Page 7 of Bride on the Dotted Line

He’s got every hallmark of a rich and powerful man, but he’s not like my other super wealthy clients. He’s … present.

Say what you will about my brand of public relations, but it’s never boring.

A few moments of quiet pass, the din of the city filling the space between us. Then he snaps his fingers, the sound breaking the spell and making me jump.

“Hayes,” he says. “I knew I recognized your last name. Did your mom manage one of my father’s restaurants? The burger place downtown?”

I shake my head. “Sorry.” For the first time today, my throat’s gone dry, my heart thumping in my ribcage. “Not me.”

“Damn,” he says with a shrug, still looking at the sky. “I’ll think of it.”

I close my eyes, relieved—but only for now. How long will it take him to connect me with my dad? Hopefully longer than it takes to close this deal. I’ve worked too hard to keep this last year in the past, to protect myself and my family, to have it all unravel now.

My cab comes to a stop in front of us. Nick opens the door, waving me inside.

“Look for my e-mail, PR girl.”

I’m not sure why I do it. It’s probably inappropriate—andwaytoo familiar for a business meeting—but it’s happening before I can stop it. I grab his wrist before I turn to get in the cab. His skin is warm, another tattoo peeking from his cuff. He watches in surprise as I pull out my pen.

When I’m done, I return his wrist and slip the pen into my bag. “That’s my cell number. Contact me when you’re ready.”

I get into the cab and close the door. Nick seems lost for words, staring down at the numbers I’ve scrawled on him. As an afterthought, I roll down the window, the evening breeze sucking into the cab’s interior and bringing his smell with it.

“Texts only, Mr. Harwood.”

Chapter 4

Nick

Nick, 7:21 PM

Is this Sienna?

Sienna

And you are?

Thought you gave me the wrong number for a second, PR girl.

Wouldn’t think of it.

Ready to do business?

I stare at her last text, surprised at how badly my thumbs want to tap out a reply.

Ready to do business?

This whole thing feels like some kind of elaborate joke. The type only my father can afford.

I pop a mint in my mouth as my driver pulls up to the Harwood family estate. I spent the evening after Sienna and I’s meeting working on a pot of beef bourguignon—my mother’s old recipe; no use trying to improve on perfection—and I only had one swig from the bottle of vintage Pinot Noir I opened for the sauce, but if Victor Harwood catches even a hint of alcohol on my breath, I’m fucked.

Yes, I’m aware he treats me like a fourteen-year-old, but it’s been that way since I was a kid. My father’s jaw has always tightened when I speak. His eyes have always scrutinized me like I’m a walking catastrophe. In a way, I’ve turned out to be exactly the man he expected me to be.

According to the tabloids, at least.

I thank my driver and walk into the mansion where I grew up.

The house is outrageous: fifteen bedrooms, a pool, and a minigolf course; a kitchen that would make any home cook salivate; a ten-car garage and still too many vehicles to fill it. The house doesn’t look anything like it did when I was a kid. It’s gone through multiple changes and remodels since Mom passed—new floors, new siding, new windows—and now it looks just like Victor Harwood himself.

---