Page 52 of Bride on the Dotted Line

Nick’s not like that, I almost say, but I keep quiet and let Lena and Mason turn the conversation to our monthly budget instead. I can keep this to myself, for a while: how I feel about Nick; how I trust him; how Ilikehim; how I know him, without knowing him.

Still, maybe Mason is right. Going on this trip could be a good thing. It’ll ensure our PR plan runs strong, and I’ll have a chance to parse these feelings, the feelings I’m terrified to name—or look at, or even think about—and finally figure out what I want when this is over.

Because I’m starting to worry it’s more than justcircling back.

My heart flutters as I pick up my phone to text Nick.

Sienna, 10:44 AM

Hey, so change of plans.

I’ll be coming to Fiji with you.

Nick

I thought you were supposed to lay low?

Lena and Mason think it’s best if I’m there. That way no one can say you’re in Fiji having an affair with one or more supermodels.

One or more?! I’m flattered.

I’ll book you on my flight right away. I have an in-air suite. First class, roomy enough for both of us.

No need. Lena’s taking care of it.

Great.

Looks like you’ll finally get a vacation, Ms. Hayes.

Working vacation.

But yeah. Guess I will.

A few days later, it’s late evening, and Nick and I are in the air.

Nick reclines next to me in the fanciest, most upscale flight cabin I’ve ever seen, his gray hoodie and sweats the epitome of masculine comfort. He thumbs through a glossy book written by a celebrity chef, his toe tapping the air. I adjust my laptop on my lap, staring at work documents.

The seat-couch-bed thing we’re on is split down the middle, separated by a low partition that’s no higher than an armrest. My legs are stretched in front of me, tucked under a separate blanket from Nick’s, but we’re still close enough for his warmth to travel up my side.

It’s driving me crazy, and the fact that everything around us is elegantly soft and plushy isn’t helping. I lace my fingers over my keyboard and sigh.

Nick looks at me from the corner of his eye. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m … too comfortable.”

He snorts. “Never flown first class before?” His eyes sparkle when he sees the look I give him. “It’s a bit outrageous, I admit.”

“Do people really need a wholeprivate suiteto fly on vacation?” I smooth my blanket over my knees, secretly loving the way it feels on my skin. “I should be sitting in a hard seat right now, looking a crying baby directly in the face. I hate this.”

“You don’t look like you hate this,” Nick says. He grins, and for a second, his hand moves as if he’s going to rest it on my thigh, but he thinks better of it. He palms the spine of his book. “I heard a little sigh when you reclined your seat back.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “I made no such noise, Mr. Harwood.”

“I doubt you can prove it, Ms. Hayes.”

A giggle escapes me, and he looks back at his book, amused. I chew on my upper lip. It’s torture, this little game we’re playing. Dancing around the charged air between us, pretending like we don’t remember the feeling of each other, the taste, the yearning.

The moment we step off the plane, the island heat and humidity hit me like a wall. Fiji is warm even in the early morning, thick with the scent of salt and something delicious and floral in the air. I’ve never vacationed in a tropical destination, but I already feel like I can take a deeper breath.

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