Page 23 of The Plus One Contract

I snort into my glass. “Sounds like a very committed relationship.”

“I keep telling him we need space,” he replies with a quiet chuckle that wraps around me like smoke, “but he refuses to accept it.”

A genuine laugh escapes me, tension melting away. Leaning forward and propping an elbow on the bar, I decide it’s time to hit reset. “Okay, since we’re doing things backward. What do you do, Nathan?”

His eyes meet mine over the rim of his glass. “Finance.”

“Finance as in boring spreadsheet finance, or finance as in you move money around in suspicious ways but wear suits expensive enough that no one asks questions finance?”

His lips twitch into a near-smile. “Depends. Do I seem respectable?”

Respectful? This man spent hours giving me a masterclass on the Kama Sutra.

I tap my fingers on the cool wood, considering. “You seem practiced.”

“And you?”

“Marketing,” I reply.

He tilts his head, coming to some realization. “Explains why you were so persuasive last night.”

I nearly choke. “Excuse me?”

“Convincing a man to take you home? That’s an advanced skill set.”

“I was not marketing myself to you.”

For a moment, his jaw tenses before he relaxes, leaving the air charged with unspoken promises.

“Since you claim I was marketing myself,” I say boldly, locking eyes with him, “what exactly made you decide to buy in?”

Without hesitation, he answers, “You knew exactly what you wanted, and I enjoyed watching you take it.”

I swallow hard, trying to process both his words and the memory that still sends a shock of heat between my thighs, but before I can muster a comeback, he changes direction.

“So,” he says, his tone light yet piercing as his eyes fix on me, “you’re downing whiskey before boarding a flight to your brother’s wedding. Scared of flying?”

“Nope,” I reply, turning away to hide a flicker of vulnerability. I can’t risk spilling heartache or humiliation to this insanely hot one-night stand.

Nathan lifts a brow, silently urging me to share more, but I focus instead on my drink, letting the amber liquid blur my thoughts.

“Alright, let me guess.”

I glare. “Why do you get to guess?”

“Because you’re working very hard at staying quiet.”

“Fine, Sherlock. Go ahead.”

“My guess?” he says slowly, those long fingers tapping thoughtfully. “You’re dreading this wedding, and it has to do with someone you don’t want to see.”

Something in me freezes. My pulse races with a mixture of dread and disbelief.

Dammit.

“You finance guys think you can read people like balance sheets, don’t you?”

“It’s a skill,” he replies coolly.

---