The plus one problem

I wake up annoyed.

Not just ugh, I need caffeine annoyed.
Not even great, another day of pretending I don't want to punch Wes in the face annoyed.

No, I wake up full-body, soul-deep, what-the-hell-was-last-night annoyed.

Because instead of sleeping peacefully like a normal person, I spent the entire night replaying every single second of that stupid dinner.

1. Wes being smug.
2. Wes watching me like he could see every single thought I didn't want to have.
3. Wes saying, "And what if I want to?" right before I ran for my life.

I should have just laughed in his face. Rolled my eyes. Said, Cute, Wes. Now go ruin someone else's mental stability.

But I didn't.

Because the truth is—I don't know what I want.

2

At work, I'm determined to get back on track.

Which means:

✔ Ignoring Wes.
✔ Acting like last night never happened.
✔ Actually doing my job.

Unfortunately, step one gets obliterated immediately when I step into the conference room for our morning meeting and realize that—of course—the only empty seat is right next to him.

Because the universe hates me.

I hesitate for half a second too long, which he notices, because when I finally sit down, he leans in, voice low, amused.

"Miss me?"

I grip my pen like a weapon. "Not even a little."

His lips twitch, like he's enjoying this.

"That's weird," he muses, tapping his fingers on the table. "Because you were definitely staring at me last night like you—"

I whip around. "Finish that sentence and die."

A slow, cocky smirk. "Fiesty."

I exhale sharply through my nose and turn back to my notebook, where I begin violently fake-scribbling a to-do list that just says:

✔ Don't murder Wes.
✔ Don't think about last night.
✔ Don't murder Wes.

Again.
_________________________

  The meeting is a nightmare.

Not because of the actual business talk—because Wes is being a menace.

I'm trying to pay attention, I really am.

But then he does things.

Stupid things.

Like stretching his arms behind his chair, which pulls his stupid expensive shirt tight across his stupidly broad chest.

Or spinning his pen between his fingers, like he knows I'm seconds away from snapping.

Or—worst of all—leaning over halfway through the meeting and murmuring,

"Thinking about me?"

I blink slowly.

Then, very calmly, I stab my pen into my notebook so hard the tip snaps.

He just chuckles.

I despise him.

The second the meeting ends, I bolt.

I make it exactly ten steps before Wes catches up, falling into step beside me like I invited him to exist.

"Why are you walking like you just committed a felony?" he asks, casually sipping his coffee.

I don't look at him. "No reason."

His lips twitch. "Uh-huh."

I keep walking.

He keeps following.

I finally stop, whirl on him, and glare. "What do you want?"

He shrugs. "Lunch."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Lunch," he repeats, like he's asking if I want to split an Uber, not if I want to voluntarily spend even more time with him.

I fold my arms. "Why?"

He lifts a brow. "Because I'm hungry?"

I exhale sharply. "Then eat."

His smirk deepens. "I'd rather eat with you."

I resist the urge to bang my head against the wall.

Unfortunately, half the office is watching.

Which means, obviously, I have no choice but to sigh dramatically and say, "Fine. One hour."

His grin is infuriating. "Good girl."

I scowl.

He laughs.

And I swear on my life, if I don't make it through this lunch without completely losing my mind, I am quitting this fake relationship and moving to another continent.

________________________________________

Fifteen minutes later, we're seated in a quiet corner booth at a restaurant that is definitely too nice for a fake lunch.

I scan the menu, pointedly ignoring Wes.

Until he clears his throat and says, "So, Ethan's girlfriend hates you."

I drop my menu.

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

He smirks, leaning back in his chair. "Ethan's girlfriend. The one he brought to that charity banquet last month? She hates you."

I scoff. "She doesn't even know me."

Wes shrugs. "Doesn't matter. She still hates you."

I shake my head. "That's ridiculous."

He lifts a brow. "Is it? She's dating your ex, and he's clearly still into you."

I freeze.

Then I laugh, louder than necessary. "Ethan is not still into me."

Wes just stares.

My laugh dies.

"Okay," I say slowly, picking up my water and gulping it down like it's suddenly very important. "Even if that were true, what does that have to do with his girlfriend hating me?"

He sets his glass down, smirking. "She sees you as a threat."

I roll my eyes. "Well, that's stupid. I don't want Ethan."

His smirk fades slightly.

"Good," he murmurs, voice lower now.

And I don't know why, but the way he says it sends a sharp thrill down my spine.

I blink. "What?"

He leans forward slightly, fingers brushing against mine for half a second too long.

"Nothing," he says smoothly.

I swallow hard and pick up my menu, trying to ignore the fact that I suddenly feel very warm.

Because, no.

This is not happening.

Lunch ends, and I survive.

Barely.

I pretend I don't notice the way Wes watches me as I gather my things.

I pretend I don't feel the weight of his gaze when I stand to leave.

I pretend I don't hear the quiet chuckle he lets out as I rush ahead, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me.

But when I get back to my desk and check my phone, there's a text waiting for me.

Wes: You're cute when you try to run away.

I groan loudly and drop my head onto my desk.

Because, officially?

I am screwed.