Page 6 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Nick

Saturday and Sunday are for working in the kitchen, going to the gym, and the weird, bright feeling I get when my phone lights up and her name is on the screen.

Enjoy your mimosas this morning?

Nick

Well, well, well. Someone has a Google alert set for my name.

Just doing my job, Mr. Harwood.

Looked like a fun brunch.

I had TWO mimosas. Shocking, I know.

I thought you were going to cut back on reckless indulgences.

Hmm. I don’t remember you defining “reckless indulgences” in our meeting, Ms. Hayes.

One drink is an indulgence, two is reckless, three is dangerous.

What about four?

Certain death.

Well, shit.

If you stick to the plan, you’ll be able to enjoy brunches again.

Is that a promise?

It’s a promise.

Nick, 6:03 PM

Work-related question:

If I accidentally set fire to my penthouse, is that considered a reckless indulgence?

Sienna

That depends. Have you engaged in any dangerous, unsuitable behaviors? Flaming shots? Fire dancers? Indoor fireworks?

I was making pretzel buns and the parchment paper caught fire in the oven.

Pretzel buns are only a level 1 indulgence. You’re fine.

Thank God. The pretzel buns aren’t fine, though.

Burned to a crisp?

Goners, yeah.

Should I send the fire brigade?

“Billionaire Trainwreck Nick Harwood Explodes Oven Making Buns”

Not scandalous enough. Try “Carb-Loaded Buns”

“Carb-Loaded, Butter-Soaked Buns”

“Carb-Loaded, Butter-Soaked Buns Filled with Drugs”

“They’ll Kill Your Loved Ones”

“The Sodium Content Is Off the Charts”

You win. That made me laugh.

Why do celebrity magazines care about the macros in my food so much?

Because you’re fit, and they want to make it look like you’re on a downward spiral.

That’s not very nice of them.

Flattered you noticed, though.

Sienna, Sunday, 12:41 PM

Having internet issues here. In case you didn’t get my email, our meeting tomorrow has been pushed until 8:45.

Nick

Fine. Can I bring a coffee?

Sure, there’s a café downstairs, or we have a coffee maker in our office kitchen.

Are you at the office right now?

Yes. Why?

It’s Sunday.

I’m working on a difficult client’s game plan.

Ten guesses who.

I always work on Sundays, Mr. Harwood.

Nick, 7:23 PM

Drove past Blackstone Center on my way home from dinner. Light shining in a top floor office. That you?

Sienna

Nice of you to think our office is on the top floor.

I’m at home, but I have my laptop. Do you need something?

Just curious if you’re burning the midnight oil.

It’s not exactly your business when or where I work on your file, Mr. Harwood.

And it’s not the public’s business how many mimosas I drink, but here we are.

I’ll be ready for our meeting tomorrow.

No one says “burning the midnight oil” anymore.

Fuck you too, Sienna Hayes.

See you tomorrow.

Goodnight, Nick.

Sunday night is for staring at my calendar, sipping pinot noir, and watching time creep forward, ever closer to the charity gala at the end of the month.

It’s for thinking about my mom, how she dreamed about seeing me at the helm of the company.

It’s for thinking about my dad, how he might be right about what I have to do to get there.

At midnight, I finally give in and look up Sienna’s last name, combing through social media in the most non-stalkerish way possible.

And, after hitting a lucky link, and reading, and reading, my eyes going wide and my throat going tight, I close my laptop, sit back in my seat, and have a stupid idea.