Page 125 of The Plus One Contract

“Then pee in style,” he huffs. “I’m not getting arrested tonight.”

My laughter explodes, wild and loud and completely uncontrollable. I’m dangling over his shoulder like a sack of sugar, my hair flopping in my face, my dress hiked up to kingdom come, and I cannot breathe I’m laughing so hard.

Nathan smacks my ass. Hard. “Jesus, woman. Laugh quieter.”

That only makes it worse. I’m howling, wheezing into his back like a lunatic, and he’s flat-out running, charging through the sand like some caveman.

We reach the stone path to the resort, my heels swinging from his other hand. Somewhere in the distance, the guard yells again, but Nathan doesn’t stop until we’re inside the lobby—sweaty, windblown, and wheezing from the effort.

He sets me down, and I immediately collapse against the nearest wall, clutching my ribs.

“I can’t—” I gasp, wiping tears from my eyes. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

Nathan’s doubled over, hands on his knees, grinning like an idiot. “You’re certifiable.”

We snort-laugh like teenagers caught sneaking out after curfew, the kind of laughter that leaves your stomach sore and your cheeks aching.

He finally straightens, breath still short, and hands me my shoes. “Here. You should probably put these on before another guard arrests us for indecent exposure.”

I yank them on, cheeks burning. “I can’t believe I almost stripped on the beach.”

Nathan gives me a look that’s one part lust, one part exasperation. “I can. I’m shocked it took this long.”

A faint melody drifts from the ballroom behind us—soft, familiar, and unreasonably romantic.

At Lastby Etta James.

For a second, we just stand there in the lobby, breathless from our great escape, clothes slightly askew, cheeks flushed from laughter and almost-sex-on-a-beach.

Nathan straightens and holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”

I glance toward the glowing ballroom. The music swells through the open double doors, wedding guests still lost in their own bliss. The light spills across the marble, but this corner of the lobby remains dim and quiet. Safe.

I hesitate. “We could get caught again.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The smirk’s there, but it’s gentler now. No longer just cocky. There’s something behind it—something vulnerable, like he’s asking for more than just a dance.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Five more minutes of living.”

My heart stutters. Five more minutes of pretending this is real. Five more minutes of forgetting that we started this whole thing on a cocktail napkin and a fake dating agreement.

But God help me, I want those five minutes.

I slide my fingers into his, and he tugs me gently into the shadows by the window, just out of view of the main ballroom. The music curls around us.

He slips one arm around my waist, the other hand still holding mine. I rest my palm on his shoulder, trying to pretend my legs aren’t jelly. We sway, just barely, the rhythm pulling us into a quiet orbit.

He leans in, his voice brushing against my ear. “Relax. It’s just a dance.”

We both know it’s not. Not when my skin burns where he touches me. Not when his breath hits my cheek and makes every nerve in my body scream.

The warmth of his palm spreads across my lower back, anchoring me. I can feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of my dress. We move in slow, careful circles because I think if we move too fast, this whole thing will crack open and swallow us whole.

I tilt my face up to his.

He’s already looking at me.

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