Page 16 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

The rage in my heart crests, then wanes. It turns back into hunger, which hovers on the precipice of something worse. Something I’m going to pretend isn’t there, perched at the edge of my awareness, just waiting to be named. Something that’s definitely not in the contract.

I shouldn’t have kissed her.

Sighing, I pick up Sienna’s glass of wine and thread my way around the dance floor.

“That went well.” It’s the end of the night, and Sienna is beside me in our car as we head back to the penthouse. “They seemed really impressed by you, Nick.”

She’s got her elbow propped on the armrest between us, pulling at the pearl pins in her hair. I watch the city whizz by in a blur of lights.

“Mmm.” I want to agree with her outright, but there’s a pit in my stomach.

In truth, she’s right; the conversation with the shareholders went perfectly.

We told them about our wedding, the trip overseas we’re planning, and how excited we are to throw Victor’s retirement party.

They nodded and grinned, and Sienna handled the conversation like a pro.

I could tell she was calculating every move, making each smile and greeting appear effortless.

Wish I could say the same for me. My father gave me a dressing down as soon as Sienna excused herself to the restroom.

“What’s wrong with you?” he said. I was standing beneath the gleaming tower of champagne glasses, nursing my second whiskey, watching the shareholders order more wine. “You might be able to fool the others, but you can’t fool me, Nicholas. You are unhappy.”

I bristled. “Is that your observation as a concerned parent or as a CEO?”

“Both.” Victor’s eyes lasered into me, salt-and-pepper brows furrowed.

He’d been on the sidelines all night, scrutinizing Sienna and I’s performance without entering the conversation.

“You’re tense and distracted. Not to mention drinking like a college freshman.

I thought I made myself clear when we discussed what it would take to inherit this company. ”

I drank a quarter of what he puts back on a daily basis, but I knew better than to bring that up. I’ve been seeing that look on my father’s face my whole life—like I’m a bug under a microscope instead of his son—and I know it means trouble.

No point in lying.

“Lionel had the nerve to show up here,” I told him, bitterness darkening my voice. “He asked me to give him a job.”

My father’s lips pinched, just a fraction—his version of an emotional outburst. “Roderick’s brother?

” When I nodded, he examined me, then slapped a hand on my back.

“Well, business is business. You’d do well to remember that, Son.

Learn to deal with your personal vendettas before they cloud your judgement. Lionel is a good worker.”

“Personal vendettas? Dad, he and Rod tried to ruin my life.”

“So you’ve said.”

I bit my lips together. The weight on me was familiar, like a hand pressing down, squashing the air from my lungs. Victor walked his fingers along the tops of the bottles surrounding the champagne tower, then plucked one from the circle and examined the label.

“Harwood Restaurant Group isn’t built on sentiment, Nicholas,” he said. “It’s built on power. Leverage. Control. Making the hard decisions, even without permission. That’s how we stay on top.”

That’s not what she built, I almost said. But I didn’t. What slipped out instead was ten times worse.

“What if I don’t want it?”

The corner of Victor’s eye twitched. “Don’t want what?”

“The company, Dad. Harwood Restaurant Group. What if I don’t want to be CEO?”

“Nicholas.” His voice was hard, not unlike the tone I’d used with Lionel earlier. “What in the world would you do otherwise? Waste your life on booze and women? I don’t think so. Your mother would roll over in her grave.”

My throat tightened. I’ve hated guessing what Mom would have wanted. It makes my heart ache, and this business, Victor’s business, is so different from what Mom began they’re almost two separate companies. But I decided to keep my mouth shut, this time.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Victor’s expression had flickered, something unreadable passing in his eyes before being snuffed out. He adjusted the collar of his pinstripe suit. “Make sure your wife understands that, too.”

Then he walked away, the neck of the champagne bottle throttled in a tight fist.

Now, in the car, I make a similar fist, tensing and releasing my fingers. Sienna catches it; the backseat of the car is dark, but I see her turn toward me.

“Nick?” She pauses, hesitating, then asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to shake the impression that my father wanted to dissect me tonight. I can feel his scrutiny even now, and what did he mean by make sure your wife understands that? What part does Sienna play in my running of the company, beyond helping me secure it?

The pit in my stomach widens. I can’t figure out how Lionel got an invite to the charity gala. He and Roderick haven’t been to an event like that for years. Why this one?

“Nick?” Sienna says again.

I shake my head. “Sorry. Thinking about my dad.” I shift so I’m facing her. She’s stopped fussing with her hair and has her hands folded on her thigh, city lights sliding over her white, faux fur coat. “Did he say anything to you tonight?”

Her mouth curves downward. “No. I—uh—I know I made it seem like I spoke to your dad before we met, but I’ve actually never talked to him. We’ve never been introduced. He left to talk to someone else before I could approach him tonight.”

“My dad’s never spoken to you?”

“No. Why?”

Something cold and angry pools inside me. I’m not sure what it is, but I let it bubble, looking out the window again. The city’s main drag is busy, crowds of people washing down the neon street.

“Do you ever feel like …” How do I phrase it? “Like you’re running a race without a finish line? No matter how fast you run, it’s never fast enough?”

“All the time,” she admits. “That’s how you know you care about doing something right. You keep pushing, even when it feels like there’s no end.”

Our driver makes a turn, leaving the light-bathed street behind for quieter, darker neighborhoods. Sienna’s warm scent is wafting through the backseat, permeating the air. I do care about doing things right. I care about my mom’s company. I care about Sienna and I’s marriage contract.

But when I close my eyes at night, my dreams are different. I see myself behind the line at a restaurant again, not behind my father’s desk. I see Sienna Hayes in my bed, or eating breakfast at my dining table, not in a boardroom signing a contract.

I shouldn’t have kissed her.

I can feel Sienna watching me, fingers drumming a rhythm in her lap.

I wish I knew what she was thinking. Unsaid words swirl between us, a million conversational threads I’m not brave enough to follow.

Does she feel relieved, now that the weight of her family’s debts has been lifted?

Is she missing her place across the city, or is she enjoying her time in the penthouse?

Does she think about the wedding, too?

We’re still sitting in awkward silence, a few minutes from home, when my phone buzzes.

I’m not sure how I know it’s Sienna, but I do. I turn to her and find her face dimly lit by her own phone screen, gaze quickly darting out the window.

Suppressing a smile, I fish my phone out of my coat pocket.

Sienna

Are you hungry?

Our eyes meet. Sienna’s smile wavers at the edges, like she’s aware this text puts us over an invisible line. I look at the message in my hand, then up at her again, heart thumping.

We’re not supposed to have anything planned after the charity gala. According to our contract, we should be going straight home, falling asleep in separate rooms, and checking in with our lawyers in the morning.

Appropriate. Professional.

But the way she’s staring at me, chewing her bottom lip …

For two weeks, I’ve turned that kiss over in my mind, wondering why she did it when she didn’t have to.

Now, with this message and that look in her eyes, I realize there’s a chance that she’s fighting the same battle I am.

That maybe, just maybe, what she needs and what she wants aren’t the same thing.

It could mean nothing, but my heart—my poor, doomed, foolish heart—swells with hope.

With difficulty, I drag my attention from her mouth and put it back on my phone screen.

Nick

Always.

I know a place.

Sienna

People will take pictures of us.

“Harwood Heir Steps Out with Stunning Wife After Charity Gala”

“Steps Out for Fast Food”?

“Steps Out for the Best Burger Sienna Hayes Has Ever Eaten”

That does it. She grins, one hand reaching around her hip for her purse. I rap on the divider between the front and back seat with my knuckles.

“Yes?” our driver says.

“You can drop us off here. We’ll walk the rest of the way. Thanks, John.”

The car pulls to a stop on a secluded neighborhood street. I step out onto frosty asphalt, pulling my wool coat closed around me. Sienna does the same on her side. We stand, facing each other, as the car glides out from between us, disappearing around the corner.

We’re alone. Her dress and hair are magnificent in the light from the streetlamps above. She tugs her coat tighter around her shoulders, gathering the train of her gown so she doesn’t step on it. I rub my hands together, puffing steam into them.

Then, silently, I gesture up the street. She and I walk side-by-side toward the sounds of traffic a few blocks over.