Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Josie
Hell hath no fury like a woman whose fake fiancé pretends they didn't rock each other's worlds the night before. I sip my mimosa with deceptive casualness, watching Elliot charm the Harrisons across the room like nothing happened between us. Like I haven't seen him completely undone, my name on his lips, his perfect control shattered. His deliberate distance since our confrontation this morning has been surgical—precise cuts designed to sever whatever connection formed in the darkness. Fine. If Elliot Carrington wants to pretend, I can play games too. And I play to win.
The lodge's farewell gathering is in full swing, a champagne brunch buffet spread across tables in the grand hall. The same room where I made my drunken confessions last night, now the stage for my next performance. Elliot has been masterfully avoiding being alone with me since breakfast, always ensuring at least three other people in our immediate vicinity. The contract signing is in an hour, and then this whole charade will be over. But not before I get some kind of real reaction from Mr. Robot.
I scan the room, looking for the perfect accomplice, and spot him by the windows—Blake Sullivan, the gallery owner with the easy smile and knowing eyes. The man who'd previously helped me make Elliot jealous, even while recognizing exactly what I was doing. Perfect.
I straighten my shoulders, adjust the neckline of my blouse to show just a hint more cleavage, and make my way toward him, deliberately passing within Elliot's line of sight. I feel his eyes track me as I move, though he never breaks his conversation with Harrison.
"Blake! I was hoping I'd see you before we left," I say, touching his arm lightly as I approach. My voice is pitched just a touch louder than necessary, ensuring it carries.
"Josie!" His eyes flick briefly over my shoulder—undoubtedly noting Elliot's attention—before returning to me with a warm smile. "I was just thinking about you. Did you have a chance to look at those gallery submission guidelines I mentioned?"
"Not yet, but I definitely will." I lean in slightly, lowering my voice to something more intimate. "Actually, I was hoping to pick your brain a bit more about the Charleston art scene. I've been thinking about visiting the South."
Blake's eyebrow ticks up slightly, but he rolls with it beautifully. "It's a vibrant community. Smaller than New York, of course, but that makes it more…personal."
"I like personal," I say, letting the double entendre hang in the air.
From the corner of my eye, I see Elliot's posture stiffen, though he continues nodding at whatever Harrison is saying. His jaw is clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.
"You'd certainly make an impression," Blake replies, smoothly playing along. "We could always use fresh talent with a…unique perspective." He gestures toward an alcove with a small seating area. "Why don't we sit? I can tell you all about the Charleston gallery scene."
"Perfect." I place my hand on his forearm as we walk, not quite proprietary but definitely friendly. The touch is innocent enough to be defensible, intimate enough to be provocative—especially to someone watching us.
And Elliot is definitely watching, despite his apparent engrossment in Harrison's conversation. I can feel his gaze like a physical weight between my shoulder blades.
Blake and I settle into the alcove, partially visible to the main room but with enough privacy to suggest a tête-à-tête. He leans forward, voice dropping to a murmur.
"So, trouble in fake paradise?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
I sigh, dropping the flirtatious act momentarily. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's paying attention." He tips his head subtly toward where Elliot stands. "And he's definitely paying attention. Though trying very hard to pretend he's not."
"Good." I take a sip of my mimosa. "Let him stew."
"Can I ask what happened?."
"It's complicated." I twist a strand of hair around my finger, an unconscious habit when I'm uncomfortable.
"Ah." Blake nods sagely. "The classic 'panic after passion' routine."
"Exactly." I lean closer, making sure my body language reads as absorbed in our conversation. "So I'd appreciate if you could play along for a few more minutes. Just until he looks like he might actually combust."
Blake's laugh is genuine. "Happy to help with the combustion. But fair warning—your lawyer looks like he might actually kill me."
"He's not my lawyer," I correct automatically, then feel a flush creep up my neck at Blake's knowing look.
"If you say so." He settles back, deliberately placing his arm along the back of my chair—not touching me, but suggesting intimacy to anyone watching. "So, about Charleston. It really is beautiful in the spring..."
We continue our conversation, which is actually informative—Blake knows his art scene and offers genuinely useful advice about gallery submissions and regional preferences. But I make sure to laugh a little too often, touch his arm occasionally, and lean in close enough that it might look like whispered confidences to an observer.
Every time I glance toward Elliot, his expression has darkened further. He's barely maintaining his part in the conversation with Harrison now, his responses becoming increasingly clipped, his eyes returning to our alcove with the regularity of a metronome.
"Your plan is working," Blake murmurs after about fifteen minutes of this performance. "He's excused himself from Harrison and appears to be coming this way. And he does not look happy."
My pulse quickens, both from anticipation and a thread of nervousness. I've seen Elliot irritated, exasperated, even momentarily jealous. But the man approaching us looks genuinely angry in a way I haven't witnessed before.
"Thanks for the heads up," I whisper, then deliberately throw my head back in a laugh as if Blake has just said something hilariously charming.
"Josie." Elliot's voice cuts through my manufactured mirth like a blade. "A word?"
I look up with practiced innocence. "Elliot! Blake was just telling me about the gallery scene in Charleston. Did you know they have a special showcase for mixed-media artists every fall?"
"Fascinating," Elliot says, the word clipped and cold. "But we have the contract signing in thirty minutes. Harrison requested we meet him in the study beforehand to review the final terms."
It's a lie. I know it's a lie because Harrison specifically said the signing would be in the lodge's library at eleven, with no pre-meeting mentioned. But I play along, curious to see where this is heading.
"Of course," I say, turning to Blake with an apologetic smile. "Duty calls. But I'll definitely be in touch about those submission guidelines."
"Please do." Blake stands as I do, his eyes darting between Elliot and me with barely concealed amusement. "It was a pleasure getting to know you this weekend, Josie. You too, Elliot."
Elliot doesn't bother responding, his hand finding the small of my back as soon as I stand—not the gentle guidance of earlier in the weekend, but a firm, possessive pressure that steers me away from Blake and toward the hallway.
"Where are we really going?" I ask once we're out of earshot of the other guests. "Because I know for a fact there's no pre-meeting with Harrison."
Elliot doesn't answer. His jaw is working, the muscle there twitching with barely contained tension. He guides me down a side hallway I haven't explored before, away from the public areas of the lodge.
"Elliot, seriously, what are you?—"
Before I can finish the question, he opens a door I hadn't even noticed and pulls me inside, closing it firmly behind us. We're in what appears to be a supply closet—a surprisingly spacious one, filled with extra linens and housekeeping supplies, but a closet nonetheless.
"What the hell?" I demand, blinking in the dim light. The only illumination comes from a small window near the ceiling and the thin line beneath the door.
"What do you think you're doing?" Elliot asks, his voice low and controlled despite the tension radiating from him.
"Currently? Standing in a closet with a man who's apparently lost his mind." I cross my arms, feigning confusion. "Before that? Having a perfectly pleasant conversation with Blake about art galleries. Why?"
"You're engaged to me." Each word is precise, measured. "Yet you're flirting with another man in full view of everyone at this retreat."
"Am I engaged to you, though?" I take a step closer, challenging him. "Because this morning you made it pretty clear that nothing about this is real. That last night was a 'momentary lapse in judgment.' So why should it matter who I flirt with?"
"It matters because we have a contract," he growls, moving closer. "Because until we leave this lodge, you're supposed to be convincingly mine."
"Convincingly," I repeat, my anger rising to match his. "Well, I convinced Blake well enough last time to make you drag me away from him, didn't I? And look, here we are again. Same jealous reaction, same refusal to admit what's really bothering you."
His hands clench at his sides, and for a moment I think he might actually shout—something I've never seen him do, controlled as he always is. But when he moves, it's not to step away or to raise his voice. Instead, he closes the distance between us in one fluid motion, backing me against the shelves behind me, his body caging mine.
"You want to know what's bothering me?" he asks, his voice dangerously soft. "What's bothering me is watching you touch another man when you still smell like me. When I can still taste you on my tongue. When every time I close my eyes, I see you coming apart beneath me."
The crude honesty of his words sends a shock of heat through me. This isn't the carefully composed lawyer who measures each word for maximum effect. This is raw, unfiltered Elliot, and it's intoxicating.
"Then do something about it," I challenge, my voice barely above a whisper. "Stop hiding behind contracts and arrangements and just admit what you want."
For one suspended moment, he simply stares at me, his eyes nearly black in the dim light of the closet. Then his control snaps like a taut wire.
His mouth crashes into mine with none of the gentleness of last night. This is possession, pure and simple, his hands gripping my waist hard enough to leave marks as he presses me back against the shelves. I respond with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his perfect hair, messing it up deliberately, claiming him just as he's claiming me.
The kiss is all teeth and tongue, anger and desire tangled together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. He lifts me easily, hands gripping my thighs as he presses between them, the hard length of him evident even through our clothing. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, needing more friction, more pressure, more everything.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, my lipstick smeared across his mouth, his hair standing in directions that would mortify him if he could see himself. I probably look equally disheveled, my blouse partially unbuttoned though I don't remember when that happened.
"This is insane," he mutters, but he doesn't move away. Instead, his lips find my neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to the sensitive juncture of my shoulder. "You drive me insane."
"Good," I gasp as he nips at a particularly sensitive spot. "Welcome to how I've felt since meeting you."
His hands tighten on my thighs, adjusting our position so he's supporting my weight more fully, pressing me back against the shelves. Something falls with a soft thud—a stack of washcloths, maybe—but neither of us pauses to check.
"You're mine while we're here," he growls against my skin, the declaration sending a shiver down my spine. "Not his. Not anyone else's."
The possessiveness should offend me. Should trigger all my independent woman alarms. Instead, it feels like victory—like finally breaking through that perfect facade to the real man beneath.
Still, I can't let the qualifier pass unchallenged. "While we're here?" I echo, pulling back slightly to meet his gaze. "And after that?"
A flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe even vulnerability—crosses his face before he can mask it. "After that…we go back to reality."
"And what if I don't want to?"
The question hangs between us, simple but loaded with implications neither of us is fully ready to confront. His grip on me loosens slightly, though he doesn't step away.
"Josie..." My name is half warning, half plea.
"Don't 'Josie' me," I say, suddenly tired of the dance. "Either you want this—want me—or you don't. But stop pretending it's just about the contract or the arrangement or whatever excuse you're telling yourself."
Before he can respond, a voice calls from somewhere down the hallway—Harrison, asking if anyone has seen us. The contract signing must be approaching.
Elliot sets me down gently, his hands lingering at my waist a moment longer than necessary. "We should go. The signing."
And just like that, the bubble bursts. Reality intrudes, and I watch in real time as he rebuilds his walls, straightening his tie, smoothing his hair, transforming back into the perfectly composed lawyer.
But his eyes, when they meet mine, still burn with something far from professional. And as he reaches for the door, he pauses, his voice low and rough.
"This isn't over, Josie."
It sounds like a promise. It sounds like a threat. It sounds like exactly what I need to hear.