Page 19 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Sienna

Laying low, it turns out, involves a lot of working from Nick’s guest room, eating chocolate chips straight from the bag, and obsessing over my phone.

I spend each morning counting the new headlines that come out about our marriage, waiting for the number to ebb so I can relax and resume daily life without worrying about the tabloids.

Who Is Nick Harwood’s New Wife? Everything We Know, and Everything We DON’T Know

Taming the Heir: How Nick Harwood Went from Scandalous Playboy to Loving Husband

Billionaire Nick Harwood Ties the Knot—But Has He Really Changed?

The articles are mostly fluff pieces saying the same thing over and over, but I spend a long time looking at the photos. Nick’s beautiful, statuesque face is captured in vivid color, his brilliant smile shining, me leaning toward him, our fingers entwined.

We look good together. After working in PR for years, I’m practiced at spotting fake celebrity relationships. I think we’d fool even me.

How’s that for irony?

When night falls, I lie in bed and think about what happened the night of the gala. Having him so close, his mouth on my skin and his hand exploring beneath my dress … it was better than any dream. I felt pleasure stronger than I’ve felt with any other man, and we didn’t even have sex.

But it’s more than physical, too. Going out with him was fun. I had fun , and I want to do it again.

On the surface, we’re completely different people—but that “date” with Nick made me feel more powerful and funny and desirable than I have in a long time. He looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. I didn’t think I’d have that effect on him.

I didn’t think I’d love it so much.

Is this what people mean when they talk about chemistry? It’s strange, realizing I never had chemistry with any of the men I’ve dated. Not like this.

I’ve thought about you for a while.

“But if she doesn’t go, it’ll look suspicious,” Mason says to Lena during our Friday video conference, breaking me from yet another Nick-related daydream.

“At this point, I think we should just buy her a ticket. Charters will eat the cost, but it’s worth it if we can avoid the public assuming Nick’s off in another country cheating. ”

I blink. “Wait, what are we talking about?”

Lena’s image on my laptop purses her lips. “Fiji, Sienna. Your fake husband’s fake spiritual turnaround. Or did you forget about that part of the plan?”

I didn’t forget; Nick leaves in two days. I was just wondering to myself what his abs taste like. I pull my sweater closer around me and sit back against my pillows. The curtains in Nick’s guest room are wide open, letting in a spill of pale sunlight.

“What about Fiji?”

Mason clears his throat. “I think you should go with Nick.”

“What?” He wouldn’t be suggesting that if I’d mentioned what happened between Nick and I after the gala—but I conveniently forgot.

I’m keeping the moment close, like I did when my friends asked about Nick’s smell the morning after we met.

It’s special. It’s mine. “I thought I was staying out of the spotlight.”

“I’ve been working on a cost-benefit analysis,” Mason says, cleaning his glasses with the sleeve of his shirt.

“We’re riding a wave of good press. Bringing it to a standstill by keeping you out of sight is one thing, but actively harming Nick’s reputation by having him travel to Fiji alone is another. ”

I nest my hands in my lap. “What about the private investigator?”

Every day this week, I’ve had texts from people I’m close with, telling me they’ve been approached with questions about me. It’s a constant, anxiety-inducing reminder that I need to be careful, that someone has the means to hurt my family again.

“They must have connected you with your dad by now, right?” Lena says. “Nick found out just by googling your full name.”

“I’m not sure,” I tell her. “We’ve been diligent about keeping my maiden name under wraps—they’d only know me by Sienna Harwood.

They suspect who I am, obviously, because they’ve contacted my dad’s friends, but …

there hasn’t been anything about me in the news or online.

Whatever they’ve learned, they’re just sitting on it.

I don’t know why. It’s like they want me to lose sleep. ”

It gnaws at me. Who does the PI work for?

“I’ve been in contact with the Harwoods’ lawyer,” Lena says, clicking her mouse. She shares her screen, showing us an e-mail from Alvin. “He’s promised to use their resources to delay—or stop outright—an exposé from coming out about you.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess.”

Mason hums, thinking. “With their help, maybe we can have the best of both worlds,” he says. “Sienna, go to Fiji and take a few photos with Nick. That way, the public knows he’s not there alone. We can call it a honeymoon. Then come home after the trip and wait out the rest of the contract.”

I swallow. It’s logical enough, but … Nick and I in Fiji?

Alone, for a week?

Lena sees right through the look on my face. “Don’t get too excited, crush girl. I’m getting straight off this call and making sure the villa Nick requested has separate rooms. No way you’re getting one-bedded on this trip, understand?”

I can’t help but laugh. “I understand.”

“Just talk to him,” Mason advises. “Every time I think I want to date a mega-wealthy guy, we have a real conversation, and I realize he doesn’t know what a toilet brush is, or something.”

Nick’s not like that , I almost say, but I keep quiet and let Lena and Mason turn the conversation to our monthly budget instead. I can keep this to myself, for a while: how I feel about Nick; how I trust him; how I like him; how I know him, without knowing him.

Still, maybe Mason is right. Going on this trip could be a good thing. It’ll ensure our PR plan runs strong, and I’ll have a chance to parse these feelings, the feelings I’m terrified to name—or look at, or even think about—and finally figure out what I want when this is over.

Because I’m starting to worry it’s more than just circling back .

My heart flutters as I pick up my phone to text Nick.

Sienna, 10:44 AM

Hey, so change of plans.

I’ll be coming to Fiji with you.

Nick

I thought you were supposed to lay low?

Lena and Mason think it’s best if I’m there. That way no one can say you’re in Fiji having an affair with one or more supermodels.

One or more?! I’m flattered.

I’ll book you on my flight right away. I have an in-air suite. First class, roomy enough for both of us.

No need. Lena’s taking care of it.

Great.

Looks like you’ll finally get a vacation, Ms. Hayes.

Working vacation.

But yeah. Guess I will.

A few days later, it’s late evening, and Nick and I are in the air.

Nick reclines next to me in the fanciest, most upscale flight cabin I’ve ever seen, his gray hoodie and sweats the epitome of masculine comfort. He thumbs through a glossy book written by a celebrity chef, his toe tapping the air. I adjust my laptop on my lap, staring at work documents.

The seat-couch-bed thing we’re on is split down the middle, separated by a low partition that’s no higher than an armrest. My legs are stretched in front of me, tucked under a separate blanket from Nick’s, but we’re still close enough for his warmth to travel up my side.

It’s driving me crazy, and the fact that everything around us is elegantly soft and plushy isn’t helping. I lace my fingers over my keyboard and sigh.

Nick looks at me from the corner of his eye. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m … too comfortable.”

He snorts. “Never flown first class before?” His eyes sparkle when he sees the look I give him. “It’s a bit outrageous, I admit.”

“Do people really need a whole private suite to fly on vacation?” I smooth my blanket over my knees, secretly loving the way it feels on my skin. “I should be sitting in a hard seat right now, looking a crying baby directly in the face. I hate this.”

“You don’t look like you hate this,” Nick says. He grins, and for a second, his hand moves as if he’s going to rest it on my thigh, but he thinks better of it. He palms the spine of his book. “I heard a little sigh when you reclined your seat back.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “I made no such noise, Mr. Harwood.”

“I doubt you can prove it, Ms. Hayes.”

A giggle escapes me, and he looks back at his book, amused. I chew on my upper lip. It’s torture, this little game we’re playing. Dancing around the charged air between us, pretending like we don’t remember the feeling of each other, the taste, the yearning.

The moment we step off the plane, the island heat and humidity hit me like a wall. Fiji is warm even in the early morning, thick with the scent of salt and something delicious and floral in the air. I’ve never vacationed in a tropical destination, but I already feel like I can take a deeper breath.

I’m away from it all, even for a short time. Charters, Harwood Restaurant Group, Victor, the PI.

I’m with him.

And it’s so much like the fantasies I’ve had of my one-day honeymoon—coconuts and sand and burning sun—I have trouble remembering it’s not real.

Nick guides me through the airport with a hand at my waist, his touch as effortless as if we’d been doing this for years. Someone in line snaps a photo of us, and he pulls me closer, rubbing circles into my back. My body sways toward his like he has gravity.

A driver in a crisp white uniform meets us outside the terminal, ushering us toward a black car. He loads our bags into the trunk while Nick thanks him, his voice smooth and polite, his easy charm making the man beam.

“I drive a lot of honeymooners,” the man says, smiling at us in the rearview mirror, “but none of them look as in love as you two. You’re made to last, Mr. and Mrs. Harwood.”

Nick and I aww , exchanging knowing glances. I hope I don’t look as unhinged as I feel.

The drive is quiet and blue, the sounds of the ocean lapping against sand following us through the approaching dawn. Nick bumps my knee with his, pointing out beaches he loved as a kid and cafés for us to visit. When we finally pull up to our villa, my back straightens, eyes trained out the window.

It’s breathtaking.

Soft golden light glows from lanterns lining a winding stone path. A private infinity pool stretches out toward the horizon, its surface rippling under the lightening sky. Beyond it, the ocean shimmers dark and endless, waves rolling lazily onto the shore.

I can feel Nick looking at me as we get out of the car. Our driver hands him a key and welcomes us warmly before disappearing down the road, leaving the pathway in perfect silence.

“Not bad, huh?” Nick says, leading me between the rows of lanterns. The villa is open and airy, white linens draped across wide balcony doors. Inside, I catch glimpses of high wooden ceilings, a sunken living area, and a massive couch covered in pillows.

I drop my bag by the door, taking a slow turn. “This is ridiculous,” I murmur, my voice hushed as if speaking too loudly could break the spell.

Nick steps up beside me, his hands sinking into his pockets. “My parents and I used to stay at a place down the road. I’d always look at this building from the car window and wonder what it was like.”

“We’re staying at your childhood dream villa?”

“You could say that.”

I’m not sure how to respond. I just nudge him with my elbow, ignoring the warmth that flares low in my stomach when he catches my arm, his fingers wrapping around my wrist for a second longer than necessary.

He lets go. “You want to explore a bit, or are you too jet lagged?”

I rub my fingers into my neck, yawning. "Exploring later. Nap now."

Nick holds my eyes for a second, then gestures down the hall. "Your room's at the end. Mine’s over there, around the corner. If you need anything.”

I stare at him—his dark lashes, his defined jawline—and I should be relieved we have different beds.

I should say something breezy, make a joke about how much Lena and Mason don’t trust us, how they need to make sure we stay apart.

But instead, the weight of our marriage contract settles over me, twisting my gut.

It’s getting harder to deny the way he makes me feel.

Every tiny piece of information about him, even the simple fact that he wanted to stay in this villa as a child, is like an iced mocha after days of going without coffee.

Helpless desire is one thing, but joy —the pure, simple pleasure of being around Nick, of having him all to myself—is another.

Should I savor it? Should I use it?

Oh, Nick! I never thought I’d see you here, in your dream Fijian villa on our fake honeymoon. I’m so happy when I’m around you. Would you like to stretch the rules of our contract with me again tonight?

Exhaling, I walk down the hall, close my bedroom door behind me, and press my forehead to the cool wood.

I’ll give it a few days. See what comes up. Then I’ll do something I haven’t done for years: call my mom for advice.