Chapter 12
TWELVE
Elliot
I've negotiated billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. I've faced down hostile witnesses without blinking. I've even survived annual dinners with my father's judgmental colleagues. But nothing in my carefully constructed life has prepared me for sitting across from Josie Palmer at Harrison's formal dinner as she takes her third glass of champagne with a gleam in her eye that warns me this evening is about to go off-script in spectacular fashion.
The dining room has been transformed for tonight's closing dinner—crystal chandeliers dimmed to a golden glow, tables arranged in an intimate semicircle around a central fireplace, white roses and candles creating an ambiance that would be romantic if I weren't so preoccupied with maintaining professional boundaries that seem increasingly determined to collapse.
After the couples' massage—an exercise in self-control I never want to repeat—I'd spent an hour in the gym, pushing my body to exhaustion in hopes of purging the image of Josie's flushed skin and parted lips from my mind. It hadn't worked. If anything, the physical exertion had only heightened my awareness of exactly how long it's been since I've been with a woman. A fact that becomes increasingly problematic as I watch Josie raise her glass to her lips, her throat working as she swallows.
"The '96 is exceptional, isn't it?" Harrison comments, noticing her appreciation of the champagne. "I've been saving it for a special occasion."
"It's amazing," Josie agrees, her smile looser than usual, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "I usually buy whatever's on sale at the corner store, so this is definitely an upgrade."
Her honesty makes several guests laugh, Harrison included. That's the thing about Josie—she doesn't pretend to be something she's not. Her lack of pretension is refreshing in a world where appearances are currency. Or it would be refreshing if it weren't so dangerous to our carefully constructed narrative.
"Josie has a remarkable palate," I interject smoothly, hoping to redirect the conversation. "She can identify subtle notes most people miss."
This is a complete fabrication, but Josie plays along with impressive quickness. "That's true. For instance, this champagne has notes of..." she takes another contemplative sip, "...expensive. With undertones of 'I can't afford this in a million years.'"
More laughter, even from the stuffier guests who initially seemed put off by her casual approach. She's winning them over without even trying, something I've witnessed repeatedly throughout this weekend. Josie Palmer doesn't fit into this world of old money and careful pretense, yet somehow she makes everyone wish they could be more like her—authentic, unfiltered, alive.
Including, uncomfortably, me.
"So tell us, Josie," says Mrs. Whitmore, a client's wife who's been watching us with curious eyes all evening, "how did you know our Elliot was the one? He's always been so focused on his career, we were beginning to think he'd marry his law books!"
I tense, though I maintain my pleasant expression. We've rehearsed our backstory, but Josie has been increasingly prone to improvisations that leave me scrambling to keep up.
"Oh, I didn't know right away," Josie says, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Actually, I thought he was kind of a jerk."
I nearly choke on my water. This is definitely not in our script.
"He was so buttoned-up, so serious all the time." She gestures with her champagne glass, nearly sloshing the contents. "But then I started noticing things. Like how he always remembers everyone's coffee orders. Or how he pretends not to care about my dog but secretly gives him treats when he thinks I'm not looking."
The details she's invented are so specific, so plausible, I almost believe them myself for a moment. More concerning is how closely she's watching me as she speaks, as if searching for a reaction beyond my careful facade.
"And," she continues, her gaze still locked with mine across the table, "there was the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention. Like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out but couldn't stop trying to solve."
The description is unsettlingly accurate. I look away first, reaching for my wine glass more to break eye contact than from any desire to drink.
"That's so romantic," sighs Melissa, who's obviously had her fair share of champagne as well. "Finding the soft center beneath the hard exterior."
"Oh, there's nothing soft about Elliot," Josie quips, then immediately flushes deeper as she realizes the double entendre. "I mean, he's very…determined. When he wants something."
The table erupts in knowing laughter, and I find myself fighting an inappropriate smile despite the precariousness of the situation. Josie catches my expression and raises her glass in a small toast, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"To determined men," she says, loud enough for only me to hear over the general conversation.
I shouldn't encourage her, especially given her increasingly uninhibited state, but I find myself raising my glass in response. "To women who can't be solved."
She blinks, surprise flickering across her features before she smiles—a genuine smile, not the performative one she's been offering the table, but something softer, more real.
The moment is broken when servers arrive with the main course, a perfectly seared steak that would normally command my full attention. Instead, I find myself watching Josie as she enthuses over the food, making the chef who emerges briefly from the kitchen blush with her effusive compliments.
"This might be the best thing I've ever eaten," she declares, closing her eyes in exaggerated bliss as she takes another bite.
The expression on her face—pure pleasure, uninhibited appreciation—sends my thoughts in directions entirely inappropriate for a formal dinner. I force myself to focus on my own meal, on the conversations happening around us, on anything but the way her lips part slightly as she savors another bite.
By the time dessert is served—some elaborate chocolate construction that looks more like architecture than food—Josie has finished her fourth glass of champagne and moved on to the paired dessert wine. She's not sloppy drunk, just loosened, her gestures more expansive, her laugh quicker, her filters noticeably thinned.
"So," Melissa asks as the conversation circles back to relationships, "have you two set a date yet? For the wedding?"
"We're taking our time," I answer smoothly, the rehearsed response coming automatically. "With both our schedules?—"
"We're enjoying the sex too much to rush into paperwork," Josie interrupts, then immediately claps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with a combination of horror and amusement at her own candor.
The table goes momentarily silent before Harrison lets out a booming laugh. "Honesty! That's what I appreciate about your Josie, Elliot. No games, no pretense."
If only he knew.
"Maybe we should switch to coffee," I suggest, covering Josie's wine glass with my hand when she reaches for it.
"Party pooper," she mutters, but doesn't fight the intervention.
The conversation mercifully shifts to business matters as coffee is served, giving me a reprieve from monitoring Josie's increasingly unfiltered commentary. She seems content to sit back, occasionally interjecting but mostly watching the interplay of longtime associates with curious eyes.
I begin to think we might make it through the evening without further incident when Harrison's son asks about our first date.
"Elliot took me to this ridiculously fancy restaurant," Josie answers, leaning forward with exaggerated secrecy. "I couldn't pronounce anything on the menu and drank too much wine because I was nervous. Total disaster."
This is actually close to our rehearsed story, so I relax slightly.
"But," she continues, "it turned out okay in the end. We discovered we had amazing chemistry, even if we're completely different people."
"The best partnerships often are," Harrison nods sagely. "Margaret and I couldn't have been more different. Made for some spectacular arguments—and even more spectacular making up."
Several guests chuckle knowingly, and the conversation drifts to other couples' meeting stories. I allow myself to breathe easier, crisis apparently averted.
Then Blake Sullivan—the gallery owner who'd been increasingly friendly with Josie throughout the weekend—asks the question that derails the entire evening.
"So what's the secret to your relationship's success? Besides the obvious chemistry." His gaze flicks between us with subtle assessment that suggests he's not entirely convinced by our performance.
"Communication," I answer firmly, reaching for the safest possible response.
At exactly the same moment, Josie says, "Animal attraction."
She grins at the contradiction, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "What Elliot means is that we communicate very well in certain…situations. Right, honey?"
"Josie," I say, a warning note in my voice that only seems to encourage her.
"Oh come on, Elliot. These are all adults." She waves her hand to encompass the table. "Everyone here knows that physical compatibility is important. And you're very..."
"Perhaps we should discuss something else," I interrupt, trying to redirect the increasingly dangerous conversation.
"Now you've got us all curious," Melissa laughs, obviously enjoying the direction things are taking. "Don't hold out on us, Josie. What's Mr. Serious like behind closed doors?"
I steel myself for whatever outrageous fiction Josie might invent, but her answer surprises me.
"He pays attention," she says, her voice suddenly less playful, almost thoughtful. "That's rarer than you'd think."
The simple statement, delivered without embellishment, somehow feels more intimate than any exaggerated tale might have been. Several women at the table nod in understanding, exchanging knowing looks.
"Most men don't bother," Mrs. Whitmore agrees. "Too focused on their own…destination."
"Exactly!" Josie points at her, warming to the topic. "It's always wham, bam, did you finish? No? Oh well, maybe next time. Except there never is a next time because they never learn."
"Josie," I try again, increasingly concerned about where this is heading.
"What? It's true." She turns to me, an earnestness in her expression that suggests she's forgotten this is supposed to be an act. "Before you, I'd never actually had, you know, earth-shattering sex. The kind they write about in books. Where you see stars and lose track of where your body ends and theirs begins."
The table has gone completely silent, all attention fixed on us. My collar feels suddenly too tight, my skin too hot. "Perhaps this isn't the most appropriate dinner conversation."
"Wait," Blake interjects, looking genuinely surprised. "Are you serious? Never?"
Josie shrugs, the motion fluid with alcohol's loosening effect. "Not everyone is as lucky in their partners as I am now. Before Elliot, it was mostly selfish man-children who thought foreplay was buying dinner."
"Not all of us sleep with supermodels, Mr. Carrington," she adds, addressing me directly with a mix of challenge and something more vulnerable in her gaze.
The comment hits like a physical blow, not because of its accuracy—I've dated attractive women, certainly, but hardly supermodels—but because of the insecurity it reveals. Does she truly believe I'd find her lacking compared to my past relationships? The thought is so absurd it momentarily robs me of response.
In the awkward silence, Harrison clears his throat. "I think we could all use a digestif. The lodge makes an excellent brandy."
The conversation shifts, allowing Josie and me a moment of reprieve from the spotlight. She seems to realize belatedly how personal her comments were, a slight crease appearing between her brows as she focuses intently on rearranging her dessert fork.
"Josie," I say quietly, pitching my voice for her ears only. "Are you alright?"
She looks up, surprise evident in her expression—perhaps at the genuine concern in my tone. "Just peachy. Why wouldn't I be? I only announced to a table full of strangers that I've had mediocre sex my entire life. No big deal."
"You also implied we've had earth-shattering sex," I point out, keeping my voice low. "Which might be difficult to deliver on given that we haven't actually slept together."
"Yet," she says, then immediately looks startled by her own response. "I mean—that wasn't—I'm drunk."
"I noticed."
"Not that drunk," she clarifies, meeting my eyes with surprising steadiness. "Just drunk enough to say things I shouldn't. Not drunk enough to not mean them."
The implication hangs between us, charged with possibility. My hands grip my napkin under the table, muscles tense with the effort of remaining seated when every instinct urges me to pull her away from this crowd, to find somewhere private where we can explore exactly what she means.
Instead, I say, "We should get you some water."
"Always the responsible one," she sighs, but accepts the water glass I push toward her. "Don't worry, I won't embarrass you any further. Your big contract is safe."
But safety is the last thing on my mind as I watch her lips press against the water glass, as I recall her casual admission about never experiencing transcendent physical connection, as I imagine being the one to show her exactly how earth-shattering intimacy can be when both partners are fully invested.
For the remainder of the dinner, I engage in appropriate small talk, respond to business inquiries, and maintain the appearance of professional composure. But beneath the table, my free hand remains clenched in a white-knuckled fist, and each time I catch Josie's gaze across the candlelight, the unspoken tension between us ratchets higher.
By the time we finally rise to leave, the physical awareness between us is so palpable I'm certain everyone at the table can sense it. Josie's hand finds mine as we walk toward the exit, her fingers lacing through mine with deliberate pressure that feels nothing like our practiced public displays of affection.
This is no longer pretense. No longer a business arrangement. As we move silently through the lodge toward our shared room, I know with absolute certainty that we're approaching a precipice from which there will be no return.
And for the first time in my meticulously controlled life, I find myself welcoming the fall.