Page 111 of The Plus One Contract

Too comfortable.

Too fucking domestic.

The kind of thing I don’t do.

I take a slow sip, the bitterness grounding me, forcing me back into reality. This isn’t real. None of it is.

My body doesn’t seem to care. It still remembers the feel of her—soft, warm, pressed against me in the quiet dark. How she sighed in her sleep, how she fit against me like she was supposed to be there. How she reached for me at some point in the night, and I pulled her back against my chest, because she was sleeping and I’m a fucking coward.

I drag a hand through my hair, trying to shake it off, but then I sense movement.

The sound of sheets rustling makes my grip tighten on the mug. I glance over my shoulder.

She’s curled up in the sheets, tangled like she’s part of them, half-asleep and blinking against the light.

Her hair is a mess, a wild halo around her face, and her skin is still flushed from sleep. When she stretches, her tank top shifts, slipping off her shoulder.

My grip tightens around the mug.

She lifts her head, her gaze finding mine.

We lock eyes.

Neither of us moves.

A single breath.

Two.

Something tightens in my chest.

I don’t like it.

So I do what I do best. I shove it down.

I clear my throat. “Ready to fake impress some wedding guests?”

A beat.

The tension lingers.

She feels it too, but she nods and pulls the covers back.

When she stands, the sheets slipping away, my fingers twitch at my side. All I want to do is reach out, grip her hips, pull her against me like last night never ended and this isn't just borrowed time.

She runs a hand through her hair, her back arching into a stretch, and I have to look away before I do something fucking stupid.

But I still feel it. The pull. The ache.

And fuck me, I don’t know what to do with that.

Forty-One

Sienna

Ipause in front of Jeremy’s door, the placard reading 305 in faux gold letters. My knuckles hover an extra second before I rap three times.

The door swings open.

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