Page 43 of Bride on the Dotted Line

“Good.” Victor’s expression had flickered, something unreadable passing in his eyes before being snuffed out. He adjusted the collar of his pinstripe suit. “Make sure your wife understands that, too.”

Then he walked away, the neck of the champagne bottle throttled in a tight fist.

Now, in the car, I make a similar fist, tensing and releasing my fingers. Sienna catches it; the backseat of the car is dark, but I see her turn toward me.

“Nick?” She pauses, hesitating, then asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to shake the impression that my father wanted to dissect me tonight. I can feel his scrutiny even now, and what did he mean bymake sure your wife understands that?What part does Sienna play in my running of the company, beyond helping me secure it?

The pit in my stomach widens. I can’t figure out how Lionel got an invite to the charity gala. He and Roderick haven’t been to an event like that for years. Why this one?

“Nick?” Sienna says again.

I shake my head. “Sorry. Thinking about my dad.” I shift so I’m facing her. She’s stopped fussing with her hair and has her hands folded on her thigh, city lights sliding over her white, faux fur coat. “Did he say anything to you tonight?”

Her mouth curves downward. “No. I—uh—I know I made it seem like I spoke to your dad before we met, but I’ve actually never talked to him. We’ve never been introduced. He left to talk to someone else before I could approach him tonight.”

“My dad’s never spoken to you?”

“No. Why?”

Something cold and angry pools inside me. I’m not sure what it is, but I let it bubble, looking out the window again. The city’s main drag is busy, crowds of people washing down the neon street.

“Do you ever feel like …” How do I phrase it? “Like you’re running a race without a finish line? No matter how fast you run, it’s never fast enough?”

“All the time,” she admits. “That’s how you know you care about doing something right. You keep pushing, even when it feels like there’s no end.”

Our driver makes a turn, leaving the light-bathed street behind for quieter, darker neighborhoods. Sienna’s warm scent is wafting through the backseat, permeating the air. I do care about doing things right. I care about my mom’s company. I care about Sienna and I’s marriage contract.

But when I close my eyes at night, my dreams are different. I see myself behind the line at a restaurant again, not behind my father’s desk. I see Sienna Hayes in my bed, or eating breakfast at my dining table, not in a boardroom signing a contract.

I shouldn’t have kissed her.

I can feel Sienna watching me, fingers drumming a rhythm in her lap. I wish I knew what she was thinking. Unsaid words swirl between us, a million conversational threads I’m not brave enough to follow. Does she feel relieved, now that the weight of her family’s debts has been lifted? Is she missing her place across the city, or is she enjoying her time in the penthouse?

Does she think about the wedding, too?

We’re still sitting in awkward silence, a few minutes from home, when my phone buzzes.

I’m not sure how I know it’s Sienna, but I do. I turn to her and find her face dimly lit by her own phone screen, gaze quickly darting out the window.

Suppressing a smile, I fish my phone out of my coat pocket.

Sienna

Are you hungry?

Our eyes meet. Sienna’s smile wavers at the edges, like she’s aware this text puts us over an invisible line. I look at the message in my hand, then up at her again, heart thumping.

We’re not supposed to have anything planned after the charity gala. According to our contract, we should be going straight home, falling asleep in separate rooms, and checking in with our lawyers in the morning.

Appropriate. Professional.

But the way she’s staring at me, chewing her bottom lip …

For two weeks, I’ve turned that kiss over in my mind, wondering why she did it when she didn’t have to. Now, with this message and that look in her eyes, I realize there’s a chance that she’s fighting the same battle I am. That maybe, just maybe, what she needs and what she wants aren’t the same thing.

It could mean nothing, but my heart—my poor, doomed, foolish heart—swells with hope.

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