Page 11 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Sienna

I always wanted to get married, but I never dreamed of my wedding.

According to my mom, my parents’ wedding was a weekend-long bash. Cabin on a lake, local wine, live band, everything. My high school friends—those who have tied the knot, at least—all had beautiful weddings, too.

But, somehow, the party has never been important to me. I don’t fantasize about a dress, or a cake, or a dance. Instead, I imagine myself on the beach with a man I love, honeymooning and drinking out of a coconut. Just us two. Lapping waves and burning sunshine.

Party optional.

And yet here I am, seated in front of a wide mirror as a tattooed woman with thick glasses pats powder on my face, getting dolled up for a wedding I agreed to only a few days ago.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell Mason, who’s leaning against the wall in a dark green tux, watching. “All we need are the photos.”

It took some convincing, but both Lena and Mason will be in the audience for the wedding today. I had to promise Lena I’d take her out for the fanciest dinner possible, the kind with tiny portions and sauce served on a spoon. Mason asked for a Ferrari, but we compromised with a shopping trip.

“Oh, totally,” he deadpans, drinking from a giant tea mug with his brows raised. “I also want a whole wedding ceremony with Nick Harwood just for the photos.”

I huff a laugh. “Did you check to see if Nick and I’s picture from the diner was published online yet?”

“Yeah.” Mason pulls out his phone, scrolling. “It’s on Instagram. People in the comments are speculating that he’s finally settling down.”

“Good.”

In the picture, Nick and I are smiling at each other over the table, leaning forward like we’re being drawn together by gravity. I don’t remember sitting like that, but it makes good publicity, so I roll with it.

“Any way I can talk you out of this?” Mason says. “Signing your life away?”

“It’s not my life,” I say. “It’s three months.” The makeup artist instructs me to look up while she applies mascara. “The public is primed for the wedding. When photos from today get leaked, Nick’s reputation will get even more of a boost.”

“Right,” Mason drawls. An underreaction, considering this might be some of the best public relations work I’ve ever done. I side-eye him, and he sighs. “It just seems risky. You’ll get married, Nick will get a new reputation and control of Harwood Restaurant Group, and you’ll get … what?”

“What do you mean? He’s paying my dad’s debts.”

“But why did he pick you? If any of the tabloids investigate who you are, those fake posts about your dad are going to be in the spotlight again. People won’t forget as easily this time, especially after his daughter’s divorce. You could be right back where you started.”

“My dad won his lawsuit,” I say.

Mason shrugs. “You and I both know the public doesn’t care about that.”

“I can still work to protect my privacy.” I’ve already prepped Nick on what I’ll do to safeguard my identity: I won’t give my name to the press; I’ll delete all my socials; I’ll be careful not to tell anyone in Nick’s world my real last name.

“It’s not that simple, Sienna.”

“I don’t do simple, Mason,” I tell him. “You know I love a challenge to sink my teeth into.” And instead of focusing on the tug I get in my stomach when I think about living in Nick’s penthouse, I can focus on the business wins for Charters.

“There’s something about this whole situation, about him, that just feels right, despite everything. ”

“Trust the process?”

“Trust the process.”

“Okay.” He nods—I can tell he isn’t satisfied, but we’ve said everything there is to say. “I trust you. Don’t trip out there, bitch.”

“Love you too,” I say with a smile, and he heads out to meet Lena in the courthouse.

Silence sweeps in. I watch the makeup artist swipe highlighter onto my cheeks, thinking, I’m up to the task. I’ve told myself that a million times this week. Despite the risks, I can do this. I can be whoever I want.

High-powered PR executive? Absolutely.

Dedicated daughter? Any day of the week.

Bad bitch? With every breath I take.

Blushing bride?

Why the hell not?

“Mrs. Harwood,” the artist says, breaking me from my thoughts.

“Uh—yes?”

“We’re ready for you in the dressing room.”

A few minutes later, I’m staring at myself in an elaborate, pearl-white mermaid dress and long cathedral veil.

My hair cascades over my shoulders in natural, loose curls, glossy and black.

There’s patterned lace running up my arms and across my chest, and the line of the dress clings to my hips and thighs, ending in a delicate flare at my knees.

Even I’m stunned speechless for a moment. If I were a real bride, I’d be the prettiest real bride I’d ever seen.

I stay quiet as the style team fusses with the dress and veil, perfecting every fall of fabric, every bead.

I think about my mom and dad, who asked very few questions about this whole thing once I made it clear our financial problems would be solved.

I think about the money wired into my account yesterday, and the first morning in months I didn’t wake up to a low-balance notification from my bank.

A powerful sense of awareness settles over me.

I’m up to the task.

“They’re ready for you.”

“Okay.”

The doors open and I walk into my marriage ceremony.

The courthouse is small and plain, pungent with the smell of air freshener, wood, and old leather. Nick is at the head of the room, waiting at the altar. It isn’t really an altar. It’s a wooden table with three vases of white and pink flowers on it, arrangements matching the bouquet I’m holding.

“Please rise,” the officiant, an older woman with bright red lipstick, says.

Chairs creak. Nick turns around, attention landing straight on me. He runs a hand over the back of his neck.

We haven’t seen each other in person since we signed the contract at Blackstone Center. He looks incredible: a fresh haircut, a smooth shave. The cut of his black suit accentuates his height, his jacket spotless and perfectly fitting as always.

God , one half of my brain says. He’s like a magazine cutout.

Shut up, replies the other half. Start walking.

Our photographer hovers at the side of the room behind a huge lens, capturing the scene. I move down the aisle, passing Lena and Mason, who give me little smiles. I hand my bouquet to Mason. He smirks and mops pretend tears from his eyes. Lena elbows him.

On the other side of the aisle, Victor Harwood hasn’t bothered to stand from his seat. His gaze follows my movements carefully while Nick’s lawyer leans to whisper something in his ear. I acknowledge them with a tilt of my head, and—well—Alvin returns it, at least.

What does Victor think of me? Should I care? He’s playing his cards close to the chest, and we still haven’t been introduced. He’s here, at least. I’m taking that as his conditional approval, even if Nick hasn’t told him who my dad is.

And then there I am, standing in front of the city’s hottest, most notorious heir, looking up into his dark eyes. My stomach somersaults. His throat ripples in a swallow.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

We turn to the officiant and the wedding begins.

“We are gathered here today …”

As the officiant reads from her book, my body tingles all over—stage fright. I focus on my breathing, each inhale and exhale drawing me deeper into the moment. Warmth radiates from Nick. His scent is comforting and familiar, like breakfast in the wilderness, a summertime sunrise.

What he said at our dinner comes back to me: We’d all have a win in this, Sienna.

Dad can hand over the company peacefully, shareholders get the image they want and begin to reinvest, I secure the CEO role my mom wanted for me …

and you secure enough money to consider your father’s past a small issue.

Three months starting today. After that, Dad is free. I’m finally free, and it’s all because of the man standing beside me.

As the officiant reads from her book, I shift slightly. My arm brushes against his. It’s an accident, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he subtly adjusts, moving a little closer, his warmth pressing into my side. Not pushy, or forceful, but there.

That’s what the tabloids should be reporting about Nick Harwood. Not the fake scandals or headlines, but the quiet steadiness of him. He’s like a mountain. Or an oak tree. Or a … skyscraper. I don’t know.

We stand until the rings are produced, and the officiant says, “Do you, Sienna, take Nick to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” I say, facing Nick and placing my hands in his. Our fingers entwine more effortlessly than I expected. I slide his wedding band on.

“And do you, Nick, take Sienna to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” he says from above me. I can feel his breath move in the hair around my face. He guides my ring onto my finger.

The officiant flips forward in her book. There’s a pause, and I gaze at the ring on my left hand. The diamond is exquisite, the gold band thin and elegant.

Nick leans down, mouth to my ear.

“The diamond was my mother’s. I hope it’s sufficient.”

Prickles erupt across my skin. When he straightens again, I can only blink at him. We’ve never spoken about Laurie Harwood. I’ve done enough research to know that she and Nick were close, but … the sentimental value of this ring is real, even if he and I’s relationship isn’t.

“Of course it’s sufficient,” I whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiles, and a warm shiver slides down my spine.

“By the power vested in me,” the officiant says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss.”

My eyes lock with Nick’s. At the corner of my vision, I see the photographer move in to capture the finale, the shot that’s going to seal the deal. Mason and Lena lean forward in their seats. Victor crosses his arms, eyes glittering.

Showtime.

Nick looks at me. There’s a camera click to our right. The officiant makes a gesture with her palms: go on. He squeezes my hands.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

We lean in, and our lips meet in a brief, featherlight touch. It’s gentle, tasteful. The pad of his thumb glides up the back of my hand, so delicate I wonder if he knows he’s doing it.

The camera clicks, then clicks again. There it is: the kiss we promised our lawyers. It’s finished.

But it’s not finished for me.

I don’t know why I do it. I just do. It’s the same impulse that pushed me to write my number on his wrist all those days ago. Like he and I are caught in a dance, or a game of chess, and it’s the only logical next move. Instead of pulling away, I press my mouth firmly to Nick’s.

I kiss him. Really kiss him.

Nick stiffens, startled, but his lips are so soft, I can’t will myself to stop. I release his hands and twist my fingers in his lapels, pulling him down to meet me.

“Sienna?” he murmurs against my lips. His potent, intoxicating smell is everywhere, in my nose, filling my lungs, setting up shop in my brain. When I don’t move away, he falls into it with me. He exhales hard, circles an arm around my waist, and kisses me back. The feeling is …

Wow.

Our mouths press and linger; once, twice, three times. I’m off my feet—he’s lifted me up against him. The guests are clapping. The camera clicks, clicks, clicks.

And, just as quickly, it’s over.

We untangle. Nick sets me on my feet. He’s breathing hard, a look in his eyes I’ve never seen before. I think he’s going to kiss me again. He stares at my mouth. I stare back at him, my heart in my throat.

Then the world comes back into focus. The guests are standing, still clapping. Someone throws a handful of confetti. I take a shaky breath, and Nick and I turn into a camera flash, heading down the aisle together.

We’re married.