Page 101 of The Plus One Contract

I feel his fingers skim my shoulder blades, hooking the tie of my bikini top again. He hesitates for half a beat, glancing around as if to check who’s watching. I grip the front of my top, not wanting it to slip. My entire body is hyperaware of his closeness, his heat. He squirts lotion onto his hands, warming it with a quick rub. Then those hands meet my skin.

Instant meltdown. My mind nearly short-circuits as he works in smooth, deliberate strokes, kneading out the tension in my shoulders while also layering on sunscreen. My breath is locked in my throat. This is intimate. Too intimate.

He drags his palms down the ridge of my spine, careful not to dislodge my bikini top fully. My head tips back, eyes squeezing shut. Heat flutters low in my stomach, a coil of arousal that intensifies with every pass of his fingers. I half expect him to whisper something dirty in my ear, but he keeps it clean, focused, tension thrumming in his posture.

When he finishes, I’m borderline trembling. He re-ties the top with a deft tug.

“All done,” he says, his voice a bit ragged.

I swallow, forcing a shaky exhale, and manage a nod. “Thanks,” I whisper.

My mother, apparently satisfied, bustles off.

Nathan slips back onto the lounger behind me, his muscular thighs caging me in. I look over my shoulder at him. Our eyes meet, and for a single heartbeat, everything else vanishes. It’s just us. All I can think about is that kiss after he dropped me home last night, the tension in the elevator, the hotel suite. All of it.

Jeremy jogs up, interrupting. “Hey, dinner’s in a couple hours. We should probably shower off this sand and get ready.” He shoots me a teasing glance. “Try not to get second-degree burns, sis.”

I force a laugh. “Will do, Jer.”

He traipses off, and the beach crowd starts to disperse.

I stand, brushing sand off my thighs.

“Guess we should head in,” I say.

Nathan nods, pushing to his feet.

The sun dips lower, painting the resort in soft orange hues. We walk side by side, shoulders brushing, neither of us sure what to say. The tension between us surges with each step.

If this weekend is any indication, we’re one or two slip-ups from crossing lines that might tear our entire arrangement to pieces.

And a quiet, traitorous part of me wonders if maybe that wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Thirty-Seven

Istep out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around my damp hair, robe cinched at my waist, already mentally cataloging my skincare routine before I even reach the dresser.

And then I stop.

Because what in the actual hell is happening on my bed?

Nathan Calloway—corporate overlord, destroyer of boardrooms, man who makes multimillion-dollar deals in his sleep—is lounging against the headboard, one ankle crossed over the other, reading a book.

Wearing glasses.

My brain short-circuits.

Nathan wears glasses?

The man who oozes effortless dominance and control, who can strike fear into the hearts of executives with a single look—reads books in glasses?

How dare he.

I don’t know why it’s so jarring, but it is. It’s like spotting a tiger wearing a cardigan and sipping chamomile tea.

And worse? It makes him hotter.

I stare, helpless to stop it. He absently rubs his bottom lip as he turns a page, completely absorbed, completely unaware that I’m standing here practically drooling.

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