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He ignores the jibe (too bad—I’ve spent the last twenty minutes fantasizing about his reaction) and shakes my outstretched hand. I smile at him, although I shouldn’t. He clearly doesn’t value my time.

Butten million dollars. I’m playing nice.

Mostly.

“You’re the new PR girl,” he says, gaze running over me. It looks an awful lot like the evaluation I gave him. “You must be a miracle worker for my dad to call in an outside hire.”

“I’m the newPR professional, yes. And I’m not here to work miracles. I’m here to make you likeable.”

“Lucky me.”

His hair falls tidily over his forehead, complementing dark-lashed eyes, stubble-strewn cheeks, and a strong jawline.Wow,yeah, he’s gorgeous. Even better looking than Mason’s Instagram likes led me to believe.

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Why do you look like you just picked the winning lotto ticket, Ms. Hayes?”

“Because I did, Mr. Harwood.” I sit back on my barstool, smoothing my pants over my knees. Looks are a powerful weapon when it comes to influencing the public. My job just got a whole lot easier. “Care to join me? You’re welcome to call me Sienna.”

“Sienna,” he says. “You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who’s recently met my dad. He must like you.”

I’ve never spoken to Victor Harwood, only his lawyer—but I decide not to correct him. “Your father is certain my firm can repair the damage you’ve done to your public opinion. Frankly, so am I.”

“Ah. How much did he offer you?”

The question is so direct that it takes me aback. I take a sip from my empty gin and tonic, sucking at whatever melted off the ice in the last twenty minutes. “I’m not at liberty to discuss finances.”

He leans in closer, still standing, forcing me to crane to maintain eye contact. “Blink when I guess correctly. One million. Five million. Ten?—”

“There are better uses of our time, Mr. Harwood.”

“Ten million!”He throws his head back and laughs. “I knew my old man was desperate, but I never realized he wasthatdesperate.”

His laugh is humorless, yet maddeningly attractive all the same. The heat that sparks in my veins only fuels my irritation.

“If you’ll sit down with me, Mr. Harwood, I’m sure you’ll find your father’s bank account is the least of your problems.”

That stops his laughter short. A beat passes while I rifle through my work bag, pulling out a manila folder. There’s thirty pages inside, evidence of Lena, Mason, and I’s frenzied work over the last week. When I look up again, Nick is sitting on a barstool and signaling the (very excited, very red) bartender for a drink.

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” he tells me, propping his elbow on the bar and swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

I flash him a smile. “I’ll only need ten.”

Spreading out the papers, I tap the title page of the plan. Nick leans forward to examine it.

“Spiritual evaluation stunt,”he reads. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I give him a few minutes to read the introduction, watching as he scans his eyes down the page. There’s the hint of a tattoo peeking from the back of his collar, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s sitting so close, but I can smell him. His cologne—if itiscologne—is amazing. Rosemary, fresh bread, and something woodsy.

Trouble,I think again.

I clear my throat.

“Mr. Harwood, your father worked hard to create the brand name we’ve all come to know and respect. When you hear Harwood Restaurant Group, you think good food, a good time, and, on some very lucky evenings, the best networking you can access in the city.”

Nick leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. “I’m aware that my parents established a goldmine. What else?”

“What elseis that your father is going to retire, and you’re next in line.”

“And …”