Stuck With Mr A-Lister

Chapter 2

Sienna’s POV

The scent of freshly baked sourdough filled the air, mixing with the sharp citrus tang of my signature lemon-thyme butter. Every surface in the restaurant gleamed, from the polished brass fixtures to the deep oak tables that had taken me six months to source. Tonight was it—the soft opening of Clarke & Co., the restaurant I had spent the last five years dreaming, saving, and bleeding for.

I should have been overjoyed. Instead, I was seconds away from strangling my best friend.

"Ben," I hissed, hands on my hips. "Why are there peonies on my tables?"

Ben grinned, completely unbothered. "Because they’re pretty, darling."

"They don’t match the aesthetic!" I gestured wildly at the carefully curated deep green and cream color scheme. "We agreed on white roses and eucalyptus. Minimalist. Chic. Not 'wedding at an overpriced vineyard.'"

Ben, who had been my ride-or-die since culinary school and one dramatic coming-out scene in the walk-in freezer, simply sipped his matcha latte. "Sweetheart, if the biggest disaster at your grand opening is the wrong floral arrangements, you’re already winning."

I glared. "This is sabotage."

"This is me saving you from being a control freak," he countered. "Besides, no one’s here for the flowers. They’re here for the food. Your food."

My stomach twisted. Right. The food.

Months of tastings, sourcing the best ingredients, adjusting the menu a hundred times—it all came down to tonight. Influencers, food critics, industry people—one bad review from the right (or wrong) person, and my dream could crash and burn before I even unlocked the front doors for the public.

Ben must have sensed my nerves because he softened, setting his drink down. "Hey. Breathe. You’ve got this."

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders back. "I know."

"Good." He clapped his hands. "Now, should we go over the VIP list again, or do you need a Xanax first?"

I smirked. "Let’s do the list. You know I like to suffer naturally."

Ben pulled out his phone, scrolling. "Alright. We’ve got Lana Hart—food critic, terrifying but fair."

I nodded. "Got it."

"Marco Delaney—that British chef who pretends to hate you but secretly thinks you’re a genius."

"Mm-hmm."

"Zoe Ling—i********: food blogger, definitely here more for aesthetic shots than the actual food, but her audience is massive."

I bit my lip. "Do we know what her ‘bad food’ face looks like? I need to mentally prepare."

Ben grinned. "Unfortunately, yes. It’s aggressively neutral with a side of internal suffering."

I groaned. "Fantastic."

Ben clicked his tongue. "And, of course, we have Your Parents."

I froze. "Wait. What?"

Ben winced. "Yeah, your mom emailed last night. Said she and your dad wanted to ‘support your big night.’"

I stared at him. "Ben. You let Judith Clarke, the woman who once sent back a steak at a Michelin-starred restaurant because it was ‘too perfect,’ RSVP to my opening?"

He held up his hands. "Would you rather I said no and let her show up unannounced and angry?"

Damn it. He had a point.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Fine. But if she complains about anything, I’m handing her an apron and putting her to work."

Ben cackled. "Honestly? Would pay to see that."

I opened my mouth to respond—

Ding.

A notification popped up on my phone.

New Email: Montgomery & Finch LLP – RE: Eleanor Montgomery’s Will

I frowned. "Weird."

Ben peeked over my shoulder. "Who’s Eleanor Montgomery?"

"A family friend. Well… more like a family force of nature. She and my grandmother were best friends—one of those crazy rich old ladies who had absolutely no filter and a disturbing love for expensive whiskey. She passed away last month."

Ben’s brows lifted. "And you’re only hearing from her lawyers now?"

I shrugged. "Probably some generic estate notice. Maybe she left me one of her weird antiques."

Ben’s eyes twinkled. "If it’s that creepy porcelain owl from her study, I’m moving out."

I snorted, tapping the email open.

The moment I read the first line, the blood drained from my face.

Dear Ms. Clarke,

In accordance with the final will and testament of Eleanor Montgomery, you have been named as a beneficiary. As part of her final wishes, you are required to fulfill a specific condition to claim your inheritance…

I skimmed further, my heart hammering.

You will be required to reside at Eleanor Montgomery’s Napa Valley estate for one year.

What?

I kept reading.

Furthermore, your co-beneficiary, Mr. Leo Hawthorne, will be required to do the same.

I stopped breathing.

Ben leaned in. "You okay? You look like you just swallowed a lemon."

I swallowed. "It’s not a lemon. It’s worse."

His eyes widened. "Oh my god. She left you the creepy owl."

I turned the phone toward him, my voice flat.

"She left me a house."

Ben’s jaw dropped. "Shut up."

"Oh, it gets better," I said dryly. "She left it to me and Leo Hawthorne."

There was a beat of silence. Then—

"Oh. My. God." Ben clutched his chest like he’d just been blessed by the drama gods. "Sienna. This is better than the flowers. This is cinematic."

I groaned, tossing my phone onto the counter. "This is a nightmare."

"Are you kidding? This is the plot of a Netflix rom-com waiting to happen." Ben’s grin widened. "And you and Leo? You have history. Spicy, unresolved, sexually tense history."

I shot him a glare. "It was one night. And it was years ago."

Ben smirked. "And yet, here we are. Fate, babe."

I shook my head, already regretting opening the email.

One year. Trapped in an estate. With him.

I exhaled sharply, grabbing my phone again. "I’m calling the lawyer. There has to be a way out of this."

Ben’s eyes sparkled with mischief. "Or… hear me out… you could embrace the chaos."

I rolled my eyes.

One year. With Leo Hawthorne.

Absolutely not.