Page 12 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Sienna

Lena

Sienna. You have got to be kidding me.

Mason

What. The fuck. Was that.

Sienna

What are you talking about?

Lena

Is Nick with you?

No, he went to get the penthouse ready. I’m grabbing my things from home.

Why do you ask?

Mason

What do you mean, why do we ask?!

Lena

That kiss was insane!

Oh, yeah. I hope the public buys it.

Lena

Girl. You’re both done for.

The windows of the courthouse practically steamed up.

Lena …

Mason

She’s right. I’m about to write fan fiction about you two.

Please don’t.

You’re both done for.

The words follow me out of the courthouse, into Nick’s car, and all the way across the city to pick up my essentials at my place. Sunlight is waning beyond the buildings, stars winking on like tiny lamps in the sky.

When Nick’s driver pulls up in front of Mrs. Martin’s house, it’s twilight. I spot the tiniest shift in the upstairs curtains while I clomp down the steps to my basement suite. Two eyes peer out: one belonging to Mrs. Martin, the other belonging to her orange demon.

I give them a quick wave. The day before, I let Mrs. Martin know that I’ll be gone for the next three months but will still be paying rent. Her glasses nearly fell off.

“And how do you expect to manage that?” she’d asked.

“I’m getting married,” I’d replied with a smile.

It hadn’t seemed real, then.

Now, I change into jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers, and wheel my suitcases out of the life I know and into the private elevator that leads to Nick’s downtown penthouse.

His massive, multi-million-dollar, luxury downtown penthouse.

I’m not in Kansas anymore.

I stare at myself in the mirrored elevator car until there’s a soft ding and the doors slide open again. The entrance hall of Nick’s place appears. I look up— up, up, up —at the vast ceiling, and my stomach twists in uncharacteristic knots.

I don’t get nervous easily. When I was fourteen, my best friend dared me to talk our way into a sold-out concert, eyeing the female security guards at one of the entrances.

Young Sienna had adjusted her backpack, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and strolled right up to that security guard like it was nothing.

I didn’t just get us two tickets. I got us backstage passes.

But this … this feels different.

The first thing I notice is how empty Nick’s place feels.

Sharp edges, gleaming marble. Ahead of me, a floor-to-ceiling window wall offers a breathtaking view of the darkening city, obstructed only by a floating staircase with sparkling glass railings.

Everything is sleek and sterile, the kind of modern luxury you’d find in an architecture magazine.

Nick is nowhere to be found.

“Hello?” I call, dragging my suitcases from the elevator. My voice echoes off glass and marble. No response.

Could he still be out with his dad and Alvin?

Sienna

Hey, Nick. I’m here.

He doesn’t reply. I decide to leave my suitcases at the door and venture up the stairs, looking for the guest bedroom I’m supposed to be staying in. Better than standing in the entrance like a lost puppy.

Upstairs, I flick on a light switch. Overhead lights bathe the walls in white, shadows dripping from a tall, metal sculpture too modern to be anything recognizable. There’s a collection of framed photos on a console table next to it.

They’re mostly group shots—a birthday, someone’s bachelor party—but the last is a candid photo of Nick in a professional kitchen.

His apron and white jacket are in perfect condition, his side towel stained and splashed, signs of a day’s work.

He’s young, maybe in his mid-twenties, and he’s got a whisk in his hand.

His eyes are crinkled in a laugh, his head thrown back in tired, carefree joy.

Gorgeous. There’s no better way to say it. He’s beautiful. Upsettingly beautiful, like a man who’s never once burned toast or eaten a bag of mini marshmallows for lunch. Like a man who casually rolls up his sleeves and ruins your whole life.

I leave the photos behind and keep walking.

The first doors I find lead me into an office and a massive laundry room, both clean and tidy. The third door is cracked open, light shining on the other side. I peek through the doorway.

This isn’t my room, either. I know that straight away, but my feet refuse to move.

I’m looking at Nick’s bedroom.

It’s two stories tall, with a rounded wall of floor-to-ceiling glass windows.

Jesus. How big is this place? Outside, the city twinkles, throwing light onto a large, made bed at the center of the room.

Nick’s suit from the wedding is lain out on the plush navy and charcoal bedding, his corsage sitting on the bedside table, where a lamp glows.

It's urban elegance, and it’s just as cold as everything I’ve seen in the penthouse so far. It doesn’t even smell like him in here—it smells like laundry detergent, sandalwood, and men’s shampoo. A pleasant scent, to be sure, but not Nick.

As I’m standing there following the line of the curtains up, up with my eyes, something about the sound in the room changes. I realize too late it’s a shower turning off.

I snap my eyes back to the bed. My arms go limp. A door I hadn’t noticed thunks open at the far end of the room, and Nick walks through, running his fingers through his hair. He’s shirtless, glistening wet, holding a white towel around his waist.

“Shit,” I whisper to myself, stepping backward—more like careening backward—before he sees me.

But not before I look.

It’s just for a second. Maybe a little too long. My eyes catch on the broad stretch of his shoulders, the carved lines of his torso, the way droplets trail down his body. His calves look rock hard.

And his abs.

Oh my God , Nick Harwood has abs.

More tattoos than I thought, too. The inked floral pattern on his arms reaches from his shoulders, down his pecs, and across his stomach, toward that muscular V situated above the line of his towel. Pointing straight to …

Nope.

My heart’s already pounding too hard, my face too blazing hot, to think about what’s under that towel.

Holding my breath, I leave the bedroom behind, retracing my steps downstairs on tiptoes. I shake my head at myself. What the hell is wrong with me? Why would I spy into Nick’s bedroom? I already know that he’s hot—it’s not like I need further confirmation.

(The kiss from the wedding still lingers on my lips, a phantom touch I haven’t been able to shake. Kissing him was a stupid thing to do, but at the time, I needed to do it. For some reason.)

Business, Sienna. Focus.

Downstairs again, I take a moment to collect myself, fingers gripping the handle of my suitcase, before I call out again. “Hello?”

“Oh, hey,” Nick says from above. “Be out in a sec. Living room’s the last door to the right.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

I speedwalk into the penthouse’s main space, which is an open plan dining room, living room, and kitchen.

There’s a sprawling, gray sofa sitting near the windows to my right, flanking a black coffee table and a massive fireplace.

Overhead, a mezzanine with a dining table and comfy-looking chairs hangs over the kitchen.

The kitchen.

Oh.

I take one look at it and know this is where Nick actually lives.

There’s life here. Two long, marble islands are covered with an impressive range of ingredients, spices in labeled jars, fresh herbs, and cookware that is obviously well-loved.

Cookbooks lay open with bookmarks next to them.

And the smell—yes—that’s the smell I know. Rosemary, fresh bread, the mountains.

“I can make dinner for you,” Nick says, walking in behind me. “If you want.”

The lurch in my stomach has me almost airborne. I whirl to face him. He’s changed into sweats and a black, long-sleeved shirt that emphasizes his biceps. Better than just a towel, obviously, but now that I know what’s underneath, I’m not sure I can look at him without stuttering.

“It’s—it’s pretty late,” I manage. “You don’t have to cook me dinner. I just need a shower and …”

My voice fails me. One side of his mouth pulls up, a hand scraping at his five o’clock shadow.

“And?”

“Sorry. Sleep. I need a shower and sleep.”

A breathy laugh escapes him, matching mine.

“Of course. Big day.” He moves past me into the kitchen and opens the fridge, taking out a shaker cup.

“Wi-Fi password’s in the drawer over there if you need it.

You can help yourself to anything in the kitchen.

Oh, and your room is upstairs—the guest room to the left of the staircase. ”

Down the hall from his room.

It takes a Herculean effort to keep my eyes level with his face. “And towels?”

“In the cupboard in your ensuite.”

“Great.”

I watch him take a drink from the cup, his wedding band winking in the light. Mine feels heavy enough to make my finger fall off. The silence is uncomfortable, and I can’t tell which one of us is making it that way.

He puts the cup back in the fridge, rummaging in a crisper.

“Do you …” he starts, but he trails off, as if thinking better of the question. I just stand there like a statue while he pulls a red bell pepper from a paper bag. “Today went well.”

“It did,” I say. “Lena has the pictures set to leak in a couple hours, so… That’ll be good.”

“Great.” Nick rinses the pepper in the sink, then positions it on a massive cutting board. The kitchen has those soft, yellow lights that hang from the ceiling on lines. They bring out a honey gold color in his drying hair. “Did the courthouse get the marriage certificate made up?”

“Yes.” I’m briefly mesmerized by the way he selects a knife from a block, then chops the pepper into ribbons almost faster than I can see. “They’ll send us both a copy, and one to each of our lawyers.”

“Perfect.” He finishes with the pepper, then goes still for a moment. He sets the knife down. “Hey, about the?—”

“I wanted to?—”

“Sorry.” He chuckles, wincing at me. “You go first.”

I shake my head. “No, uh … you go.”

Nick leans backward against the counter. His eyes are dark enough for any girl to trip and fall into. “About the kiss.”

I shove my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, twisting the fabric inside. If I pray hard enough, will I get hit with a bolt of lightning right now?

“Oh, yes. I wanted to apologize about that. I should have cleared it with you first.”

“No, it’s all good. I just wanted to make sure it was okay. For you.”

“Yeah.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, catching the way Nick’s gaze is drawn to the tiny movement.

God. I’m standing here in a multi-million-dollar penthouse, trying to convince the hottest, richest, most interesting man I’ve ever met that I only kissed him for the sake of a photo.

The ridiculousness of the situation has me laughing. “It was okay.”

He laughs, too, shoulders relaxing a smidge. “You sure you don’t want any food?”

I play with the diamond on my left hand.

I have the urge to stay, to eat and talk with him.

There are so many questions I want to ask.

That picture in the hall; what restaurant was he working at?

Did he love it as much as it looks like he did?

And his mom; what was she like? Does he miss her as much as I’d miss mine?

But unnecessary emotional intimacy.

I close my eyes, forcing myself to remember the twenty unanswered emails on my laptop, the texts from Lena, Mason, and my mom on my phone, and the fact that tomorrow is still a workday. I’m at work right now. I need to be drawing up a plan for the charity gala in two weeks.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to build everything I felt today into one word. “I should go to bed. You were great at the wedding.”

He nods. “You, too. You were …” He hesitates for a moment, hands clenching and unclenching on the edge of the counter, before forging forward. “Amazing.”

My face is burning again. I thank him and turn to go find my room.

Marcella, 9:29PM

Hi, sweetie. Your dad’s friends have booked a trip to visit us in a couple weeks. I know you don’t like them, but he seems happy about it. I hope today went well and that you’re doing good at work. We’ll look for the pictures from the “wedding” online. Xoxo, Mom

Sienna

Hey, the wedding went well. I’ll make our first payment to Dad’s lawyer in the morning.

Good to hear. That Nick seems like a nice young man. We’ll ask him to dinner when everything is over. Sleep well dear. Xoxo, Mom