Chapter 10
TEN
Elliot
I wake before the alarm, disoriented by the unfamiliar weight against my side. Josie is curled against me, her breathing deep and even, one arm thrown across my chest. The canoe disaster. The way Josie looked soaking wet, teeth chattering, hair plastered against her face.
The kiss…
That damned kiss…
Carefully, I extricate myself from her grip, trying not to wake her. She makes a small sound of protest in her sleep but doesn't wake, instead burrowing deeper into the pillow—my pillow. I stand beside the bed, watching her for a moment longer than necessary. Her dark hair is splayed across the white pillowcase, her expression peaceful in sleep.
I need distance. Perspective. Control that seems increasingly elusive in her presence.
The shower provides temporary sanctuary, hot water sluicing away the confusion of waking up with her in my arms. I focus on practical matters—the Harrison contract, today's itinerary, the careful balance required to maintain our charade for one more day. Not on the lingering scent of her shampoo on my skin, or the way she'd felt pressed against me in the darkness.
By the time I emerge, dressed in pressed slacks and a fresh button-down, I've almost convinced myself I've regained equilibrium. Until I step into the bedroom and see her.
She's standing at the window, back to me, wearing nothing but my shirt—the light blue Oxford I'd laid out for today. The hem falls to mid-thigh, revealing long legs I've been trying not to notice since this arrangement began. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.
My mouth goes dry.
"Morning," she says, turning with a casual smile, as if borrowing my clothing is a perfectly normal occurrence. "Hope you don't mind. The laundry service called—there was some mix-up with our clothes from yesterday. They won't be ready until after breakfast.”
I should say something. Object to this unauthorized appropriation of my wardrobe. But all I can focus on is how the shirt hangs off one shoulder, revealing a collarbone I suddenly want to trace with my fingertips, or how she's rolled the sleeves up to her elbows in a way that should look sloppy but somehow looks deliberate. Enticing.
"That's my shirt," I finally manage, the observation so obvious it's almost painful.
"Very astute, counselor." She grins, looking far too pleased with herself. "Don't worry, I'll change as soon as my clothes arrive. But unless you want me to go to breakfast in that tiny hotel robe or yesterday's hiking clothes, this seemed like the best option."
She's right, logically. But logic has nothing to do with the way my heart rate accelerates at the sight of her in my clothing, or how something primitive and possessive stirs at the thought of everyone else seeing her this way—obviously wearing my shirt, implying an intimacy that doesn't actually exist.
"I have other shirts," I point out, my voice stiffer than intended.
"True, but this one matches my eyes." She bats her lashes exaggeratedly, then laughs at my expression. "Lighten up, Elliot. It sells our story, right? The besotted fiancée borrowing her man's shirt? Very rom-com."
"We're trying to convince Harrison of our engagement, not star in a romantic comedy."
"Same difference." She shrugs, the movement causing the shirt to slip further off her shoulder. "You ready for breakfast? I'm starving."
Before I can suggest waiting for her clothes, she's already moving toward the door, Barney trotting at her heels. "Come on. Even your dog is hungry."
"He's not my—" I begin, but she's already in the hallway.
I follow, increasingly certain this day is determined to test my sanity.
The walk to the dining room feels interminable. Every guest we pass seems to notice Josie's attire, expressions ranging from knowing smiles to raised eyebrows. She, of course, is completely unaffected, greeting everyone with her usual easy charm while I fight the urge to wrap my suit jacket around her like a shield.
"There they are!" Harrison calls as we enter the dining room, waving us over to a large table where he sits with his family and several guests. "Our canoe champions!"
The teasing reference to yesterday's capsizing incident would be annoying enough without the added complication of Josie's appearance. As we approach, I see Harrison's eyes register her outfit, a knowing sparkle lighting his expression.
"Sorry we're late," Josie says, sliding into an empty chair with casual grace. "Laundry mishap. Had to borrow from Elliot's closet."
"It looks better on you than him anyway, dear," Harrison's daughter-in-law remarks with a wink that makes me want to disappear through the floor.
Josie laughs, adjusting the collar of my shirt in a way that draws attention to the fact that she's definitely not wearing anything substantial underneath. "Everything looks better on the woman, isn't that the rule?"
I take the seat beside her, focusing intently on the coffee a server immediately pours for me. Black, scalding, a welcome distraction from the way Josie crosses her legs beneath the table, her bare knee momentarily brushing against mine.
"You must be excited about the closing dinner tonight," Melissa says, passing a basket of pastries our way. "Grandpa always goes all out for the final evening."
"Wouldn't miss it," I reply automatically, reaching for a plain croissant—something, anything to occupy my hands.
"Elliot's been telling me all about it," Josie adds, selecting a chocolate pastry with obvious delight. "Though he was a bit…distracted last night. Weren't you, honey?"
The endearment, delivered with a sidelong glance that suggests something far more intimate than our awkward pillow wall arrangement, makes me nearly choke on my coffee.
"Hard to focus on dinner plans after that canoe adventure," I manage, trying to redirect the conversation.
"Speaking of adventures," Harrison interjects, "the couples' massage session starts at eleven. Melissa arranged it as a special treat before the closing dinner. Not to be missed!"
Josie's eyes light up. "Massage? Like, professional massage?"
"Only the best," Melissa confirms. "We've brought in specialists from the city. Very exclusive, very relaxing."
"Elliot's not big on massages," Josie says, placing her hand on my arm with familiar ease. "He has control issues about strangers touching him. Don't you, babe?"
I've never expressed any such reservation, but her fabricated insight into my preferences creates exactly the impression she intends—that she knows intimate details about me, that we share confidences, that we are, in fact, a real couple.
"I'll manage," I say, the phrase becoming my mantra for this entire weekend.
Breakfast continues with similar moments of torture. Josie helps herself to food from my plate without asking, feeds Barney scraps under the table despite my disapproving look, and repeatedly touches me—casual, seemingly thoughtless contacts that feel anything but casual to my increasingly frayed nerves.
"Here, try this." She holds out a forkful of her chocolate pastry, offering it to me as if feeding me is something we do regularly.
Every instinct tells me to decline, to maintain some semblance of professional distance. But Harrison is watching with that same knowing expression, clearly charmed by these small displays of affection, and I can't afford to break character now.
I lean forward and accept the bite, my eyes locked with hers as she slides the fork between my lips. Her eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating in a way that suggests she hadn't expected this response, hadn't anticipated the intimacy of the moment. For once, I've caught her off-guard.
"Good?" she asks, her voice a touch breathier than usual.
"Very sweet," I reply, deliberate ambiguity in my tone.
A flush creeps up her neck, and I feel a small, vindictive satisfaction at having turned the tables, however briefly.
But Josie never stays off-balance for long. As the meal progresses, she escalates her campaign of subtle torture. She leans close to whisper comments about other guests, her breath warm against my ear. She steals my napkin when she drops hers, fingers brushing mine in a way that feels intentional. When she stretches, the shirt rides up, revealing an expanse of thigh that has me immediately averting my eyes.
And all the while, she maintains that air of innocent enjoyment, as if completely unaware of the effect she's having on me. But the occasional glint in her eye when she catches me watching her tells a different story. She knows exactly what she's doing.
"More coffee, Elliot?" Harrison offers, signaling a server.
"No, thank you," I decline, hyperaware of Josie's knee now deliberately pressed against mine under the table. "Actually, if you'll excuse us briefly, I need to discuss something with my…with Josie before the massage session."
"Of course, of course," Harrison waves us off with a jovial smile. "Young love needs its private moments!"
I stand, placing a hand on Josie's back to guide her from the table—a touch that appears courteous to observers but allows me to apply gentle pressure that brooks no argument. She follows with a smile that doesn't quite hide her curiosity.
Once we're in the relative privacy of the hallway leading back to the guest rooms, I stop, turning to face her.
"Something wrong, honey?" she asks, all wide-eyed innocence that doesn't fool me for a second.
"What exactly do you think you're doing?" My voice is low, controlled, but with an edge I rarely allow myself.
"Having breakfast?" She tilts her head, the picture of confusion. "Being an adoring fiancée? Following our script?"
"The script didn't include you wearing my clothing and making suggestive comments throughout the entire meal."
"Suggestive? Me?" Her hand flutters to her chest in mock offense, the movement drawing my eyes to where the top buttons of my shirt remain undone, revealing the gentle slope of her breasts. "I'm just playing my part, Elliot. Convincingly, I might add. Harrison is completely sold."
"This isn't about convincing Harrison."
"No?" She steps closer, invading my personal space in a way that makes my pulse quicken despite my best efforts. "What's it about, then?"
I should step back. Establish distance. But something keeps me rooted in place, unwilling to cede ground in whatever game she's playing.
"You're deliberately trying to provoke me," I say instead, my voice dropping lower as a couple passes by, nodding politely. "Testing boundaries."
"And if I am?" She doesn't deny it, her eyes challenging me. "Isn't that part of our arrangement? Playing the besotted couple? Or is it only acceptable when it's scripted in your little relationship manual?"
The memory of our kiss in the canoe flashes unbidden—unscripted, unplanned, undeniably real. Something she clearly hasn't forgotten either, judging by the heat in her gaze.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Josie." The words come out rougher than intended, a warning as much to myself as to her.
She doesn't back down. If anything, she leans closer, close enough that I can smell the faint chocolate on her breath, close enough that I could count each individual eyelash.
"Maybe I like dangerous games," she murmurs. "Maybe I'm tired of pretending I don't feel anything when you look at me like you want to either strangle me or kiss me senseless."
Her words hit with precision accuracy, leaving me momentarily speechless. The air between us feels charged, electric with possibility.
Before I can formulate a response that won't reveal how dangerously close to the mark she is, a door opens nearby, and Melissa emerges from the spa area.
"There you are!" she calls, oblivious to the tension she's interrupted. "We're setting up for the massages now. You two should get ready!"
Josie steps back, composure perfectly intact while I'm still struggling to steady my breathing. She smiles at Melissa, all casual charm. "Perfect timing! We'll be right there."
She turns back to me, triumph evident in her expression. "Guess we'll have to continue this conversation later, Mr. Carrington." She adjusts the collar of my shirt, her fingers deliberately brushing against my neck. "But for what it's worth? I think you're playing a pretty dangerous game yourself."
With that, she saunters off toward Melissa, leaving me in the hallway with the distinct feeling that despite my warning, I'm the one who's been outmaneuvered. Again.