Page 32 of Bride on the Dotted Line

“Hello?” I call, dragging my suitcases from the elevator. My voice echoes off glass and marble. No response.

Could he still be out with his dad and Alvin?

Sienna

Hey, Nick. I’m here.

He doesn’t reply. I decide to leave my suitcases at the door and venture up the stairs, looking for the guest bedroom I’m supposed to be staying in. Better than standing in the entrance like a lost puppy.

Upstairs, I flick on a light switch. Overhead lights bathe the walls in white, shadows dripping from a tall, metal sculpture too modern to be anything recognizable. There’s a collection of framed photos on a console table next to it.

They’re mostly group shots—a birthday, someone’s bachelor party—but the last is a candid photo of Nick in a professional kitchen. His apron and white jacket are in perfect condition, his side towel stained and splashed, signs of a day’s work. He’s young, maybe in his mid-twenties, and he’s got a whisk in his hand. His eyes are crinkled in a laugh, his head thrown back in tired, carefree joy.

Gorgeous.There’s no better way to say it. He’s beautiful. Upsettingly beautiful, like a man who’s never once burned toast or eaten a bag of mini marshmallows for lunch. Like a man who casually rolls up his sleeves and ruins your whole life.

I leave the photos behind and keep walking.

The first doors I find lead me into an office and a massive laundry room, both clean and tidy. The third door is cracked open, light shining on the other side. I peek through the doorway.

This isn’t my room, either. I know that straight away, but my feet refuse to move.

I’m looking at Nick’s bedroom.

It’s two stories tall, with a rounded wall of floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Jesus.How big is this place? Outside, the city twinkles, throwing light onto a large, made bed at the center of the room. Nick’s suit from the wedding is lain out on the plush navy and charcoal bedding, his corsage sitting on the bedside table, where a lamp glows.

It's urban elegance, and it’s just as cold as everything I’ve seen in the penthouse so far. It doesn’t even smell like him in here—it smells like laundry detergent, sandalwood, and men’s shampoo. A pleasant scent, to be sure, but not Nick.

As I’m standing there following the line of the curtains up, up with my eyes, something about the sound in the room changes. I realize too late it’s a shower turning off.

I snap my eyes back to the bed. My arms go limp. A door I hadn’t noticedthunksopen at the far end of the room, and Nick walks through, running his fingers through his hair. He’s shirtless, glistening wet, holding a white towel around his waist.

“Shit,” I whisper to myself, stepping backward—more like careening backward—before he sees me.

But not before I look.

It’s just for a second. Maybe a little too long. My eyes catch on the broad stretch of his shoulders, the carved lines of his torso, the way droplets trail down his body. His calves look rock hard.

And his abs.

Oh my God,Nick Harwood hasabs.

More tattoos than I thought, too. The inked floral pattern on his arms reaches from his shoulders, down his pecs, and across his stomach, toward that muscular V situated above the line of his towel. Pointing straight to …

Nope.

My heart’s already pounding too hard, my face too blazing hot, to think about what’s under that towel.

Holding my breath, I leave the bedroom behind, retracing my steps downstairs on tiptoes. I shake my head at myself. What the hell is wrong with me? Why would I spy into Nick’s bedroom? I already know that he’s hot—it’s not like I need further confirmation.

(The kiss from the wedding still lingers on my lips, a phantom touch I haven’t been able to shake. Kissing him was a stupid thing to do, but at the time, I needed to do it. For some reason.)

Business, Sienna. Focus.

Downstairs again, I take a moment to collect myself, fingers gripping the handle of my suitcase, before I call out again. “Hello?”

“Oh, hey,” Nick says from above. “Be out in a sec. Living room’s the last door to the right.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

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