Page 10 of The Plus One Contract

My pulse quickens, the thrill of anticipation coursing through my veins.

I take a slow sip of my bourbon and watch her approach, encouraging her forward.

Come on, sweetheart. Show me what you’ve got.

Six

Sienna

The moment I reach him, I know I've made a mistake. Not because I regret it, but because this man is not safe.

This man—the one with the perfectly undone suit, the unreadable dark eyes, the lazy grip around a whiskey glass—is watching me like he already knows how this ends.

Like he's amused.

Like he's intrigued.

Like he’s already figured me out, and I'm nothing but prey.

Yet, I keep walking.

Normally, I'd never approach a man like this, but tonight, I need trouble. Tonight, safe feels suffocating.

So, I slide onto the barstool next to him, crossing my legs, trying to look more confident than I feel. My bare knee brushes lightly against his tailored pants, sending an electric shiver dancing down my spine. The faint scent of whiskey and expensive cologne surrounds me, intoxicating enough to make my pulse jump.

He doesn't look at me right away, but his fingers pause on his glass. His knuckles briefly whiten just enough for me to know he's more affected than he's letting on. A thrill goes through me. Maybe I'm not as hopeless at this as I thought.

“Whiskey,” I muse aloud, letting my voice dip slightly, playing it cooler than I feel. “That tracks.”

A pause.

Finally, he turns toward me, just enough for me to catch the sharp cut of his jaw and the flicker of amusement in his eyes. God, those eyes. They're a storm trapped in glass—dark, restless, a shifting gray like thunderclouds waiting to break.

“Does it?” His voice is low and smooth, the kind that makes you lean in without realizing you’re doing it.

I lift a brow, trying not to show how much his attention rattles me. “Mmhmm.”

He studies me, clearly waiting for me to elaborate.

I swirl the liquid in my glass, feeling the heat of alcohol already loosening my nerves, my confidence slowly building.

“It means you either have a lot on your mind,” I say, holding his gaze, “or you want people to think you do.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, a small crack in his carefully controlled exterior. “And which one do you think it is?”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider before I deliberately let my eyes drag over him, taking in every sinful detail.

“I think you like looking like trouble.”

Okay. This is going well. I think. God, I hope he can’t tell I’m currently bluffing my way through this entire conversation.

His lips twitch slightly, but he doesn't give anything away.

“And you?” he muses, voice just a little lazy. “You like looking like you can handle it?”

I arch a brow, take a sip of my drink, and force myself not to blush. “Oh, I don't just look like it.”

He watches me silently, lifting his glass toward mine. “That so?”

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