The Plus One Contract (Skeptically In Love #1)

One

Sienna

I’m not proud of the fact that I’m sending an anonymous letter to a dating podcast, but pride left the building when I told my mother I was bringing a plus-one to my brother’s wedding. A plus-one who currently exists about as much as my dignity.

Mistakes were made.

Big, stupid, irreversible mistakes.

Which is how I end up here, perched on my kitchen counter with a half-empty glass of wine, aggressively typing an email to Skeptically In Love, hoping the host won’t also think I’m completely deranged.

Subject: Please send help, or tequila.

Dear Skeptical ,

Here’s the situation: My older brother is getting married in two weeks to his very sweet, very Pinterest-obsessed fiancée. I’m genuinely happy for them, except my ex—who I dated for six years—is the best man.

Oh, and he’s engaged now to someone else.

To make matters worse, during a minor breakdown, I panicked and told my family I had a date.

Which would be fine if I actually had a date, but my love life is drier than the Sahara, and the last guy I went out with spent the entire evening talking about his ex-girlfriend and his pet lizard, Gregory.

By the end, I was genuinely more interested in Gregory.

So, what do I do? Come clean and accept the inevitable public humiliation?

Honestly, I think that might be my only option because there’s no way I can charm a man into loving me in record time.

What are the odds I could go out tonight, find a perfect stranger with chemistry so hot it melts underwear, and convince him—through sheer wit and mediocre flirting—to willingly be my plus-one at a wedding? Exactly.

Zero.

I can’t even get a guy to text back, let alone participate in an elaborate romantic con.

I would greatly appreciate your worst and most questionable advice.

Desperate & Delusional

There. Now it’s someone else’s problem.

I hit send, then grip the edge of the counter, heart rattling in my chest because now there’s no denying it.

Two weeks from today, I’ll be smiling through my brother’s wedding photos, watching my ex parade around with an engagement ring he bought for me on his new fiancée’s finger.

My mom, of course, is convinced this means I’m permanently stuck in singledom, fated to watch from the sidelines.

“It’s okay to come alone, honey,”

she’d cooed into the phone, her sympathy practically echoing in my head. Translation: We’ll all pity you and talk behind your back.

That’s precisely why I panicked and lied.

I am not letting them see me fall apart.

Not again.