Page 138 of The Plus One Contract

Not yet healing, but safe.

Fifty-One

It’s been six weeks since I last saw Nathan Calloway.

Six weeks since I stood in that hotel suite and watched him walk away without looking back. Since I whispered the word Blackjack and ended whatever we were before it could completely break me.

I tell myself I’m fine. That I’m moving on. That I barely think about him.

Most of the time, I even believe it.

But there are nights when the city hums low and quiet, and I’ll catch myself glancing at my phone like I’m waiting for something. A message. A sign. A single fucking breadcrumb that proves I didn’t just imagine the whole thing.

He’s still there.

In the stretch of my sheets when I wake up alone.

In the scent of expensive cologne lingering in an elevator. In the strangers wearing perfectly tailored suits, the sharp sound of dress shoes against pavement.

In every damn dream that leaves me reaching for something that isn’t there.

Six weeks, and he still hasn’t let me go.

Not really.

And maybe I haven’t let him go either.

Harper stumbles into our living room, juggling an armload of folders and looking like she’s one coffee away from a complete breakdown. I brace for her usual attempt to drag me out somewhere, but for once, I beat her to it.

“I’m coming with you to the event tonight,” I say, snapping my laptop shut.

She freezes, blinking. “Wait. I thought you were staying in. You said you wanted quiet.”

“I changed my mind.” I stand, rolling my shoulders back like that’ll shake the weight of the last six weeks off me. “Didn’t you say you could use an extra set of hands? Someone to radio the bartenders, track the catering? I’ll do it.”

She sets her files on the table, chewing her lip. “Sienna, you don’t have to. Really, I can handle it, and you can get some rest.”

She’s searching my face, concern etched in her features. Six weeks have passed, but I guess the heartbreak’s still too obvious.

I force a half-smile. “I’m good. Promise. I’ll go stir-crazy if I stay cooped up again tonight.”

“All right. If you’re sure?”

“I am,” I say before I head to my room to get dressed.

∞∞∞

The venue is sleek and modern, towering over downtown with its floor-to-ceiling windows and bright chandeliers. Harper works for the same marketing company I do, but she handles events, and sometimes I help out. Usually, that means holding a walkie-talkie and making sure she doesn’t stab someone when they ask for the tenth time if the hors d’oeuvres are gluten-free.

Tonight, I need the distraction more than ever.

Harper, however, stays oddly distant. She mutters a quick, “Stay near the bar, keep an eye on the caterers,” then hurries off. Weird.

An hour in, the room settles into a pleasant hum—glasses clinking, murmured conversations, the occasional burst of laughter. I lean against a side table, checking the walkie when it happens.

There’s a prickle at the back of my neck.

Like someone’s watching me.

---