Page 55 of The Plus One Contract

I blow out a slow breath, forcing the tension from my grip on the fork. None of this is my business—this family’s dynamic, her ex, her insecurities. It shouldn’t matter more than fulfilling our contract. Then why does it feel like it matters? Why is a knot forming in my chest, equal parts anger and protectiveness that I can’t fully explain?

I do the only thing I can without making it worse. I slide my hand beneath the table, find hers, and squeeze. She jerks in surprise. The conversation rumbles around us, but she turns her head just enough to catch my gaze. I see frustration, gratitude, and maybe relief in her eyes.

I lift her hand and press a slow kiss to her palm, letting the gesture linger because this is a charade, after all.

Her breath hitches.The tension in her shoulders ebbs just a fraction as she withdraws her hand. A moment later, she stands, smoothing her dress. “Excuse me for a second,” she says, her voice steadier than she looks. “Bathroom.”

She walks off, her head high and her spine stiff. Nobody else comments, which tells me this happens often—Sienna leaving the room when they push her too far. I grit my teeth, glancing around the table. Daniel’s flipping a knife in his hand, barely hiding his smirk. Her mother’s chattering about marinade. Jeremy’s phone buzzes, capturing his attention.

My family was never big on love or acceptance, but seeing how Sienna’s warm, well-meaning clan can still slice her open with these little digs hits me in a way I wasn’t expecting. I want to go after her, to make sure she’s okay, and quickly remind myself it’s not my job, not my place.

Feeling my jaw clenching, I force myself to stay put as I tap my fingers against the table. I try to focus on the conversation, but nothing sinks in.

Fuck it.

Two minutes.

I’ll give her two minutes.

And if she’s not back, I’m going after her.

Twenty-Two

Sienna

Isit on the edge of my bed, fingers digging into the comforter, staring at nothing in particular. Just breathing. Just trying to get my head back on straight. From downstairs, I catch the faint buzz of conversation. My family is still in the midst of dinner, probably only half noticing I’m gone. Still, I can’t shake the anxiety that any second, someone might march up here to check on me.

I should be used to this. I am used to this. It’s always been this way—the harmless ribbing, the lighthearted teasing, the little reminders that I don’t quite fit. I’ve learned to brush it off, laugh along, and let it roll off my back like it doesn’t sting. Usually, that’s enough.

But seeing it through Nathan’s eyes, someone who doesn’t automatically accept it as normal, turns it brand new again. It’s embarrassing in a way I can’t fully describe.

Another burst of laughter echoes up the stairs. I can’t hide here forever.

One more week. Then I’ll be gone again.

A figure passes by my doorway, then backtracks. Nathan appears, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his broad shoulders almost filling the space. “There you are.”

I sit up straighter. “I just needed a minute.”

“I figured.” He doesn’t move. His gaze flicks around my childhood room, taking in the old band posters and half-faded pictures tacked to the wall. There’s a certain caution in his eyes, like he’s exploring a place he knows holds a thousand personal secrets. He finally steps inside and trails his fingers over my old bookshelf, pausing at my battered copy ofPride and Prejudice.He flips it open, skims a page, then sets it back.

His presence is too big for my childhood bedroom. I’ve noticed that about Nathan. He makes every space he steps into feel smaller.

“You know,” I say, tilting my head, “I’m not allowed boys in here.”

He smirks but doesn’t respond, instead closing the distance and sinking onto the bed beside me, his elbows resting on his knees.

My stomach twists. His presence is so steady, too unwavering, and I’m still reeling from everything downstairs. The possibility that Dad or Jeremy might come looking for us edges into my mind, but I can’t bring myself to care. Right now, I just need to breathe.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, too gentle for my frayed defenses.

I let out a short laugh and flop backward against the mattress, knees bent, feet dangling off the edge. “I’m good,” I lie.

He hesitates, then lies back too. We’re side by side, shoulders almost touching, staring at the same glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck up at thirteen. Dad tried to paint over them once, but they refused to budge, so he painted around them. Just like everything else in my life—patch jobs instead of real fixes.

I would laugh at the whole situation if my heart weren’t beating out of my chest from how close he is.

Nathan’s gaze flicks over the small constellations. “You’re a real rebel,” he murmurs.

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