Page 9 of The Plus One Contract

Wes: No.

Julian:You haven’t even heard it yet.

Wes:Still no.

I smile. Julian’s always scheming, always chasing the next big high. Wes doesn’t have time for Julian’s bullshit with his own life, business, and unexpected fatherhood keeping him occupied.

Me:I’m with Wes on this one. No.

Julian:You two are boring bastards.

Me:Ignoring you now, Julian. Wes, how’s Rosie?

I get a reply in the form of a picture of Rosie, fast asleep in her cot, clutching a cuddly elephant I bought for her last time I was in California.

Wes:Finally sleeping through the night. A full seven hours has been the highlight of my week. So when you too fucks decide to get your heads out of business and start having a life, let me know how it goes.

I’m halfway through typing a response when the energy in the bar shifts. The air thickens.

I look up, instinctively.

And I see her.

Fuck me.

She steps inside with a friend, immediately commanding the room without realizing it. The satin red dress hugs every curve, drawing attention without effort. She moves through the crowd with grace, but her subtle uncertainty is endearing.

Our eyes meet, holding long enough to feel deliberate. Something tightens low in my stomach.

I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women before. Slept with them and moved on. But there’s something about her. She isn’t just attractive. There’s a quiet determination in her eyes, something that dares me to make a move. And for reasons I can’t explain, I plan to.

She blushes, looking quickly away.

Interesting.

Twenty minutes later, I'm nursing a second bourbon, contemplating leaving, when a group of men enter and approach the women at the bar.

From what I can see, there’s some polite conversation. Friendly. Familiar.

She’s not interested. I see it in her posture, her soft smiles, the stiff line of her shoulders. Her gaze flickers toward me now and then, brief glances she probably hopes I don’t notice. But I do.

One guy—tall, smooth-talking, obviously used to getting his way—leans close. Her smile remains polite but uninterested as her eyes drift back to mine again. There's something almost pleading there, a silent rescue she won't ask for.

Something hot coils low in my stomach. I don't do rescue missions, nor do I engage in emotional entanglements, yet her unspoken request settles deep.

After a while, one by one, the group begins to leave, including her friend, who gives her a questioning glance. She waves them off gently.

Now she's alone, but she doesn’t move toward the exit.

Instead, she turns again, meeting my gaze head-on, lips parted slightly in an uncertain challenge. She swallows, hesitating just enough to show vulnerability beneath the confidence.

My fingers tighten around the glass, my heartbeat kicking up a notch as I watch her internal battle unfold.

Reckless bravery warring against cautious insecurity.

Then she rises, her coat over her arm, the bag gripped tightly. She moves toward me, her steps steady despite her visible nervousness.

Good girl.

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