Page 24 of The Plus One Contract

I pick up my glass again, debating how much I care what he thinks. Not much, I decide. Or maybe it’s the whiskey speaking.

Either way, I exhale and just let it out.

The wedding. Jeremy and Grace. Daniel as best man, Daniel’s fiancée flaunting my ring, my overly sympathetic family, and of course, the colossal, stupid lie I’d told them all.

“I don’t even know how it happened,” I admit, waving my hand. “One minute my mother was telling me it’s perfectly okay if I don’t have a plus-one, and the next, I panicked.”

My pulse spikes again.

What the hell is he thinking?

Does he think I’m crazy? Desperate? Pathetic?

I groan, pressing my fingers to my forehead. “You’re thinking you took home a total lunatic last night, aren’t you?”

“I’m still deciding.”

I grab a cocktail napkin and fling it at his smug face.

He catches it, setting it down neatly.

Then, as if the universe hasn’t humiliated me enough already, the bartender materializes. “Another round for you two?”

Nathan’s eyes slide to me, amusement glittering before he glances back at the bartender. “We might need it.”

Thirteen

I’m pretty sure this entire day is a punishment from the universe for daring to have incredible sex because somehow, I’m now seated directly beside Nathan on a six-hour flight. It would be funny if it weren’t absolutely fucking tragic.

He looks unaffected by this cruel turn of events, settling easily into his plush, first-class seat, adjusting his Rolex as if he's just another bored, beautiful man going about his day. Meanwhile, I’m busy trying not to have a full-blown existential crisis.

“Comfortable?” he asks, glancing over as he buckles his seatbelt.

“Extremely,” I snap, wiggling deeper into my seat, determined not to breathe in the intoxicating scent of him invading my personal space.

I turn my head to the window, ignoring the little smirk on his lips and the fact that my leg has started bouncing restlessly.

Flying has never been an issue for me. I like it, especially when it includes complimentary champagne and seats that practically massage your ass.

But the take-off?

The take-off makes me want to purge all of last night’s alcohol from my system.

The engines roar louder, and my stomach clenches tight. My fingers dig into the armrest so hard I worry I might puncture the expensive leather.

Beside me, Nathan exhales quietly, like he’s bored.

Good for him.

“Relax,” he murmurs under his breath, barely audible above the plane's rumble.

Easy for him to say. He doesn’t know I spent the better part of my teen years mainliningFinal Destinationmovies. But I don’t get the chance to fire back a witty retort because suddenly, the plane lifts off, the world tilts, and my stomach falls out my ass.

That’s when it happens.

A warm, large hand gently lands on my thigh.

My thigh.

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