Page 3 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Sienna

A spiritual evaluation stunt goes as follows:

Nick Harwood quits going to parties. Just for a month or two; long enough for people to miss him.

In that time, reckless indulgences go untouched. He puts his Lambos in the garage, shelves his thousand-dollar bottles, and stops posting Rolexes and Balenciaga online.

He does a few interviews where he announces his interest in spiritual maturity, implying that he’s ready to settle down.

We send him off to a country overseas for a month. There, he’ll supposedly do a lot of meditating, brush up on his spiritual practices, and return a changed man.

Nick’s frown deepens as I talk. Evening is coming on fast, and Café de Mario is in the transition between Happy Hour and dinner. I watch groups of well-dressed friends and couples enter the restaurant over Nick’s shoulder.

When I finish the overview, he grimaces at me.

“That’s the corniest plan ever.”

“Corny,” I concede, “but practical.”

I can’t tell whether he’s about to smile or scowl. “You really expect me to counter the lies about my lifestyle with even more lying?”

“Welcome to public relations, Mr. Harwood.”

“I don’t like it. I’d rather just tell the truth.”

“Me, too,” I tell him. “But the public doesn’t care about the truth. They care about the story . The best we can do is present a story that’s as close to the truth as possible.”

Nick rubs at the stubble on his cheek. The bartender appears and sweeps away his empty glass, leaving a bowl of shiny, marinated olives in its wake. They’ve been doing this all afternoon; bringing him little things he didn’t order.

“Has anyone ever told a lie about you?” he asks.

“Of course,” I reply, folding my hands in front of me. My manicure is smooth and sharp, a set of talons.

“What was the lie?”

My mind goes to the voices of my dad’s business partners: if he’s not fit to run the company, it’s better for everyone if he resigns. But I should choose a less volcanic answer. Preferably one that doesn’t make me feel like I’m choking.

“A classmate in high school told everyone I slept with her boyfriend.”

Nick oooh s, popping an olive into his mouth. “Did you?”

“No. That’s why it was a lie, Mr. Harwood.”

He huffs a laugh, picking up the papers on the bar and flipping through them. He licks his thumb before he turns the pages, a mannerism that’s so old-fashioned and out of character I almost laugh, too.

“I can’t go to another country for a month,” he says. “I’ve got things I’m working on.”

“What things?”

His dark gaze slides in my direction. I shrug one shoulder. It’s not like I need to know, but I’m curious. And he owes me—I answered his question.

“Fine,” he says after a beat. “Do you like food?”

It’s not the answer I expected. “I eat food every day.”

“Sure, but do you enjoy it? A great meal isn’t just for keeping yourself alive, you know.”

Everything I’ve read about Nick Harwood revolves around women, thrill-seeking, and alcohol. The idea that he might be something as natural and everyday as a foodie takes a second to compute.

“Let me guess.” I lean forward. “You’re about to tell me I should always order the most expensive thing on the menu?—”

“Not exactly.”

“—or that pizza made in a convection oven isn’t really pizza.”

“Look, the great pizza war isn’t mine to wage.” I’ve amused him; his smile is bright and effortless, softening the skin around his eyes. Serious trouble. He’s even more beautiful when he isn’t being defensive. “What’s your favorite thing to eat?”

I pause, considering. “My mom used to make spaghetti Bolognese. When I was a kid, she’d let me stir the sauce, even though the spoon was bigger than I was.”

Nick chuckles. “My mom was the same. Except she’d have me roll out dough for croissants. I think she just liked bossing me around.”

I laugh, and in the beat of silence that follows, I’m surprised to find us in a comfortable, nostalgic bubble. It’s been a while since conversation with a client felt this easy. The simplicity of it feels like a luxury.

Nick seems to feel the same way. He’s watching me closely, our barstools turned toward each other. My knees are almost touching his.

Business, Sienna. Focus.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say. “You’re skipping an overseas trip to … eat?”

“Cook,” he corrects. “I’m putting together a menu for a restaurant concept. But yeah, when you say it like that, it sounds pretty lame.”

“It doesn’t.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Actually, it’s kind of impressive. The Harwood heir likes to cook.”

“Is it that unexpected, considering my family’s business?”

“Your family is in the business of owning restaurants, Mr. Harwood, not cooking for them.” My eyes narrow. “What’s on your menu? Mac and cheese? Toast?”

“Very funny. I’ve mastered those already, thank you.”

I smile. I can sense him smiling, too, from the corner of my eye. I pull a pen from my bag and poise it over the first page of the plan.

“How about a week overseas instead of a month? We’re thinking Fiji. You can treat it as a vacation.”

He clicks his tongue. “I guess that would be fine. I used to spend a lot of time there with my parents.”

“Great.” I write one week to travel on the paper. “Anything else we’ll need to look at?”

“Yeah. I’m not quitting public appearances. I have events to go to.”

“Mr. Harwood.” I move closer, my long, black hair swishing across my thigh. Nick’s eyes dive down, then up again, so fast I might have imagined it. “You’re about to inherit the biggest restaurant conglomerate in the world, and you can’t take a break from being rich in public for two minutes?”

He glares at me. “There’s a charity gala at the end of the month that I can’t miss. And being rich in public is a valid lifestyle if you’d just learn to mind your business.”

“The average person doesn’t know how to mind their business, unfortunately. A fact that might cost you your future.”

At that, he sits back in his seat, searching the ceiling with his eyes. I’m pretty sure I have him convinced, but I count down from ten in my head, giving him time to go over what I’ve proposed.

“Fucking hell,” he says after a minute.

“Nick.” He meets my gaze, startled at me using his name for the first time. “We can do this.”

He holds my eyes, then does a heavy, tired exhale. My chest tightens with sympathy—just a little, and only because I can relate.

Like Nick, I know how it feels to live under the weight of a family legacy. It’s just that his legacy comes with millions of dollars, and mine comes with … close to that, but in the negative. Nick will inherit a company, and I’ll inherit the ghost of one.

I don’t feel too sorry for him.

Finally, he passes a hand over his forehead and gives me a resigned frown. “Let me think about it over the weekend. Make the changes to your plan, and we’ll meet again on Monday. Yes?”

“Absolutely.”

He offers to pay the bill, then insists on escorting me to the front of the restaurant, where I call a cab to take me back to Blackstone Center. Daylight is waning, casting long shadows beneath shop overhangs and across the mouths of alleys.

Nick stands beside me, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, gaze tilted toward the steadily darkening sky. The fading sunlight catches on the line of his jaw, illuminating the brass shades in his hair. I find myself watching him longer than I should.

He’s got every hallmark of a rich and powerful man, but he’s not like my other super wealthy clients. He’s … present.

Say what you will about my brand of public relations, but it’s never boring.

A few moments of quiet pass, the din of the city filling the space between us. Then he snaps his fingers, the sound breaking the spell and making me jump.

“ Hayes ,” he says. “I knew I recognized your last name. Did your mom manage one of my father’s restaurants? The burger place downtown?”

I shake my head. “Sorry.” For the first time today, my throat’s gone dry, my heart thumping in my ribcage. “Not me.”

“Damn,” he says with a shrug, still looking at the sky. “I’ll think of it.”

I close my eyes, relieved—but only for now. How long will it take him to connect me with my dad? Hopefully longer than it takes to close this deal. I’ve worked too hard to keep this last year in the past, to protect myself and my family, to have it all unravel now.

My cab comes to a stop in front of us. Nick opens the door, waving me inside.

“Look for my e-mail, PR girl.”

I’m not sure why I do it. It’s probably inappropriate—and way too familiar for a business meeting—but it’s happening before I can stop it. I grab his wrist before I turn to get in the cab. His skin is warm, another tattoo peeking from his cuff. He watches in surprise as I pull out my pen.

When I’m done, I return his wrist and slip the pen into my bag. “That’s my cell number. Contact me when you’re ready.”

I get into the cab and close the door. Nick seems lost for words, staring down at the numbers I’ve scrawled on him. As an afterthought, I roll down the window, the evening breeze sucking into the cab’s interior and bringing his smell with it.

“Texts only, Mr. Harwood.”