Page 2 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Sienna

Another half hour at Café de Mario bleeds away. There’s a hole forming in my cheek from how hard I’m chewing it.

No signs of Nick’s arrival. My inbox is still at zero. Worst of all, every time the door opens, my head flies up like I’m a dog hearing the dinner bell.

Embarrassing.

Just when I’m about to text the group chat that I’m throwing in the towel and coming back to Blackstone Center, the restaurant door swings open, and a tall figure appears. He saunters into the room and somehow manages to shrink the entire space.

I exhale in relief— finally —and pocket my phone.

Nick Harwood pushes his hand through his dark, bronzy hair and speaks in a deep rumble to the host, who lets out a little shriek, bouncing on the balls of her toes. While he’s distracted, I give him a practiced up-and-down, deducing what kind of client he’ll be.

My initial assessment says: masculine.

Intelligent.

Charming.

Trouble.

There’s something about the way he stands, sizes up the room, and brushes off his immaculate, black suit that tells me this is a man who’s gotten used to having all eyes on him. Like he thinks he walks this Earth to show others what it means to live.

Nothing I can’t handle.

“Mr. Harwood,” I say, offering my hand as he walks up to the bar. “It’s good to see you finally decided to join me.”

He ignores the jibe (too bad—I’ve spent the last twenty minutes fantasizing about his reaction) and shakes my outstretched hand. I smile at him, although I shouldn’t. He clearly doesn’t value my time.

But ten million dollars . I’m playing nice.

Mostly.

“You’re the new PR girl,” he says, gaze running over me. It looks an awful lot like the evaluation I gave him. “You must be a miracle worker for my dad to call in an outside hire.”

“I’m the new PR professional , yes. And I’m not here to work miracles. I’m here to make you likeable.”

“Lucky me.”

His hair falls tidily over his forehead, complementing dark-lashed eyes, stubble-strewn cheeks, and a strong jawline. Wow, yeah, he’s gorgeous. Even better looking than Mason’s Instagram likes led me to believe.

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Why do you look like you just picked the winning lotto ticket, Ms. Hayes?”

“Because I did, Mr. Harwood.” I sit back on my barstool, smoothing my pants over my knees. Looks are a powerful weapon when it comes to influencing the public. My job just got a whole lot easier. “Care to join me? You’re welcome to call me Sienna.”

“Sienna,” he says. “You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who’s recently met my dad. He must like you.”

I’ve never spoken to Victor Harwood, only his lawyer—but I decide not to correct him. “Your father is certain my firm can repair the damage you’ve done to your public opinion. Frankly, so am I.”

“Ah. How much did he offer you?”

The question is so direct that it takes me aback. I take a sip from my empty gin and tonic, sucking at whatever melted off the ice in the last twenty minutes. “I’m not at liberty to discuss finances.”

He leans in closer, still standing, forcing me to crane to maintain eye contact. “Blink when I guess correctly. One million. Five million. Ten?—”

“There are better uses of our time, Mr. Harwood.”

“ Ten million!” He throws his head back and laughs. “I knew my old man was desperate, but I never realized he was that desperate.”

His laugh is humorless, yet maddeningly attractive all the same. The heat that sparks in my veins only fuels my irritation.

“If you’ll sit down with me, Mr. Harwood, I’m sure you’ll find your father’s bank account is the least of your problems.”

That stops his laughter short. A beat passes while I rifle through my work bag, pulling out a manila folder.

There’s thirty pages inside, evidence of Lena, Mason, and I’s frenzied work over the last week.

When I look up again, Nick is sitting on a barstool and signaling the (very excited, very red) bartender for a drink.

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” he tells me, propping his elbow on the bar and swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

I flash him a smile. “I’ll only need ten.”

Spreading out the papers, I tap the title page of the plan. Nick leans forward to examine it.

“ Spiritual evaluation stunt,” he reads. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I give him a few minutes to read the introduction, watching as he scans his eyes down the page.

There’s the hint of a tattoo peeking from the back of his collar, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s sitting so close, but I can smell him.

His cologne—if it is cologne—is amazing.

Rosemary, fresh bread, and something woodsy.

Trouble, I think again.

I clear my throat.

“Mr. Harwood, your father worked hard to create the brand name we’ve all come to know and respect. When you hear Harwood Restaurant Group, you think good food, a good time, and, on some very lucky evenings, the best networking you can access in the city.”

Nick leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. “I’m aware that my parents established a goldmine. What else?”

“ What else is that your father is going to retire, and you’re next in line.”

“And …”

“And when I think of Nick Harwood, not a lot of good things come to mind.” I sit back, mirroring his posture and enjoying the bitter expression rolling across his face. “I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.”

He takes a long drink from his glass. “Everyone’s the same.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Everyone believes the tabloids, even if they lie more than they brush their teeth.” He thinks for a moment, then gives me an appraising frown. “What if I told you that it’s not true, what they say about me?”

My stomach flips.

Bingo.

“No?” I say, looking him directly in the eye.

“No. I can be an ass, Sienna, but I’ve never trashed a hotel room. I’ve never street raced. Someone very close to me spread a rumor three years ago, and since then, my reputation has been—” He mimes a bomb dropping, complete with a mini explosion on the bar. “—less than respectable.”

My eyebrow cocks.

He takes a deep breath. “Okay, worse than that.”

I study him, fingers drumming on my bicep. I’ve done a lot of research into Nick Harwood over the last week. I’ve tracked his journey through magazines and gossip blogs. I’ve talked to the owners of his favorite clubs, his entourage, his waiters and bartenders.

And … he’s right.

Most of it isn’t real.

Nick Harwood is a playboy, no doubt about that, but the articles describing his feral party lifestyle are pure fiction.

If you look closely, it’s easy to see the stories don’t add up—there are no crashed parties, no brokenhearted bikini models—but no one’s bothered to look closely.

No one knows who he really is. The public doesn’t know, his father’s old PR managers didn’t know, and Victor Harwood sure as hell doesn’t know.

But I do.

“I’d believe you, Mr. Harwood.”

He blinks at me. “You would?”

“Absolutely. But—and I hope I’m being very clear, now—it doesn’t matter. If the tabloids think you’re a bad guy, and they figure out they can make money on you being a bad guy, they’re going to say you did a lifetime of stupid things. Even if you never did.”

Nick stares at me. “You actually know they’re lying about me?”

“I do.”

“And you think there’s a way to get them to stop?”

“I’m sure of it.”

The smugness on his face falters, betraying surprise and something else I can’t quite pinpoint. It’s the expression of someone who’s never been believed before, being believed for the first time.

Then it’s gone. He uncrosses his arms and waves the bartender over, ordering another whiskey on the rocks. Turning to me, he asks, “Want anything?”

Fireworks are going off in my chest. “No, I’m good.”

“Okay.” With a new drink in his hand, he looks closer at the papers I’ve fanned out in front of us. “What’s your play, PR girl? ”