Page 18 of Bride on the Dotted Line

“Right.” I breathe in slowly. “He and I established a rapport over text on the weekend. He trusts me the most, so it’s me that has to bring him over the finish line. I can get him to sign the contract.”

Lena scrutinizes me. If she’s put it together that it was Nick’s messages I was reading in my car this morning, she doesn’t bring it up. Maybe because she’s finally understood that thelovesick smilingnever happened.

Because it didn’t.

“Okay,” she says. “You’ve gone insane, Sienna, but okay.”

I turn to Mason, and he shrugs. “Just make sure you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.” A smile stretches across my face. If Nick Harwood and I are going off-book, I know exactly what kind of war I’m going to wage. “Trust me, I do.”

Sienna

I’ll be sure to wear something nice.

Chapter 8

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 ahusband 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.”

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