Page 65 of The Plus One Contract

And just like that, I’m burning all over again.

Twenty-Five

Ismooth a palm over the shimmering emerald dress sprawled across my lap, half convinced it might sprout a mouth and demand I pay penance. It’s midday. The sun stands high overhead, bathing the freeway in a stark glare while Nathan maneuvers his SUV with the sort of focused precision that, under different circumstances, might comfort me. But right now, my heart’s pounding in my throat for an entirely different reason.

I’m in the passenger seat of his sleek, late-model SUV because apparently, it’s “neither safe nor practical” for me to Uber with a dress that costs roughly the same as a minor surgery. Truthfully, he insisted. Something about how LA in broad daylight can still be dicey and how there’s no way he’s letting me lug a designer garment bag alone. Despite my initial protest, I found myself relenting.

His eyes keep flicking from the road to my face and back again. I wonder if he picks up on my tension, if he sees how tight my grip is on the handle of the garment bag. I try not to think about how he just bought me a dress.

I’ve been hyper-aware of him all morning. Of this swirling sense of chaos that seems to intensify whenever he’s around. The confrontation in the dressing rooms, the way he pinned me against the wall with his gaze alone, the near-predatory look he got when rating every dress. My cheeks heat at the memory.

His phone buzzes against the console, momentarily drawing both our gazes. He shoots me a glance.

“You should probably answer that,” I say. “Might be business.”

He shrugs, pressing a button on the steering wheel. The screen on the dash lights up with a random number. No name.

“No idea who that is,” Nathan mutters. The call ends. “Probably a lawyer.”

He merges into a faster lane, and my mind drifts back to earlier events. My body still buzzes from the tension that flared between us. This is supposed to be a strictly business arrangement—helping him impress some investor at a fundraiser tonight—but the lines blurred the moment his gaze dipped below my neckline in the dressing room. My body’s still half-charged with unresolved electricity.

I clear my throat. “Thanks, by the way.”

He blinks. “For what?”

“For the dress.”

“I’m sure it’s not your idea of fun to call me in a panic.”

I roll my eyes. “Trust me, it wasn’t. You’re the last person I want to call when I’m half ready to commit a crime just to escape a department store.” There’s no real bite in my tone, just leftover embarrassment.

His lips quirk. “Next time, let me know, and I’ll commit the crime for you.”

I snort, but any retort I plan to make dies in my throat because his phone buzzes again. This time, the screen readsMomin big, bold letters. Nathan stiffens. Instantly, the atmosphere changes. Tension thrums from him like a taut wire. He growls, pressing the accept button with one abrupt tap.

“What?” he barks into the line.

A woman’s voice answers, shrill and frantic. I can’t make out every word, but I catchSimonandgoing to kill mein the same ragged breath. My heart lurches. Nathan’s face drains of color.

“Calm down,” he snaps. “I can’t understand you when you’re screeching.” Another pause. Then, more softly, “No, no, I’m—I’m on my way, all right? Don’t do anything stupid. Just—just stay in the house.”

His knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. “Yes, I heard you the first time,” he grits out. Then he mutters, “I’m coming,” and ends the call abruptly.

I watch him jam the phone onto the console. “Nathan—?”

He yanks the wheel, changing lanes without signaling. “My mother,” he says, voice tight. “Who knows how serious it is, but I can’t risk ignoring it.”

My pulse spikes because from the way he’s driving, he’s about to break every traffic law. My rational mind says I shouldn’t be part of this, but another part of me cringes at leaving him alone in something that clearly rattles him to the core.

“I’ll drop you off first,” he says, jaw clenched tight.

The phone buzzes again. He hisses a curse, ignoring it before merging onto another highway, cutting across two lanes. My stomach flips.

“No,” I say, surprising even myself. “Don’t. You’ll waste time. If she’s in danger, every minute matters, right? Just go.”

He shoots me a glare, half frustration, half panic. “I don’t want you involved in this. She’s… messy. It’s not your problem.”

“I’m already here,” I argue, voice unsteady.

---