Page 22 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Sienna

“Feelings don’t just stay locked inside, Sienna,” my mom says two weeks later. “They express themselves whether you want them to or not.”

“Don’t tell me that,” I say, my head in my hands. Covers are piled on top of me in my bed in Nick’s guest room, a dark, cozy hiding spot. “I really don’t need to hear that right now.”

My mom clicks her tongue at me, the sound muffled coming through the phone. It’s been a long time since she’s used that motherly tone. Ever since our conversation in Fiji, she’s been calling me every few days for updates on how I’m doing.

Messed up. That’s how I’m doing.

I should be overjoyed right now. Things are going my way: Nick and I’s honeymoon is all over the news, and people are talking about him being a changed man. Our PR stunt is working. Plus, there’s been radio silence from the PI and whoever hired him—they must have lost interest in me.

Everything is perfect, except for the fact that I’m falling for Nick Harwood.

Yeah.

Admitting the truth to myself is hard, but living with it day-to-day is like throwing myself into a pool of hungry piranhas.

“It’s scary having feelings,” my mom says in her soft, comforting voice. “They shine through. It’s beautiful, too, of course.”

“Beautiful,” I repeat back to her, pressing my face into my pillow. “Right.”

Since my dad lost his business, I’ve been so worried about the present that I haven’t bothered to think about the future. Now, after Nick and I’s wedding, the gala, Fiji , I can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen next. And what I dream about is crazy and na?ve and completely out of reach.

“So, I’m screwed,” I tell her, staring at the threads fraying off my pillowcase. “He’s going to figure it out either way. What do I do?”

“Tell him.”

“I can’t, Mom. The contract.” Sitting up, I rub my hands over my eyes. “He doesn’t want me like that. And he’s been acting so weird lately. It’s like he’s trying to …” The rest of the sentence hangs on my tongue unspoken. Tempt me —but it’s not the right way to describe it.

Since we got back from Fiji, it’s like he’s turned the dial up on his sexual energy. Walking around the penthouse with his tie loosened, showing a hint of his hard chest. Flirting with me over text before we go to bed. Meaningful eye contact when we cross paths at dinnertime.

So much meaningful eye contact.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he wanted a repeat of what happened after the gala. It doesn’t make any sense, though. We promised to wait until after the contract ends, and it’s not like I’ve told him about my feelings.

Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe falling for someone changes the tenor of every interaction, every look. Maybe everything they do draws you toward them like a plant to sunlight.

How would I know? I’ve never done this before.

“It’s like Nick wants me say something,” I say into my phone. “To finally come out with it. But I can’t.”

Mom thinks for a moment, then says, “There are more ways to tell someone you love them than through words, sweetie.”

Two nights later, I finally get an evening alone where I don’t have to work.

Nick texts that he’s headed to the gym, which, in Nick Harwood language, means he’ll be gone for the next two hours or more. He’s been spending a lot of time at the gym lately. Probably for the same reason I’ve been going to Blackstone Center every day.

It’s easier to think if we’re not around each other. And that’s why tonight, I have a plan.

A dumb plan.

My mom’s right. Now that I’ve figured out my feelings—and, Doctor, it’s worse than I thought—pretending I’m not falling for Nick is all but impossible. Whenever I look at him, he’s looking at me first. Whenever I think about him, he’s right there, probably thinking about me, too.

I need to do something .

There’s a spring rain outside, long streaks of water painting the penthouse’s giant windows.

Cool mist weaves between the dark buildings below, so different from the bright ocean blue and sandy yellow landscape of Fiji.

I carry a grocery delivery into the kitchen, depositing bags of ingredients on the counter.

Since he found the wrapper of my convenience store burrito, Nick has been filling containers with homemade food and leaving them in the fridge and freezer. He sticks a note on each, his handwriting small and neat.

Penne à la “I definitely didn’t make too much on purpose.” Enjoy.

Chicken soup, made with actual effort. If you don’t eat it, I’ll take it personally.

Mac I’d planned to be long gone by the time he got home. “I am.”

“You look hot in it.”

My pulse pounds, electric. Did he really just say that? Out loud? I’m instantly aware of how close we’re standing, the proximity of his body warming my front while the cooling stove spreads heat across my back.

We’re close—so close—to breaking the rules.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I look down at myself and shrug, trying to play it cool. “I just did my laundry today. Didn’t have any clean tops.”

Nick smirks, making a little, disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. Mmhm. “You really needed a distraction, huh?”

“Yes.” The word rushes out on an exhale. “Not that it’s helping.”

I expect him to say something flirty back, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to, but then he just nods. He wants to say more, I know he does, but we’re right up against a door neither of us can walk through.

After a long moment, he puts his attention on the stir fry, lifting a forkful to his mouth and chewing.

“It’s great,” he says. “Good job.”

I nod, unable to look away. His heady, masculine smell, his strong hands, his beautiful eyes. It’s like the air between us is shrinking. My bowl of stir fry steams in my hand, moisture wicking from my thumb where it overhangs the lip of the bowl.

I’m falling for you. Just say it. I want more.

“Um … have a good night,” I tell him. “Enjoy the food.”

Nick lets out a breath, gaze following me as I slide out from between the stove and the island, heading for my room. My legs are jerky, knees wobbling. Just as I’m about to step into the hall, he clears his throat.

“Sienna.”

“Yes?” I turn. He’s still standing where I left him, profile illuminated by the soft, yellow light of the kitchen.

“If I text you later tonight,” he says, “will you still be awake? For a … distraction?”

I glance at my phone in my hand, confused. It’s only nine o’clock. We often text after midnight, our usual banter, a quick goodnight. He’s never been this formal about it.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be up for a while.”

“Good,” he replies without looking up. “Thanks for dinner.”

My stomach dances as he takes another bite, tattoos rippling over his arms. I could stare at him all night, committing the casual way he stands to memory. His tall, statuesque figure, the way he’s kicked one leg back, foot resting on the base of the cupboards behind him …

“Talk to you later.”

I scurry into my room, feeling like a mouse caught in a trap of my own making.