Page 35 of The Plus One Contract

My stomach flutters—stupid, traitorous organ—as I grab his phone, reluctantly entering my number.

He accepts it back with an annoyingly triumphant smirk.

“See you at dinner, sweetheart,” he drawls, stepping away like he hasn’t just dropped a grenade into my week.

I can’t even be mad at him. It was my stupid idea.

I watch his broad back retreat through the crowd, every confident step making it clear that I am way out of my depth.

This fake dating thing?

Definitely going to kill me.

Sixteen

Nathan

Ihave to get through this damn meeting. Then I have dinner with a family I know nothing about.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

I haven’t even checked into my hotel yet or glanced at my schedule for the week. Instead, I went straight to the office because Julian has a bad habit of making people quit when I’m not around to rein him in. Not intentionally. He’s just as likely to charm someone as he is to scare them off.

That’s the thing with Julian. People assume I’m the serious one, the workaholic who never takes a breath. They’re not wrong. But Julian is a force. He works harder than anyone I know, plays just as hard, and doesn’t give a damn what people think. That’s how we work. I handle strategy, and he makes the impossible happen. However, I now need to ensure our entire California office is still standing.

I push through the revolving doors of our West Coast headquarters—a temporary, uninspiring building with flickering fluorescent lights, outdated beige carpeting, and elevators that wheeze like an asthmatic kid in gym class. We’ll eventually break ground on something sleek and modern, but for now, this stepping stone is all we’ve got.

We started in California, that’s home, where Julian and I began with stocks, high-risk plays, and a bit of luck. We made a name for ourselves. A name that forced us to expand. New York exploded with bigger money, aggressive clients, and higher stakes, while Chicago served when needed.

Even with offices in these cities, men like Richard Crane still hesitate to invest in us.

Inside the lobby, Emma, one of our assistants, intercepts me.

“Mr. Calloway,” she calls, heels clicking. “They’re in boardroom three. They started without you, but Mr. Blackwood told them you were running late. Crane is still on the fence.

Of course he is.

I scan the meeting agenda on her tablet as we walk. This deal has been in the works for months, yet Crane—the old-school man with a calculating gaze who inherited his empire—can't see past pedigree. In his eyes, we’re outsiders, which is why this fundraiser is so important. It’s not about our portfolio. It’s about how we present ourselves, and thanks to a whiskey-fueled flight and a carefully orchestrated charade involving a fake girlfriend, I might finally change that perception.

Stepping into boardroom three, I offer a sharp nod to the assembled men.

“Apologies for the delay,” I say, extending my hand first to Richard Crane. His grip is firm, his eyes measuring me as if weighing my worth. The others follow suit, some more eager than others.

Across the table, Julian flashes an expression that practically shouts, Thank fuck you’re here. He’s been holding down the fort with easy smiles and fluid conversation, but Julian isn’t the closer. That’s my job.

I unbutton my suit jacket and take a seat beside him. The moment I settle, the men on the opposite side of the table straighten. I always notice these shifts. It used to be a game, faking it until I made it, walking into rooms filled with titans of the industry and convincing them I belonged.

Now, I am the table, and I know exactly how to make them listen.

One of Crane’s advisors drones on about risk factors, volatility, and projected market shifts. I let him talk. Men like him love to hear themselves speak. They want to be respected, but they’ve never had to earn it.

As I listen, a memory of Sienna at the airport flickers through my mind, teasing me about being “pretty face and sharp suits.” It’s ironic; while these men underestimate me, she sees right through it. That thought gives me an edge.

When the advisor pauses, I lean forward. “You’re concerned about risk,” I say. “Understandable. But let’s cut through the noise. Your proposed plan involves tearing down existing communities and replacing them with high-rises that only a fraction can afford. You think that’s a sure thing?”

Crane leans back, studying me.

“That’s not what we do,” I continue, my voice even. “We don’t just flip assets for profit. We invest in people and local economies. We find value where others see a write-off.

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