’t.