The Contract Girlfriend

CHAPTER ONE

Evie Sinclair burst through the back door of Maple & Sage Bistro. Her coat was dripping, her hair a mess, and her heels squelched. Her apron dangled from one hand, the other clutching her car keys like a lifeline.

"You're late. Again."

Mr. Bartlett didn't look up from the receipts he was counting.

Evie exhaled sharply. "I told you, my car got stuck because of the storm. I literally had to push it out of a puddle."

He raised a brow. "And last week? Let me guess. Tsunami?"

"Flat tyre."

"The week before that?"

"Neighbour's cat. Long story."

He dropped the receipts. "Evie, this is the third time. You're unreliable. You've got a sharp mouth and a bad attitude. You're fired."

"What? You can't fire me. I haven't even clocked in yet!"

He stared. "Then technically, I'm not firing you. I'm just not letting you start."

Evie stood there, soaked, jobless, and utterly humiliated.

"I hope your coffee machine explodes," she muttered, snatching off her apron.

She stormed out of the office and the rain hit her immediately. The sky, officially weeping, perfectly matched her mood. She tossed her box into the backseat of her car, slammed the door shut, and shoved the keys into the ignition.

"Stupid job. Stupid car. Stupid storm," she muttered.

The storm raged louder.

Speed limit? Optional. Wipers? Squeaking. Phone? Dead. Her patience? Buried under frustration and five soggy résumés.

"I gave them two years of my life," she muttered, swerving past a slow-moving van. "Two years. And not even a stupid cupcake on my last day."

A flash of black. A screech. A sickening thud.

Her breath caught. The car jolted. Something, no, someone, had been in the road.

Evie slammed the brakes and sat frozen, eyes wide. "Oh my God."

Her door flew open and she stumbled into the rain, shoes slipping against the wet pavement.

He was lying on the road, soaked, motionless. A man dressed in all black, tall, broad-shouldered, and terrifyingly still. Her heart crashed inside her chest.

"Sir?" she whispered, kneeling beside him. "Can you hear me?"

He didn't move.

"I didn't mean to hit you," she breathed, fumbling for her phone. Dead. "You literally ran in front of me. What were you doing in the middle of the road like some sort of rain spirit?"

Still nothing.

Evie looked around and exhaled sharply. "Fine. We are not leaving you here."

She grunted as she dragged him to her car. He was heavier than he looked. Somehow she managed to prop him in the passenger seat. His head lolled against the window.

"This is not kidnapping," she said aloud, buckling his seatbelt. "This is saving a stranger's life and maybe keeping myself out of jail."

Every red light felt like a countdown to jail. Every siren in the distance made her foot twitch on the pedal.

By the time they reached the emergency room, Evie was shaking so hard she could barely put the car in park. She ran inside, flagged down a nurse, and pointed wildly back at the vehicle.

"I, he, he was in the road," she stammered. "I hit him. I mean, not on purpose. I brought him here. He's still breathing. Please."

The nurse blinked, processed the madness, and then rushed outside.

Evie followed, wet, barefoot, and nearly breathless.

They wheeled him in, asked her a dozen questions she barely heard, and finally told her to wait.

So she waited.

Drenched. Jobless. Traumatized. And possibly now a felon.

"Miss Evelyn?"

She jolted upright.

A nurse gave her a polite, slightly judgmental smile. "He's awake. He asked for the woman who hit him."

Evie stood, wobbled slightly, and followed her down the hall.

She didn't know what she expected. Maybe a lawsuit. Maybe an interrogation. But not him, propped against hospital pillows like someone had cast him in a tragic BBC period drama.

He turned slowly, eyes piercing, face pale and bruised but still ridiculously handsome.

"Where am I?" His voice was low, cold, controlled.

Evie stepped inside and cleared her throat. "Hospital. I brought you here after I, well, after the whole car thing."

He blinked. "You hit me?"

She nodded slowly. "Technically, yes. You were kind of just in the road."

He stared at her, expression unreadable.

She raised her hands in surrender. " I had the worst day of my life and then you showed up in front of my car like some broody Victorian ghost, and never mind. The important thing is you're alive."

He groaned and touched his temple. "Figures."

She stepped closer. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to. I had a really bad day."

Miles let out a dry, low laugh.

"You think I had a good one? You're helping me—or I'm filing a case for attempted murder."

His voice was gravelly, sharp, and full of the kind of arrogance that didn't need volume to feel dangerous.

Evie stared at him. "Murder? u're crazy,It was a mistake, Mr. and by the way, you're safe now because of me."

"Such attitude. Well,I don't care," Miles said, completely unfazed. "You're driving… or we're going to the station."

"What do you mean I'm driving?" she demanded, backing up a step. "I don't even know you!"

"I'm Miles," he repeated like it magically solved every problem.

Then, with that same ridiculous confidence: "Can we go?"

He pushed himself upright,slow but determined—shoulders tense, jaw tight. A faint tremor ran through his arm, but he pretended not to feel it. His hand moved to the IV and he started yanking at the tape, irritation burning under his skin.

Evie's heart jumped.

"Hey—HEY! You can't just pull that out!"

She spun around the hospital room, looking for a nurse, a doctor, anyone—because clearly this man had escaped common sense along with the accident. The monitors beeped steadily in the background, calm and polite, absolutely useless.

"You can't just leave," she said. "There's probably paperwork or medical rules. Laws."

"Evie, right?"

She froze. "How do you know my name?"

"You were shouting it when you hit me with your car," he said casually, wincing as he pulled off the last bit of tape. "I think you were also crying. Not impressive by the way."

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "You're unbelievable."

He grabbed a hoodie from the chair in the corner, her hoodie, the one she'd dumped there hours ago, and shrugged it on like it belonged to him. He looked ridiculous. His dark hair was a mess, his sneakers were scuffed, and a faint bruise was forming along his jawline. But somehow, even after a collision, he walked like someone with zero intention of being stopped.

"I have somewhere to be," he said. "And now, so do you."

"Oh, you do?" she snapped, following him out the door. "You sure about that?"

Miles didn't even turn. "You're the one who hit me. Technically, you owe me."

"I saved you!"

"Details," he said over his shoulder.

This had to be a dream. Or a prank. Or one of those alternate reality TikToks. Maybe she was still in bed and this was her brain melting from stress and leftover chicken wings.

But then he held the door to the stairwell open and looked back at her with a slight smirk. She hated that part of herself that followed, not because she owed him, but because she couldn't stop wondering where exactly he needed to go.

And just like that, she was back behind the wheel.

She had no job, a potentially concussed mystery man in her passenger seat, and a very bad feeling that her day was about to get a lot stranger.