Page 105 of The Plus One Contract

“She doesn’t know me like you did,” he murmurs.

Seriously? Is this guy that delusional?

I bite the inside of my cheek until I can gather my thoughts. There’s so much more of the tip of my tongue, but tonight is not the place or time.

“These things take time. We were together for six years.” I pause, then add, “But Daniel, we knew nothing about each other.”

His brows pull together. “You don’t mean that.”

I tilt my head, watching him. “Don’t I? I knew your favorite color. I knew your stories. But the things that mattered? The things I needed to know?” I shake my head. “You were a stranger. We were strangers to each other.”

“That’s not fair, Sienna.” There’s a bite in his tone I recognize, one that led to many arguments in the past, and I decide that I owe him nothing.

“I don’t want to do this,” I say, standing.

But he doesn’t let it go.

Leaning forward to stop me, his voice is low when he says, “Do you really not think about it? About us?”

I exhale through my nose, forcing the words out. “I think about how you were fucking Lauren for six months before we ended things.” My voice sharpens. “I think about how you slept with her in our bed.”

His face pales. “Sienna—”

“I think about how I let you make me feel less. How I let you make me question myself like I wasn’t enough.”

“That’s not—”

“Not what?” I snap. “Not what happened? Because I was there, Daniel. I lived it.”

He exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair before stomping out his cigarette with his shoe. “Sienna, I—”

“Lauren’s probably looking for you,” I say, turning away. “We should go back inside.”

“And what? Watch you play house with Nathan?”

I stiffen.

He stands and steps closer.

Too close.

Like he has any goddamn right.

“Tell me, Sienna,” he says, his breath warm against my skin, whiskey and cigarettes thick on his tongue. He’s drunk…or well on his way to being drunk. “Does he know exactly what spots make you scream?”

Rage ignites in my veins, quick and brutal until it hurts.

Before I can react, his hand moves, fingers brushing against my temple as he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.

My stomach twists.

“Because sometimes,” he says, his voice lower now, laced with something dark and self-satisfied, “I like to close my eyes and pretend it’s you.”

This.

Sick.

Bastard.

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