Page 15 of The Plus One Contract

Nathan wasn't supposed to matter. This night wasn't supposed to linger.

But as I climb into the car, heading toward home and all the chaos that awaits me, I realize that Nathan, this night, and the reckless version of myself I became with him, might be impossible to forget.

That scares me far more than the wedding ever could.

Eight

“You look like a corpse.”

I glare at Harper as she parks outside the airport, giving me a pointed once-over. “Wow. Love the emotional support. Feeling really uplifted right now.”

“I’m just saying, I've seen fresher-looking bodies in true crime documentaries. Did you sleep at all?”

“Two hours,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “Maybe less.”

Harper whistles, eyes glinting wickedly. “Bet they were eventful hours, though.”

Instantly, Nathan’s hands, mouth, and devastatingly confident smirk flash through my mind. I suppress a shiver, trying to ignore how vividly my body remembers everything he did to me.

“Harper, if you say one more word about my night—”

“I’m justsaying,” she interrupts, “I’ve never seen you look this exhausted after a date. Or ever. Like, should I be worried? Will you need physical therapy?

I groan, feeling an ache everywhere. “Probably.”

She cackles and pops the trunk before hopping out.

I sit there for a second, mentally preparing to function as a person before finally dragging myself out after her.

She grabs my suitcase because she’s stronger than I am, and I'm barely alive, before swinging it onto the curb. Then she turns to face me, hands on her hips, before she pulls me into a hug.

Her voice softens. “You've got this, you know.”

I sigh against her shoulder. “I hope so.”

Harper pulls back, holding onto my shoulders and smiling. “You do. Now, let's go over the plan.”

“The plan?”

“The story you’re telling your family about your imaginary breakup with your imaginary boyfriend.”

“Can't I just pretend I'm a lesbian and bring you as my date?”

“Sienna, we talked about this. If I come as your date, your mother will have us married off by dessert. Anyway, you’re not my type.”

“I literally am your type,” I point out.

“Yeah, but I know too much. It would never work.”

I sigh again, rubbing at my temples. “Fine. What's my breakup story? It needs to be tragic enough to prevent questions but not dramatic enough to overshadow the wedding.”

Harper thinks for a moment. “What about irreconcilable differences?”

I scoff. “That's vague. My mom will dig for details.”

“Fine,” she says. “He cheated?”

“Then they'll pity me more. I need something empowering.”

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