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“Look, the great pizza war isn’t mine to wage.” I’ve amused him; his smile is bright and effortless, softening the skin around his eyes.Serioustrouble. He’s even more beautiful when he isn’t being defensive. “What’s your favorite thing to eat?”

I pause, considering. “My mom used to make spaghetti Bolognese. When I was a kid, she’d let me stir the sauce, even though the spoon was bigger than I was.”

Nick chuckles. “My mom was the same. Except she’d have me roll out dough for croissants. I think she just liked bossing me around.”

I laugh, and in the beat of silence that follows, I’m surprised to find us in a comfortable, nostalgic bubble. It’s been a while since conversation with a client felt this easy. The simplicity of it feels like a luxury.

Nick seems to feel the same way. He’s watching me closely, our barstools turned toward each other. My knees are almost touching his.

Business, Sienna. Focus.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say. “You’re skipping an overseas trip to … eat?”

“Cook,” he corrects. “I’m putting together a menu for a restaurant concept. But yeah, when you say it like that, it sounds pretty lame.”

“It doesn’t.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Actually, it’s kind of impressive. The Harwood heir likes to cook.”

“Is it that unexpected, considering my family’s business?”

“Your family is in the business of owning restaurants, Mr. Harwood, not cooking for them.” My eyes narrow. “What’s on your menu? Mac and cheese? Toast?”

“Very funny. I’ve mastered those already, thank you.”

I smile. I can sense him smiling, too, from the corner of my eye. I pull a pen from my bag and poise it over the first page of the plan.

“How about a week overseas instead of a month? We’re thinking Fiji. You can treat it as a vacation.”

He clicks his tongue. “I guess that would be fine. I used to spend a lot of time there with my parents.”

“Great.” I writeone week to travelon the paper. “Anything else we’ll need to look at?”

“Yeah. I’m not quitting public appearances. I have events to go to.”

“Mr. Harwood.” I move closer, my long, black hair swishing across my thigh. Nick’s eyes dive down, then up again, so fast I might have imagined it. “You’re about to inherit the biggest restaurant conglomerate in the world, and you can’t take a break from being rich in public for two minutes?”

He glares at me. “There’s a charity gala at the end of the month that I can’t miss. And being rich in public is a valid lifestyle if you’d just learn to mind your business.”

“The average person doesn’t know how to mind their business, unfortunately. A fact that might cost you your future.”

At that, he sits back in his seat, searching the ceiling with his eyes. I’m pretty sure I have him convinced, but I count down from ten in my head, giving him time to go over what I’ve proposed.

“Fucking hell,” he says after a minute.

“Nick.” He meets my gaze, startled at me using his name for the first time. “We can do this.”

He holds my eyes, then does a heavy, tired exhale. My chest tightens with sympathy—just a little, and only because I can relate.

Like Nick, I know how it feels to live under the weight of a family legacy. It’s just that his legacy comes with millions of dollars, and mine comes with … close to that, but in the negative. Nick will inherit a company, and I’ll inherit the ghost of one.

I don’t feeltoosorry for him.

Finally, he passes a hand over his forehead and gives me a resigned frown. “Let me think about it over the weekend. Make the changes to your plan, and we’ll meet again on Monday. Yes?”

“Absolutely.”

He offers to pay the bill, then insists on escorting me to the front of the restaurant, where I call a cab to take me back to Blackstone Center. Daylight is waning, casting long shadows beneath shop overhangs and across the mouths of alleys.

Nick stands beside me, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, gaze tilted toward the steadily darkening sky. The fading sunlight catches on the line of his jaw, illuminating the brass shades in his hair. I find myself watching him longer than I should.