Page 19 of Bride on the Dotted Line

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-believableis 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.”

“Dotnet?” 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.”

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