Page 8 of Bride on the Dotted Line (Blackstone Center #1)

Nick

In the hours between finishing work and meeting Sienna for dinner, I clean my entire penthouse.

It’s not like I have to clean. I could make one call and have every speck of dust swept, wiped, and brushed from the entirety of my apartment in thirty minutes, all while I sip coffee on my balcony.

I just need something to do with my hands.

Cooking doesn’t make sense. I’m not feeding anyone but myself for the next few days. Scrolling on my phone and reading whatever salacious headlines were published about me today doesn’t make sense, either.

Last night, my father called and told me another shareholder quietly pulled out of the company ahead of his retirement. The board members’ eyes are trained on me, expecting me to reverse the damage.

None of those eyes have been very kind, including good old Dad’s.

Here’s the thing: I can handle pressure.

I spent my twenties sweating my balls off in Michelin-starred kitchens.

It’s the unknown I can’t handle. There’s no way to predict what Sienna will say to my idea tonight, and if my father’s tone is any indication, my future at the company depends on her answer. My mom’s legacy depends on her answer.

The penthouse is spotless by the time I get ready for dinner.

After a fresh shower, I make a beeline to my closet. A cool, white light comes on as I walk in, illuminating racks of clothes, shoes, ties, and watches. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and mess with my hair, my naked reflection staring back at me.

Years ago, my university girlfriend told me I wasn’t a husband guy .

She meant it as a compliment—that I’m all fun, no pressure.

We stayed together until we grew tired of each other, and that’s been the trajectory of every relationship I’ve had since.

We meet, we enjoy our quality time, we move on without drama or heartbreak.

I never think about those relationships anymore, but I bet they’d all die laughing if they knew what I was about to do.

Wooden hangers rattle. I select a navy-blue suit and a black tie, getting dressed in front of the mirror.

My hand slips into the Rolex my father bought me for my twenty-fifth birthday, gold gleaming as I clasp it shut around my wrist. Then I crack my knuckles, lace my feet into a pair of polished shoes, and nod at myself in the mirror.

Good luck, you dumb bastard.

Wallet, keys, and I'm out.

The restaurant is upscale, but not too flashy. Marble shines in the light from delicate crystal chandeliers overhead. Servers move with practiced ease amongst pristine table settings, delivering chateaubriand, oysters Rockefeller, and sole meunière.

I’ve been waiting here alone for almost half an hour.

Another minute ticks by on my watch, and it’s getting harder and harder not to smile. I should have seen this coming … Sienna is always one step ahead of me. It’s impressive as hell, and frankly, I have no business finding a woman giving me a taste of my own medicine sexy. But here I am.

When she walks in, I don’t notice at first. I’m tapping out an email, engrossed in my phone.

Until I hear her.

“Hello, Mr. Harwood.”

Sienna’s voice has a little rasp to it. I hadn’t noticed until the meeting yesterday, but now when I hear it, it goes through me like electricity. I raise my eyes to the head of our table, where she’s taking off her coat.

“Ms. Hayes.” I jump out of my seat to shake her hand. “You look …”

Un-fucking-believable is the first word that comes to mind. She’s wearing a long dress the color of sage. The ends of her hair sweep the curve of her waist in loose curls that make me think of fairies.

Like frightening, beautiful fairies that eat men’s hearts out for lunch.

“Great,” I say, my mouth full of sand. “You look great.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Sienna shakes my hand with a firm grip and sits across from me. “I’m not usually late to business meetings.”

I give her a wry smile. “I’ve heard that before.”

The waiter appears, brandishing a bottle of wine, a keen sparkle in his eye. Sienna looks from him to me, and I’m positive she’s anticipating what’s about to happen—we spent enough time at Café de Mario for her to know what it’s like to be in public with me.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here, Mr. Harwood,” the waiter says. “Our finest red, on the house.”

When our wine is poured and we’re alone again, Sienna leans forward. “Does that ever get old?”

I sip from my glass, giving her an innocent look. “Whatever could you mean?”

“Nick.” She raises an eyebrow. I’m starting to like that expression; irrationally, I hope she’s reserved it just for me. “Come on.”

Chuckling, I say, “It’s fine. It’s better than the alternative.”

“The alternative being … not getting free stuff?”

“Not having people like me.”

Sienna tilts her head, her hair skating off her bare shoulder. “They’re not giving you things because they like you. They’re giving you things because they’re afraid you’ll get fussy and push over an antique liquor cabinet.”

“I know.” Obviously. It’s just easier to pretend it’s the other way around. “For the record, the liquor cabinet thing happened once , and it was an accident.”

She grins at me. “That’s not what I read on celebritydailyscandals.net.”

“Dot net? ” I cringe, scanning my eyes down the menu. “Jesus. What kind of websites are you visiting?”

“Dark web, mostly.”

The noise of the restaurant waxes and wanes as we order appetizers and continue to chat about nothing.

The end of winter (Sienna uses the word “slush” twice—I like the way it sounds when she says it), how far the restaurant is from her place (a ten-minute drive), and if she has any food restrictions (none).

I’m not surprised that she hasn’t brought up her dad. I wish she would. It would make a convenient segue into the reason I asked her here tonight. The more I look at her, the more I wonder if I even have the balls to do this.

By the time the waiter sets our entrees in front of us, I’m sweating like a teenager on his first date.

Breathe, Nick.

“Wow,” Sienna says. She’s just closed her mouth around her first bite of coq au vin. “This tastes amazing.”

How long has it been since she had a good meal? Her eyes flutter closed, and the bow of her lips softens, her expression subtly rapturous. I have to remind my mouth how to talk.

“When’s the last time you took a vacation?”

“A vacation? What’s that?” She smirks at the look I give her. “I think it was … Italy, almost five years ago. My mom’s side is Italian.”

“Five years? That’s half a decade.”

“I’m aware. Some of us work for a living, Mr. Harwood.”

My filet mignon is a little tough. I would have used a different grade of butter in the skillet. More black pepper. “Ah, so that’s what you call single-handedly saving my public image. I thought it was a hobby.”

She laughs, sipping from her wine glass. “For a fee increase, I can upgrade you to passion project.”

“My father would love that. He called me an ignoramus last night on the phone.”

“Do all billionaires use phrases exclusively from the late eighteen hundreds?”

“Mine does. Some of his ideas come right out of the Victorian era.” I shift in my seat, cutting my steak to have an excuse to break eye contact. I can feel the moment getting closer. My knee bounces under the table.

“Like?”

I put my cutlery down, staring at her. Her face is relaxed, but her back is pin-straight, and the set of her shoulders is tight. Maybe she feels what’s coming, too. Maybe she can tell I’m about to say something I’ve never said before and probably will never say again.

I’m not a husband guy, after all.

“I have something to ask you, Sienna.”

She looks up from her plate. “About the plan? I brought the contract if you want to?—”

“Not quite.” I clear my throat, folding and unfolding my napkin. “I googled your name over the weekend. I read the articles about your dad’s company going bankrupt.”

Silence falls between us. Emotions flick across her face too quickly for me to pick one out. I wonder if she’s been waiting for me to mention this—she had to know I’d connect the dots at some point.

Then she drops her fork and crosses her arms. “Yes?”

“I want to help.”

Her eyes flash. “We don’t need your charity, Mr. Harwood.”

“I know.”

“And we don’t need your judgement, either.”

“I’m not trying to judge you,” I tell her. “I figured most of what the articles said wasn’t true.”

She studies me for a moment, then nods. “My dad’s co-owners plotted against him.

They tried to push him out of the company by ruining his reputation online.

He has anxiety. He was burned out. That doesn’t mean he was the reason the company was failing.

Even if he was, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. ”

“Of course.”

Her fingers tap on her upper arm. “You’re bringing this up because …?”

“Because I’d like to suggest a deal.” My heartbeat is in my temples. “A business agreement.”

“A business agreement?”

“I’m prepared to cover your family’s debts above and beyond the ten million dollars my father is offering. Whatever the number is, I’ll pay it, and I’ll sign your PR contract, too. It’ll be a new start for your dad. A new start for you.”

Sienna’s brows jump, the movement so miniscule I almost don’t catch it. She looks at me warily, like she thinks I’m joking but can’t decide if it’s funny yet. I don’t blame her. This is ridiculous. Absurd. Completely preposterous.

But I can see the hunger in her eyes even now. It’s the same look that’s in mine. We’re predators underneath, her and I, and it’s confirmed when she decides not to laugh at me and leans forward instead, pinning me with a level gaze.

“What’s the exchange?” she asks.

It’s a simple question, and after I’ve sipped my wine and returned the glass to the table, I offer a simpler answer.

“Marry me.”