Chapter 9
NINE
Elliot
There are approximately six hundred and forty-three activities I would prefer to a "couples' canoe experience." Root canal without anesthesia. Audit by the IRS. Dinner with my father. Yet here I stand at the edge of a disgustingly picturesque lake, life vest secure over my now-casual attire (no tie, slacks exchanged for what Claire assured me were "appropriate outdoor pants"), watching Josie bounce on her toes with inexplicable enthusiasm. The woman who complained about a moderate hiking trail is somehow excited about an unstable watercraft requiring coordination we've repeatedly proven we lack.
"Have you ever been in a canoe before?" I ask, eyeing the fiberglass vessels lined up on the shore with profound suspicion.
"Nope!" Josie's cheerfulness about this fact is concerning. "But how hard can it be? You paddle, it moves. Basic physics."
"Basic physics also dictates that objects with high centers of gravity in narrow boats tend to capsize."
"Someone's a grumpy paddler," she teases, adjusting her life vest. She's wearing shorts that reveal legs I've been trying not to notice and a fitted t-shirt under her safety gear. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, tendrils already escaping around her face. "Where's your sense of adventure?"
"I left it in my other pants, along with my desire to get hypothermia in a mountain lake."
"The water's not that cold." She bends down to touch the surface, then jerks her hand back. "Okay, it's pretty cold. But refreshing! Probably!"
Mr. Harrison approaches, clipboard in hand like this is a military operation rather than forced recreation. "Ah, the Carringtons! Ready for some quality bonding time?"
"We're not—" I begin automatically, before catching myself. "We're not actually married yet, sir."
"Semantics, my boy!" Harrison claps my shoulder with unnecessary force. "You're in the blue canoe, third from the left. The activities director will give everyone basic instructions before launch."
"I requested that Barney remain in our suite," I tell Josie as Harrison moves on to the next couple. "I didn't think he'd appreciate water sports."
"Probably for the best," she agrees. "He hates baths—a lake would blow his little doggy mind. Did you leave him enough toys?"
"I left him with everything in your 'emergency Barney kit' plus the hotel catering service has been instructed to deliver a suitable lunch for him." I pause, realizing how this sounds. "It seemed efficient."
Her smile grows impossibly wider. "You ordered room service for my dog?"
"It was simpler than trying to explain why we had a dog in our room when pets aren't technically?—"
"You like him," she interrupts, delight evident in her voice. "You're totally bonding with Barney!"
"I'm being practical," I insist, though the truth is more complicated. The small creature had looked at me with such mournful eyes when I prepared to leave that I found myself outlining his afternoon schedule in soothing tones, as if he could understand English.
"Whatever you say, dog dad." She pats my arm condescendingly. "Now let's go tip over a canoe."
"That's not the objective," I remind her, but she's already skipping toward our assigned vessel.
The activities director—a relentlessly enthusiastic young man named Chad—gives a brief tutorial on proper paddling technique, canoe safety, and what to do if we capsize. I listen with appropriate attention. Josie appears to be watching a butterfly.
"The person in the back steers," Chad explains. "The person in front sets the pace. Communication is key!"
"I'll steer," I say immediately as we approach our canoe.
"Shocking," Josie mutters, but she doesn't argue, taking her position at the front of the canoe as instructed.
Getting into the canoe is our first challenge. Despite Chad's careful instructions to keep low and move slowly, Josie treats the process like boarding a subway train about to depart, nearly tipping us before we're even in the water. I manage to counterbalance at the last moment, gripping both sides of the canoe with white knuckles.
"Careful," I hiss.
"Sorry, sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all as she settles onto her seat. "Just excited!"
Once we're both seated, paddle in hand, the real test begins. The first few strokes are disastrous—Josie paddling too hard on the left while I try to straighten our course, then overcorrecting to the right, sending us in a lazy circle.
"We need to coordinate," I say, trying to keep frustration from my voice. "Paddle on the left, three strokes, then switch."
"Aye aye, Captain Control," she mock salutes, nearly dropping her paddle.
We manage to establish some semblance of rhythm, enough to move away from the shore and join the loose formation of canoes spreading across the lake. Harrison and his daughter-in-law lead the pack, their canoe gliding effortlessly across the water as if they've been doing this their entire lives. Most of the others are making decent progress, with only a few spinning in circles like us.
"See? We're getting it!" Josie says as we make a wobbly path forward. "Though I think the shoreline is actually that way." She points to our right.
"I'm aware," I say, attempting to steer us in the correct direction. "If you'd paddle consistently on the left for more than two strokes?—"
"I am paddling consistently! Maybe you're the problem?"
"That seems statistically unlikely."
"Says the man who's never been in a canoe before either!"
Our bickering causes us to lose what little coordination we'd established. The canoe veers sharply to the left, then right, as we each try to correct our course. Ahead of us, the Harrison canoe makes a graceful turn, looping back to check on the stragglers.
"Perhaps if you focused less on arguing and more on paddling technique—" I begin, just as Josie twists around to face me.
"Perhaps if you'd stop micromanaging every?—"
Her movement destabilizes our already precarious balance. I feel the canoe tip dangerously to one side and instinctively lean in the opposite direction—which proves to be exactly the wrong move. There's a moment of suspended awareness—Josie's eyes widening in realization, my own body tensing in preparation—and then we're both underwater.
The lake is, indeed, as cold as it looked. The shock of it steals my breath as I plunge beneath the surface, life vest immediately pulling me back up. I break the surface with a gasp, instantly searching for Josie. She emerges a few feet away, sputtering and pushing wet hair from her face.
"Holy sh-shark!" she yells, catching herself before cursing in front of Harrison. "That's COLD!"
Our canoe floats upside down beside us, paddles drifting away on small currents. From across the water, I hear laughter and concerned calls. Chad is already paddling toward us in a kayak, looking entirely too pleased for someone witnessing a potential hypothermia situation.
"Are you okay?" I ask Josie, treading water.
"Peachy," she chatters, swimming toward me with surprising competence. "Just taking a refreshing dip in the Arctic."
Chad reaches us with irritating cheer. "No worries, folks! Happens all the time. Let's get your canoe flipped and you back on your way!"
The process of righting our canoe and climbing back in—while in soaking wet clothes in the middle of a freezing lake—is an exercise in humiliation I hope never to repeat. Josie and I manage it with minimal grace and maximal water intake, finally settling back into our seats like drowned rats. The activities director retrieves our paddles and sends us on our way with a thumbs up that makes me contemplate the legal ramifications of drowning a witness.
"Well, that was fun," Josie says, wringing water from her ponytail.
"Your definition of fun needs serious recalibration."
"At least we broke the ice. Literally and figuratively."
"We should head back to shore," I say, ignoring her attempt at humor. "These wet clothes in mountain air?—"
"We can't go back now! Everyone's watching. We need to save face." She starts paddling with renewed determination. "Come on, one lap around the lake and then we can claim victory."
She's right about the attention. Harrison and several others have paused their own canoes to watch our recovery, and I can see the barely concealed amusement on their faces. Pride overrides common sense, and I begin paddling as well.
"Left side only for now," I direct. "We need to correct our heading."
"I know how to paddle, Elliot."
"Evidence suggests otherwise."
We manage to establish a tense rhythm, moving forward with marginally more stability than before. Our wet clothes cling uncomfortably, and I can see Josie shivering slightly despite her determined strokes. The mountain sun is warm, but the breeze across the water cuts through our drenched attire.
"This is your fault, you know," she says after we've put some distance between ourselves and the others.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You overcorrected. I felt the canoe shift when you leaned the wrong way."
"I overcorrected because you turned around suddenly, destabilizing an already precarious balance."
"I turned around because you were being a control freak about my paddling!"
"I was providing necessary guidance based on our canoe's trajectory."
"You were backseat canoeing," she counters, her paddling becoming more forceful with her irritation. "Just like you backseat everything. God forbid anything happen that isn't precisely according to your master plan."
"Someone needs to have a plan," I respond, my own strokes matching her intensity. "Or we end up in situations like this—soaking wet in the middle of a lake, arguing about who's to blame."
"You want to talk blame? Fine." She stops paddling entirely and turns to face me, causing the canoe to wobble dangerously. "Let's talk about how you've been hot and cold this entire weekend. One minute you're sharing a blanket with me like we're actually a couple, the next you're running away like I've got the plague."
"I haven't been?—"
"Yes, you have!" She jabs her paddle in the air for emphasis, sending water droplets flying. "You were jealous of Blake, don't even try to deny it. But instead of admitting it like a normal human being with actual emotions, you hide behind 'the arrangement' and 'the objective' and whatever other robot phrases you use to avoid admitting you might actually feel something!"
Her words hit with unexpected precision, striking too close to truths I've been avoiding. "This is hardly the place?—"
"It's the perfect place! No one can hear us, and you can't run away unless you want another swim." Her eyes flash with challenge, droplets of lake water still clinging to her eyelashes. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you didn't feel something by the fire last night. Tell me you didn't hate seeing me talk to Blake."
"You're being irrational," I deflect, even as something hot and uncomfortable builds in my chest. "We have a business arrangement with clearly defined parameters?—"
"Oh my god, do you hear yourself?" She throws up her hands, nearly losing her paddle. "Clearly defined parameters? We're pretending to be engaged! There's nothing clear about any of this! Especially not the way you look at me when you think I don't notice."
The canoe rocks as she leans forward, her voice dropping despite there being no one near enough to hear. "Admit it, Elliot. Just once, be honest about what you actually want instead of what makes logical sense in your perfectly ordered world."
"What I want," I say through clenched teeth, "is for you to stop rocking the boat—literally and figuratively—before we end up in the water again."
"See? Deflection. Always deflection." She shakes her head, sending more water flying. "God forbid the great Elliot Carrington admit he's a human being with normal human desires?—"
"What I desire," I snap, patience finally fracturing, "is for you to stop pushing me at every turn! You've been deliberately provocative since the moment we met. Testing boundaries, ignoring instructions, creating chaos where there should be order?—"
"Because order is so overrated!" she fires back. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe your precious control is just fear dressed up in a fancy suit? That maybe, just maybe, you're terrified of what happens when you let go for even a second?"
"And has it occurred to you that your so-called spontaneity might be a convenient excuse to avoid commitment or responsibility? That creating constant chaos ensures you never have to face consequences or establish anything lasting?"
Her eyes widen at this direct hit, and I immediately regret the harshness of my words. But she recovers quickly, leaning even closer despite the canoe's precarious wobble.
"At least I'm living, Elliot. At least I'm not hiding behind leather portfolios and fifty-page contracts to avoid admitting what I actually want!"
"And what exactly do you think I want, Josie?" The question comes out rougher than intended, almost a growl.
"This," she says simply.
And then she's reaching for me, grabbing the front of my soaking wet shirt, and I think she's going to shake me or push me away. Instead, I find myself pulling her toward me, closing the distance between us in the unstable canoe, driven by an impulse I can't name or control.
Our lips crash together with none of the hesitation or politeness of our "practice" kisses. This is raw, urgent, a release of tension that's been building since that first meeting in her chaotic apartment. Her mouth is warm despite her cold skin, and she tastes faintly of lake water and something sweeter, more distinctly her. My hands find her waist, pulling her closer despite the awkward angle and the very real danger of capsizing again.
She makes a small sound against my mouth—surprise or approval, I can't tell—and then her fingers are in my hair, cold and insistent. The canoe rocks dangerously, but I can't bring myself to care. All that matters is this moment, this connection that burns through the chill of wet clothes and rational thought.
When we finally break apart, breathing hard, the canoe has somehow remained upright. Josie's eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted in what might be shock. I feel similarly destabilized, as if the ground beneath me has shifted without warning.
"That was..." she begins, then stops, apparently at a loss for words for perhaps the first time since I've met her.
"A tactical error," I finish for her, already rebuilding the walls her kiss just shattered. "I apologize. I shouldn't have?—"
"Are you seriously apologizing right now?" She stares at me in disbelief. "After that?"
"It was inappropriate. We're here for a specific purpose, and physical entanglements beyond what's necessary for appearances?—"
"Oh my god." She shakes her head, a mix of frustration and something that might be hurt flashing across her face. "You really are impossible."
"I'm being realistic," I insist, though the taste of her still lingers on my lips, making a mockery of my attempted professionalism. "What happened was…a release of tension. A momentary lapse in judgment exacerbated by the stress of our situation and perhaps mild hypothermia."
"Mild hypothermia," she repeats flatly. "That's your explanation for what just happened?"
"It's the most logical conclusion."
She stares at me for a long moment, then turns away, facing forward in the canoe. "Fine. Hypothermia it is."
"Josie—"
"No, you're right." Her voice is tight, controlled in a way that's more concerning than her usual expressiveness. "This is a business arrangement. We're here for a purpose. Let's just get back to shore before we both die of 'mild hypothermia' and ruin your big deal."
She begins paddling with renewed focus, her back rigid. I follow her lead, settling into a rhythm that propels us steadily toward the shore where the other canoes have already begun to return. The silence between us feels weighted, significant in a way I don't fully understand.
As the shore grows closer, I find myself replaying the kiss in my mind—the softness of her lips, the urgency of her touch, the way something inside me seemed to unlock in that moment. It wasn't like the careful, practiced kisses we'd exchanged for show. It was real. Dangerously real.
We reach the shore in uncharacteristic silence. Chad helps us beach the canoe, commenting cheerfully on our "second baptism" in the lake and how we've already had "the full experience." Josie offers him a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes, then heads immediately toward the lodge without waiting for me.
Harrison intercepts me as I follow at a more measured pace, my wet clothes heavy and uncomfortable. "Bit of trouble out there, eh?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Just a slight coordination issue," I reply, striving for dignity despite my bedraggled appearance.
"Reminds me of Margaret and me in our early days," he says nostalgically. "We capsized three times on our honeymoon. Ended up being some of our favorite memories."
I make a noncommittal sound, unsure how to respond to this unexpected confidence.
"The best partnerships have friction, Elliot," he continues, patting my soaked shoulder. "It's the ones where everything's too smooth you have to worry about. No heat there, no passion."
Heat and passion are precisely what I'm trying to avoid thinking about at the moment. "We should change before the afternoon activities," I say instead.
"Of course, of course." He nods toward the lodge, where Josie has already disappeared inside. "Better catch up. She looked a bit…stormy."
I find her in our suite, already stripped of her wet outer layers and wrapped in one of the lodge's plush robes. Barney dances around her feet in greeting, then approaches me with similar enthusiasm, apparently not holding a grudge about being left behind.
"I'm going to shower," she announces without looking at me. "Unless you need the bathroom first?"
"Go ahead," I say, watching her move stiffly across the room, gathering dry clothes.
As she closes the bathroom door, I sink onto the edge of the bed, still dripping lake water onto the hardwood floor. Barney hops up beside me, his small body vibrating with excitement at our return.
"It didn't mean anything," I tell him, as if the dog might offer absolution for my lapse in judgment. "It was just…circumstances."
Barney tilts his head, clearly unconvinced by my rationalization. Smart dog.
The sound of the shower running fills the silence of the suite, a background noise that fails to drown out the memory of Josie's words on the lake. The worst part is, I can't honestly say she's wrong. About any of it.
I have been hot and cold. I did hate seeing her with Blake. And I absolutely felt something by the fire last night, just as I felt something—far too much—when I kissed her in that damned canoe.
The question now is what to do about it. The logical answer is: nothing. We have a job to do this weekend, a specific objective to accomplish. Personal feelings—whatever they might be—are irrelevant complications.
But as I sit there, soaking wet and oddly hollow, with the ghost of her kiss still lingering, logic feels woefully inadequate for the first time in my carefully ordered life.