Page 17 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Nick

As we shed our coats in a circular booth at my favorite all-night burger joint, a tray with two cheeseburgers and a large fry in front of us, I can’t help but think this is the single best date I’ve ever been on.

It’s crazy, considering this isn’t a real date, it’s just begun, and Sienna and I haven’t said a single word to each other since we left the car.

The restaurant is mostly empty, just a few tables occupied near the window.

Red light from the sign above the counter casts a warm sheen over Sienna’s skin, catching in her dark lashes.

She gives me a wicked smile, waving a hand at the food, then fanning her fingers out from her lips in a “chef’s kiss” gesture.

I snort, replying with a grin. We’ve been interacting in silence since her text in the car, and I know it’s because an outing like this one is bending the rules of our contract. We shouldn’t be going off-book like this.

And yet, neither of us has said a word to stop it.

It doesn’t mean she’s into you , I tell myself as she picks up her burger, fingers sinking into the soft bun, and takes a bite. A drop of sauce specks the corner of her mouth. I should avert my eyes, but I don’t. I track the movement of her tongue as she swipes it away.

Sienna sighs, the set of her lips softening as she chews. It’s the sameexpression she made when she tried the coq a vin the night this all started: subtle rapture, sensual pleasure, the kind of appreciation for food I know well.

I’m staring. I know I’m staring. I can’t seem to stop.

She swallows, wiping her hands on a napkin. Then she smirks at me and brings out her phone.

Sienna

This is so fucking good.

I laugh, clumsily unwrapping my own burger. Eating burgers and texting the most intimidating woman alive from across a table wasn’t on my yearly bingo card, but here I am.

At the other end of the restaurant, the cook slaps a service bell and calls out, “Order up!” I watch as a man and woman, holding hands, go to retrieve their fries. They haven’t seen us, or if they have, they don’t know who I am.

I type a message out one-handed.

Nick

I’m glad you like it. You said burgers were one of your favorite foods on that chart you made me memorize.

Sienna

I did. Is this one of your family’s restaurants?

The one I thought your mom managed.

Ha. I forgot about that.

I know a little more about you now, thankfully.

My next message feels risky. I type it and press send, biting my cheek until she replies.

Nick

How’s your dad doing?

Sienna

Better. Still working through stuff mentally, but not having financial issues helps a lot.

That’s great.

Are things okay with your dad? You seemed distracted in the car.

He told me to hire the brother of the man who ruined my reputation tonight.

Wow.

My ex best friend.

Were they both part of it?

They were.

That’s fucked up, Nick. I’m sorry.

Warmth rolls through me. Being believed, being taken seriously, is a feeling I hadn’t realized I was yearning for until I got my first taste that afternoon at Café de Mario.

I’d been sitting alone with what Roderick did for so long that I’d practically given up, positive that no one would see through the headlines.

Then she showed up and wrote her number on my wrist.

We look at each other over the tops of our phones, long enough for the moment to grow taut. Her chest lifts and lowers. The service bell rings again, but neither of us turn to see if the people picking up their food have spotted us.

I press send on another risky text.

Nick

What about you? How are you doing, with all of this?

She cocks her brow. I shrug at her, like, Just wondering.

Not like I care or anything.

Sienna

If you mean right now …

I like this. A lot.

Another warm feeling, stronger than before. Sienna dips a fry in ketchup, giving me a tiny smile. My heart thrills. Even if my father made me question everything tonight, I must be doing something right.

I’m making her happy.

For the first time in my life, I eat an entire meal without tasting a thing.

When we finish, the restaurant is still half-empty, the street quiet outside. Sienna and I walk out into the night, buttoning our coats.

I check my watch. 1:22 AM. Too late to ask if she wants to go anywhere else, but I’m reluctant to end the night by going home. Tomorrow, when I wake up, I have to think about Harwood Restaurant Group, my father, and the unfortunate re-entry of Lionel and Roderick into my life.

I have to wake up knowing she’s down the hall, in her bed, only a few steps away.

“Nick,” Sienna says from beside me, the first time I’ve heard her voice since the car. “Look.”

I follow her gaze across the street, where there’s a group of college kids walking by on their way to the bar. The boys are laughing at something one of them said, but the girls are whispering to each other, pointing in our direction.

The metal of my wedding ring goes cold in the chilly air. Sienna gathers up the train of her gown, then threads the fingers of her right hand through mine, a soft, tentative touch. I swallow, mouth going dry.

“Okay?” she asks. “They might take a picture.”

I meet her gaze at my shoulder. The makeup around her eyes has smudged over the course of the evening, making her look even sexier somehow.

“Okay,” I say.

We set off in the direction of home, holding hands. It’s only a ten-minute walk, but it feels like years. Her hand is soft in mine, my thumb tracing lines on her knuckles. There’s no way the few people walking near us can see a detail like that, but I don’t care. It feels right.

The air is crisp and dark in the way only an early spring night can be.

We take a turn onto a deserted street dotted with streetlamps, bathed in the yellow-blue glow of windows above.

There’s no one around, just the sound of our footsteps, the drone of traffic in the distance, and our steaming breaths.

I expect Sienna to let my hand go, but she doesn’t.

God, I feel like I’m losing it around her. Reduced to focusing on every little caress, every small feeling of her palm on mine. What is this, 2005? If Sienna were any other woman, I’d fist my hand in her hair, pick her up by the waist, press her to me until her legs wrapped around my hips …

A loud crack echoes down the empty street, and Sienna goes stumbling to the side.

“Shit!” she cries, at the same time I say, “What was that?”

My hand tightens on hers, keeping her from falling to the ground. She lets go of her train and hops on one foot, revealing a broken heel.

“Ugh. My shoe.” Shaking her head, she examines the spike of her heel, which is hanging on by a thread. “I must have stepped on a rock. These are my favorite pair.”

“Bad luck,” I say. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. Just sad for the state of my shoe closet.”

The toes of her heels have pearls on them, matching the pins in her hair. I look up the street, mentally calculating how long it’ll take us to get home. “We have a few blocks to go.”

Sienna nods. “Don’t worry. Won’t be a problem.” But she takes a few steps and the height difference in her feet makes her teeter like a top about to fall. She grabs onto my arm for support, clutching at the sleeve of my coat.

I laugh. “You sure about that?”

“Just takes a second to get used to it.” She tries again and limps a few feet before waving her arms for balance. I grab her hand again, stabilizing her.

“If it can be fixed, I have glue in the penthouse.” I watch her attempt to force the heel back onto the bottom of her shoe, but it’s in vain. A mostly clean break. “Those things are pretty tall.”

“Yeah, well. You have to be proactive when your husband is six and a half feet tall.”

“Six two, but thanks.”

“How long did you say we have to go?” She slips the broken shoe off, then balances on one foot to take the second one off, too. “A couple blocks?”

My eyes widen, looking at the pattern of frost on the ground. “Too far to walk on bare feet.”

She straightens, trying to hide a grimace when her feet flatten on the cement sidewalk. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s freezing, Sienna.”

“Is it? I had no idea.”

I run a hand through my hair, amused. It’s been a long night. A few minutes ago, I didn’t want to go home. Now I want to take her, wrap her in a blanket on my couch, and hold her until the sun comes up.

Normal impulses. Totally professional.

“Alright,” I tell her, gesturing her toward me. “Come on. I’m going to carry you.”

She looks at me like I spoke French. “ Carry me?”

“It’s only for a few minutes. Also, if someone snaps a photo, I’ll look like a hero. So, bonus.”

Sienna laughs, rubbing her free hand over her face. She jumps from one foot to the other, the curls escaping her updo bouncing.

“Fine, but only because my toes are turning to ice. And it’s good PR.”

I lean down, sweeping one arm behind her knees and the other around the small of her back, lifting her into a wedding carry. Sienna stiffens for a moment, then loops her arms around my neck without protest. She’s soft in my hold, and when she relaxes against my chest, something inside me clenches.

This is practical—a necessity. Not to mention part of the act of being husband and wife. But when Sienna brushes her fingers against the back of my neck, tingles web over my skin.

“See?” I murmur, adjusting my grip as I carry her up the empty, ice-dusted street. “Not so bad.”

She chuckles, her breath against my neck. “You say that like you’re not already tired.”

“I’m doing great.” I keep my voice even, but she’s closer than usual—close enough to hear the way my breathing has changed.

It’s not because I’m tired.

“I bet you say that to all the women you carry home,” she says.

“Only when it’s true.”

Her lips part like she has a response ready, but then she hesitates. Instead of speaking, she watches me back, searching me with her eyes.

I hold her gaze. “Problem?”

“No.” Her voice is quieter now. “Just wondering if it always feels this natural.”