Page 18 of The Plus One Contract

She raises a brow, expression deadpan. “Look at you. You need this. And possibly therapy, but we don’t offer that at check-in.”

“I definitely need this,” I whisper, almost afraid she'll change her mind.

Clara—according to her nametag—prints my ticket, sliding it across the counter with the elegance of an angel sent specifically to fix my life.

“Go forth,” she says dramatically. “Drink complimentary champagne. Lie to your family with conviction. Be the badass you were born to be.”

I snatch the ticket like it's a lifeline, clutching it to my chest. “I’ll name my firstborn after you.”

Clara grins. “Honestly, I prefer wine over children, but you do you.”

Ten

There are two types of people in the first-class lounge.

The first are the seasoned elite who sit perfectly poised, sipping their overpriced cocktails, scrolling through important emails, probably debating stock market crashes or whatever rich people do for fun.

Then there’s me.

I am very much not one of them.

I am the imposter, the stray, the emotional support raccoon that has somehow scurried into the wrong enclosure. Yet here I am, hiding in plain sight, all thanks to one pity upgrade from Clara, the angel at the check-in desk.

So I do what any emotionally exhausted woman with far too much on her mind would do.

I head straight for the bar.

The bartender barely glances at me before setting down a drink napkin. “Coffee?”

I shake my head. “I’m going to need something stronger.”

He doesn’t question it, just nods once, like he’s seen enough weary souls wander in here to know when it’s time to skip the caffeine and move straight to the hard stuff.

“Whiskey?”

The moment he says it, my brain immediately betrays me, flashing back to last night, straight back to him.

To Nathan.

The way he leaned against the bar, whiskey in hand. The way he watched me, calculating, like he was figuring out exactly how he'd ruin me.

To his voice, low and smooth, whispering filthy promises as his fingertips dug into my hips.

To his hands, his mouth, his tongue…

I snap out of the memory so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.

No.

Absolutely not.

I grab my glass the second the bartender slides it toward me and take a long sip. The warmth of the whiskey spreads through my chest, steadying my nerves.

Setting my glass down, I reach into my bag and pull out the one thing I’ve been dreading and obsessing over in equal measure.

Jeremy and Grace’s wedding invitation.

I smooth my fingers over the heavy cardstock, eyes skimming the delicate gold script.

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