Page 14 of Bride on the Dotted Line

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.

Chapter 7

Sienna

On Monday, when my alarm goes off at six o’clock, I’m already awake and looking at my phone.

This is the third time I’ve checked my notifications in the last hour. I’ve had promotional emails, a text from my mom asking if I made that stir fry, and a low-balance alert from my bank.

Nothing important.

I put my phone down, step out of my pajamas, and crank the handle in the shower. When I get out, I wrap myself in a towel and check my notifications again.

Nothing new.

Look, I’m not expecting Nick Harwood to text me before our meeting. That would be irrational. We’re seeing each other in person this morning. Why would he bother texting me beforehand?

And why would I care?

We communicated more frequently—and far more casually—than we should have over the weekend, but now it’s the first official day of the work week. Today, it’s not important that my billionaire client made me laugh in a moment of vulnerability. Today, it’s not important that I think I made him laugh, too, or that the strange tug he gives me in my stomach has only gotten stronger.

What matters is that he gives our contract to his lawyers, we get ten million dollars, and my dad’s legal debts get paid.

I pull into my parking space outside of Blackstone Center, my Bad Bitch playlist roaring over the car sound system. My hair is wound into a shiny bun at the base of my head, my skirt and heels black as midnight. I stare at my locked phone in its holder on the dash.

Don’t check.

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