Chapter One: The Mistake
Lincoln
I wipe the perspiration off my forehead from the sticky New York City heat, sighing as the sun continues to beam down on me. The dead of July is the worst time of year. With the peak of tourist season at its highest, the looming buildings above leave no room for wind to travel through the thick crowds of people bustling about.
Christ.
Another date.
I'm tempted to roll my eyes as I push my way past two teenagers skateboarding through a crosswalk. I almost run into a dad pushing a newborn baby in a stroller, muttering an apology when he breezes past.
Ten minutes.
I'm giving this fucking date ten minutes before I get back to work.
Over the past few months, my mother has set me up with countless women. Some are daughters of her friends at the country club, some have been women that are actively involved in her charity organization, and some I swore she just spotted off the street and showed them a picture of me to see if they'd be interested. But no, my mother is calculated. She wouldn't choose just anyone to set me up with.
In the end, the women are all the same: they're ready to start a family and settle down, they have impeccable hair and teeth, and most importantly? They want to be taken care of. The women I've met are looking to have the life their mothers more than likely did. They'd manage the home, take care of the kids, and then they'd spend their free time at the golf course, or at the country club reading their favorite book of the month, just as my mother had done.
And while all of that may be fine and dandy for some, it's not what I want. At least not yet. I'm fine being an eligible bachelor. I like my condo in the city all to myself. I'm only twenty-eight. I still have time to settle down and find someone if I wish, but my mother is incorrigible and thinks I'm withering away with only a few years left to live.
Fighting her on the subject would just result in a never-ending cycle, so once every two weeks I go on these stupid blind dates, I meet the woman my mother has chosen for me, and then I pretend to be the biggest dick on the face of the earth to make sure I never have to see them again.
Is it wrong?
Yup.
Do I care?
Nope.
I loosen the gray tie of my fitted suit ever-so-slightly to try and welcome air beneath the jacket. Maybe I should just strip myself of the jacket entirely, but then my tattoos would peek out of the top of my crisp linen dress shirt, and that would only give this woman another excuse to want to see me again.
My mother arranged the blind date at a small coffee shop just adjacent to Central Park. In the distance, lovers are sailing in tiny boats on the reservoir, and to the left, romantic picnic dates are sprawled out on the lush, green grass. I grimace as a man drops a grape into his prospective date's mouth, and yet again, I want to roll my eyes.
This is exactly the kind of place my mother would pick.
I push open the door to the tiny shop fifteen minutes later than I said I'd be here. The first rule for failing these dates? Never show up on time.
Typically, it doesn't take me longer than ten seconds to spot the chosen prospect. I scan the shop for a woman dressed like she's attending a gala of some sort, perhaps in a fancy hat with a feather on it like the woman two weeks ago chose, but I come up short. All I see are two businessmen in the corner sipping coffee over a sprawl of papers on a table, and a waitress zooming hot chocolates to two women towards the back. No sign of my impending date.
"Mr. Nash," an assertive voice calls from the corner.
I turn my head to see a woman already standing and extending a hand out to me. I hold my breath as I scan her from head to toe, mentally congratulating my mother for actually choosing someone more my type.
The first thing I notice is her height. She's tall, and in those soft pink heels, her eyes would reach just below my nose. Those legs of hers run for miles in a fitted black skirt that hits just above her knees. A purple satin tank top is loosely tucked into the waistband, showing just enough cleavage to keep me guessing.
I draw my eyes up her face to a set of full, pink lips, a perfectly placed button nose, and hazel eyes that reveal not an ounce of what she might be feeling at this moment. Normally I can read these women my mother selects like a book. Desperation to get a chance with me is written all over their faces, but this woman is revealing nothing. Not a speck of insight.
Her dark brown hair glimmers with caramel highlights, the loose curls stopping just above her shoulders. I don't even realize that I'm standing here like an idiot gawking at her until she clears her throat and glances down at her hand that's still extended, waiting for me to shake.
Oh, right.
Formal...but I'll go with it.
I place my hand in hers, taken back by how solid it is. From the feel of her hands, she's not nervous one bit. The skin is soft, but not clammy. Her nails are neatly manicured, and since I've had my fair share of women, I know the smell of Chanel when I'm around it. She clearly takes good care of herself. Then again, my mother wouldn't have selected someone who doesn't.
"Uh, Lincoln," I correct her. "We don't have to be so formal."
"Sienna," she says with a curt nod. "It's nice to meet you, Lincoln."
"Same, Sienna." SiennaSiennaSienna.
The name runs across my tongue. I have never wanted to bed a woman that my mother has chosen, but right now, I'm thinking of nothing but what Sienna has underneath that satin tank top of hers.
I'm a bachelor for a reason, and I have no interest in settling down, but I still have needs. And although this woman is tempting enough to take home, I won't let my mother have the satisfaction of knowing that she won. She chose this girl for a reason, so there must be something wrong with her.
I sit down across from her at the tiny table, watching as she pulls a folder from a briefcase sitting beside her chair. She rifles through the papers and clicks her tongue as if she forgot something. "Can you remind me what your company's net worth is again? I had the report, but I may have left it at—"
"Ah," I chuckle, everything clicking into place, "you did your research I see."
She arches a perfectly penciled eyebrow up. "Should I not have?"
I shrug. "To each their own. My company's net worth is four billion. Is that good enough for you?"
Rule number two: be just enough of a dick that they make up their own conclusion about me.
"I've seen better, but it'll do," she says simply.
What?
Is this a frequent thing she does? Get pulled into going on dates with billionaires?
She's trying to throw me off and prove herself to be the best choice. I can't tell for certain, but I have a strong suspicion that she's lying. If she really went on more than one date with a billionaire, why the hell didn't she close the deal?
I glance at my watch. Two o'clock. I have to get back to the office.
"Let's just cut to the chase," I say just as the waitress approaches us. I tell her it won't be necessary and watch as she heads for another table in the back. "Do you want kids? Marriage? I won't be able to offer you any of it."
Sienna blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Before she says, "I—what?"
"I don't do relationships. I'm not interested in whatever my mother attempted to rope you into, so I apologize that she wasted your time."
Sienna sits back more in her seat, and where the others may have had a trembling lip at this point, she is smiling. Then she laughs, and I despise how it goes directly to my core. The attractiveness of the floaty, musical sound is like a gut punch. I don't do relationships... but maybe she doesn't either.
I clear my throat. "However, if you're looking for a good time... "
"Mr. Nash, I'm going to stop you right there," she snaps and sits up straighter in her chair. "I'm not sure what the hell you think this is, but I was brought here because your company expressed interest in my help with re-branding. I'm the CEO of the biggest marketing firm on the East coast, not a prospect for you to take home. I came here to do your company a favor, not the other way around, and, quite frankly, I don't need your money. Not at all, actually."
What in the actual hell? How could I have gotten this mixed up? I like to think of myself as over-the-top organized. I have agendas, I have daily regimens that I follow, and nothing is ever out of place. Margo, my assistant, told me this meeting was tomorrow. It wasn't today, was it?
"Now, I could just walk right out of here and not give your company the time of day, but I think I might want your money just for the hell of it, and since you've crossed multiple lines during this little meeting, I think it's safe to say that we're in business, no? Do I need to explain to you why Stone Media Entertainment would be a good fit for Nash Enterprises or are we done here?"
I have no words.
None.
All I can do is nod as those perfectly manicured nails slide her business card across the table. "I'll be in touch," she says sweetly.