Page 76 of The Plus One Contract

I hang up just as I yank the door open, and sure enough, Nathan stands on the porch with a navy shirt and slacks, one hand in his pocket, the other still holding his phone, eyes locked on the absolute gremlin I must look like.

His gaze drops to my bunny slippers.

Then the knife.

Then back up to me.

“I’m just going to take this,” he says softly, reaching forward and curling his hand gently around my wrist. He slides the knife out of my grip and sets it on the hallway table. “There we go. No need for murder.”

My brain stutters. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re going for greasy burgers.”

I blink at him, speechless, before feeling a grin curling on my mouth. “Extra cheese?”

“And bacon.”

God, this man.

My smile feels like it’s going to split my face in half. “You drove all the way back here just to get burgers?”

“No,” he says. “I drove back because you weren’t going to sleep, and neither was I. Figured burgers were the next logical step.”

I bite my lip, my heart doing that annoying fluttery thing that makes me want to slap it. “You know I’m not dressed, right?”

His gaze flicks down again, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Might want to change your footwear from roadkill to something a bit more practical.”

I look down at my bunny slippers.

“You’re judging me,” I accuse.

“Hard.”

I laugh and step back, already turning. “Give me five minutes.”

He leans against the doorframe. “Take seven. I’ll allow it.”

“Such generosity,” I mutter.

And I swear, as I disappear upstairs, I hear him chuckle and say under his breath, “Worth the drive.”

Twenty-Eight

We pull up to a small diner tucked into the corner of an unassuming street. It’s one of those places that hasn’t been remodeled since the seventies, complete with neon signs, chipped red booths, and a waitress named Carol who probably survived three marriages and one alien encounter.

Nathan opens my door before I can grab the handle.

“You’re such a showoff,” I mutter as I slide out.

“And you’re still wearing pajamas,” he says, glancing down.

Inside, the diner is blissfully empty. Just a trucker in the corner sipping coffee and a line cook whistling off-key behind the counter.

We slide into a booth, and a tired-looking waitress—definitely Carol—hands us two laminated menus.

“I already know what I want,” I tell her.

Carol doesn’t blink. “Lay it on me.”

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