Page 10 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Nick

A bell chimes above my head as I step into the diner. It’s before sunrise and I’m running on no sleep and no coffee. I haven’t felt this wired since I was cooking at my first restaurant gig ten years ago.

Turns out that working behind the line has nothing on asking Sienna Hayes to enter a marriage of convenience with you.

“You’re here on time,” she says with a small, tired smile as I hover over the table she chose, a booth near the window.

“Do you not understand I’m famous?” I gesture at the window. At some point an early-morning passerby is going to spot me, snap a photo, and sell it to tabloid-of-the-day.

“Actually, I was counting on that. Please sit.”

I pull off my scarf and slide into the booth across from her. She’s looking fearsome this morning. Clear-eyed, sharp-nailed. Not rested, exactly—there’re shadows under her brown eyes, and her hair is frizzy in her ponytail—but that only adds to the quiet power she carries.

Knowing that she was up all night going over my proposal has my pulse kicking up.

I can’t figure out why, but the more time I spend with Sienna, the more I want her to think about me.

I want to be on her mind. It’s selfish. It’s weird.

I can’t remember ever wanting that with anyone, even when I was fifteen with my first girlfriend.

I’m working hard not to make an ass of myself.

“I ordered us coffee,” she says, voice cool. “It’s still early, so I don’t think you’ll get a lot of attention from strangers, but whatever little you get is good. We need it.”

“Why?”

“I’ll get to that.” Sienna folds her hands in front of her, leaning forward across the table. “First, I need to know if your dad will agree to this.”

“He suggested it.”

She raises an eyebrow, that expression I like. “He suggested me?”

“No.” I shrug. “But I think he likes you. He called you a principled young lady.”

Sienna’s gaze shifts out the window. If she’s pleased by the compliment, she doesn’t show it. “That makes this a lot easier. We can’t just pop up married out of the blue. People are going to have questions.”

As if on cue, there’s a startled yelp from outside. A group of people trudging by the diner halts, staring into the window. From the corner of my eye, I see one of them pull out their phone and snap a picture of us.

Sienna doesn’t flinch, but the corner of her mouth quirks. I like that expression, too—the one she makes when she gets her way.

“It makes sense that there should be some history between us,” I say after the strangers leave. “A paper trail.”

“Exactly. Rumors are good sometimes. We want to give the people watching something to talk about.”

She stretches her neck, ponytail falling to one side.

Something to talk about.

For the first time—well, for the first time today —I think about the fact that we’ll be required to hold hands in public. To sit close together. To touch each other. I imagine sliding into her side of the booth, putting my mouth to her neck, the feeling of her skin …

Listen. I’m not asking her to do this with me because she’s gorgeous. Our business arrangement is too important to fuck up, and I’m not a misogynist creep. I’ll touch her when there’s a camera to catch it, and only if she wants me to.

I hope she wants me to.

“Well,” I say, reigning myself in. “It’s a little late to be thinking about a paper trail, isn’t it? We have to meet with our lawyers this week if we’re going to do this right.”

“Our play is to make it seem like we’ve been secretly dating for a while and we’re planning to make it official, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So, when a random picture of us drinking morning coffee in a diner close to your penthouse pops up, we’ll already be established in the minds of the public.”

Ah. That’s why I asked her to do this with me—because she’s a PR manager, and a damn good one, too.

Before I can say that out loud, our coffee arrives via a young, nervous-looking server. She leaves a bowl of something that looks like apple crumble next to the coffee cups, saying, “Our treat, Mr. Harwood.”

I offer the bowl to Sienna. She shakes her head.

“I don’t like apples.”

“That’s convenient,” I say, grinning, and put a spoonful in my mouth. The texture’s perfect. Not too sweet, but I’d have added more cinnamon. “They’re my favorite.”

“Speaking of which …” Sienna reaches under the table and produces her bag, which has her tablet sticking out of the top. She pulls it out and taps the screen. “We need to be prepared for conversations about each other. If we’re not ready, no one will buy that we’re in love.”

“You’re worried what people will say?”

“I work in public relations, Mr. Harwood. Everything I do is based on what people will say.”

“Of course.” There’s a chart on her screen. She turns the whole thing around and shows me the title: Question and Answer Game Plan. “What’s that mean?”

“I’ve compiled a list of things that a fiancé would know.” Sienna brushes her finger across the screen, scrolling down . “That way, if someone asks you a question about me, you’ll have the answer.”

I glance through the information in the chart. Our names are written across the top, and there are topics down the left-hand side: favorite books, preferred music, nostalgic movies, places traveled. Sienna has already filled her column out.

“When did you find the time to do this?”

“Let’s just say I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Her favorite color is purple. She loves nineties music. She doesn’t like apples.

“I’m supposed to memorize all this?”

Sienna drinks from her coffee with one hand and passes me her stylus with the other. “Fill out your side. I’ll send a copy to both of us. Next time we meet, we’ll test how prepared we are.”

“I didn’t think fake marriage would be so much work,” I say, but that’s not exactly true. I’d guessed we’d have to do something like this. Strangely, though, looking at this chart doesn’t feel like work at all.

Sienna’s childhood fears: sharks and being left alone. The way she takes her coffee: vanilla almond milk, no sugar. Her preferred bedtime: midnight.

Fascinating.

I start filling out the spaces under my name, then stop. There’s one thing we haven’t confirmed yet. The most important thing.

“Then … we’re doing this? You’re going to be my wife?”

Sienna’s back straightens. She blinks at the word wife , but other than her posture, she doesn’t betray any emotion. I get the sense she’s controlling every muscle in her face.

I set down the tablet. “I’m not going to marry you for pretend if you don’t communicate with me for real, Ms. Hayes.”

She does a soft laugh. “It’s just that Lena and Mason are going to kill me. And you, for that matter.”

“You can still back out, you know.”

“I’m not backing out.” The determined note in her voice impresses me. She sets her coffee mug on the table. “It’s three months of business, Mr. Harwood. I don’t run from business.”

I return to the chart and fill in my box next to childhood fears: earthquakes, vampires, and Victor Harwood.

“Excellent,” I tell her. “Neither do I.”

We meet with our lawyers at Charters PR Management on Wednesday at one o’clock. I’m only mildly surprised when I exit the elevator and find Lena and Mason pacing around the reception area, muttering to each other.

They stop in their tracks as soon as I appear, and it’s like someone turned the temperature way down. Lena’s eyes do a steely flash. Mason’s lips pinch into a line.

I stand at the entrance, arms going heavy at my sides.

Uh oh.

“Mr. Harwood,” Mason says. His arms are crossed tight. I can see the elbows of his shirt stretching. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bescht.” I nod at Lena, who’s tapping her toe, vibrating like an aerosol can in a fire pit. “Ms. Rathore.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, gaze shifting to Mason. If these two could vaporize me with a glare, I’d be a smoking pile of ash on the floor. Maybe I should have worn body armor instead of my Rolex.

“I see you’ve spoken to our mutual business partner,” I say.

The sound that comes out of Lena’s mouth would be comical in any other situation. “What do you mean, business partner ?—”

“Lena,” Mason interrupts. “I think it’s best if I handle this one.” He turns to me, patting a hand over his pale hair. He’s slicked it back so hard it’s barely visible against his skin. “Sienna told us about your plan to fake-marry, Mr. Harwood. A reputation boost in exchange for paid debts.”

“That’s right.”

“From a PR perspective, it’s a little unorthodox, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would.”

“A little unexpected.” His voice is ice cold. “A little fucking stupid, even.”

I unbutton my coat, shrugging it off and draping it over my forearm.

As much as I don’t want to be read the Riot Act, I get it.

It’s not every day that a billionaire asks your best friend to participate in a sham marriage.

Years ago, if something like this had happened to Roderick, I would have been just as protective of him.

Not that he would have deserved it.

“Is Sienna with the lawyers already?” I ask.

Lena ignores the question. “Ninety days,” she spits, addressing Mason as if she can’t stand to look at me. “They’ll be married for ninety days before they get divorced. That’s plenty of time for them to mess things up.”

The muscles in my neck tense. “I can assure you Sienna and I have each other’s best interests in mind.”

“This is what you call best interests? ”

“The contract our lawyers have drawn up ensures there will be as little disruption to Sienna’s life as possible.”

Mason looks at me like I have one brain cell. “Oh, we’re not worried about that, babe.”

“Then what are you?—”

“We’re worried about her falling in love with you.”

A beat passes. The elevator whirs behind me, the car headed back down to fetch someone on a floor below us. I’m not sure I heard him right. Did he say falling in love?

“That’s—that’s not going to be a problem,” I tell him. “Our relationship is strictly professional. Besides, Sienna is …”

Too clever. Too merciless. Too professional to get involved with one of her clients—especially someone like me. Plus, I’ve never intentionally broken a woman’s heart, despite what my reputation says. I’m sure as hell not going to start with her.

“She’s in charge,” I tell Mason. “I promise.”

“I hope you can keep that promise, Mr. Harwood.” Mason takes a step toward me, chin tilted down so he can give me a death glare over his glasses. “If you hurt her, Lena and I will hang your dick on a laundry line for the world to see.”

I swallow dryly. “Noted, Mr. Bescht.”

“I’m serious. Flapping in the wind. I don’t care how gorgeous it is.”

Before I can respond, the receptionist appears to usher me into Sienna’s office. I hesitate, considering shaking Lena and Mason’s hands, but Lena looks like she’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to break all my fingers, and Mason’s hand would probably freeze mine solid.

I leave them behind in the waiting room, letting out a long exhale.

Fine. It’ll be fine.

Sienna is with our lawyers in her office, reading through a folder of paper I recognize as the marriage contract. She’s got a black dress on today. Black tights, shiny black heels. I have to physically stop myself from following the line of her legs with my eyes.

Great start.

“Should I be offended that you’re dressed like you’re going to a funeral a few days before our wedding?” I ask.

She doesn’t look up from the contract. “Good to see you turning a new leaf, Nick. On the clock.”

“I’m under good influence.”

My family lawyer, Alvin, is leaning back in his chair, white hair perfectly combed, fingers laced over his chest. We nod at each other.

He’s a man of few words—except when he’s writing long emails to my father about my behavior, that is.

Sienna’s lawyer is a sharp-looking blonde woman with her hair in a bun.

Sienna flips a page. “It says here I get to keep my basement suite, but for the duration of the contract I’ll live with you. Just in case any paparazzi follow us around.”

I nod. “I have a guest room made up for you.”

Her eyes flick to mine, then continue scanning down the contract. I’ve already read the whole thing, as have our lawyers. I can’t think of anything we’ve missed: our timeline is carefully laid out; our numbers are crunched; our rules are delineated.

“The No Intimacy clause is thorough ,” Sienna’s lawyer says, her tone perfectly businesslike as she taps the last page of the contract with a pen.

“You can flirt all you want in front of the camera, but behind the scenes, hands off. Unnecessary emotional intimacy is against the rules; you’re not to get to know each other beyond what’s needed for the job.

There won’t be any time spent with other people, either, just in case one of you gets caught and accused of cheating. ”

“That makes sense,” Sienna remarks.

“Totally fair,” I say.

I haven’t gone to bed with a woman in almost half a year, anyway. I really, really wish my dick would stop reminding me of that every time I see my soon-to-be fake wife.

“I get half the money up front, and half the money after the divorce, assuming you’re able to take control of Harwood Restaurant Group while we’re married,” Sienna says. “Sound good to you?”

“Yep.” It’s watertight, and lucky for me, she seems to agree.

“It’s a deal,” Sienna says, and signs her name on the dotted line.

My heart does a weird, little jump, which I ignore. I sign my name next to hers, then shake her hand.

“Nice doing business with you.”

Nick, 7:13 PM

Did you get home okay?

Sienna

Yes, just packing my stuff. Going to pick it up after the wedding and bring it to yours.

Sure. Take as long as you need.

Can I bring my Samurai sword collection?

I have no way of knowing if you’re serious.

You’ll just have to wait and see.

Ha.

You’re sure about this, though? No second thoughts?

Nick. We’re good to go.

Stop being so needy.

There she is.

Really though, I appreciate you asking. If you have any questions before the wedding, you’re welcome to text me any time you want.

There isn’t a secret “no texting” clause I should know about?

I don’t believe the contract said anything about texting, no.

Good.

See you in a few days, PR girl.