One Weekend in Quebec City (One Weekend #11)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Spencer

G od. What a long fucking day.

As I lean back in my chair, the leather softly squeaking under my weight, and shove my fingers through my hair, the faint remnants of cologne on my collar and sweat from my pits waft up to my nose.

An image of Mom pops into my head. Thelast few times I visited; she never mentioned my hair once. Sheprefers it short and neatly trimmed. Alwayshas. Ifit simply grazes the edge of my collar, she openly criticizes the length, telling me I look shabby.

She hasn’t said a single word about it since Dad’s funeral. Eventhough I shouldn’t be so concerned about something as superficial as the length of my hair, I make a mental note to schedule an appointment with my hairdresser.

The sun is beginning to lower, creating a stunning array of burnt orange and pink behind the New York City skyline outside my office windows. Mostpeople have long since left their workspace and gone home to their families for the evening. IfI had left work at quitting time like a normal human being, I would have heard the distant wail of a siren, the steady rhythm of traffic, and the ceaseless chatter of people spilling out onto the streets. Buton the twenty-first floor, I don’t hear a damn thing. AndI only know it’s well past time to leave myself because of the setting sun. Andmy gurgling stomach. Ialso didn’t get to eat lunch.

I spin my chair away from the view and instead face the polished mahogany desk, its top scattered with various reports and documents. Mycomputer screen has gone black, andeven the light on the desk phone has stopped blinking. The walls of my office are lined with modern art and bookshelves filled with business tomes and family photos. Ioften wonder if Dad kept pictures of us growing up to remind him of his family waiting at home or the family he wanted others to think he gave a shit about.

Father of the year, he wasn’t.

The central air sends a cool breeze against my skin, a welcome relief from the stifling summer heat that clings to the city like a second skin. Thescent of cold, stale coffee lingers in the air, a reminder of the countless cups I’ve consumed throughout the day.

My gaze shifts to the couch along the end wall. Ineed to get rid of that thing. Ican almost feel the stench of Dad’s indiscretions. It’slike a thick, choking smog that threatens to bury me.

Most people think I don’t give a damn about my reputation. Infact, they think I’m just like him. ButI do care. The anxiety and tension of trying to distance myself from his shadow coil around my chest, tightening like a vice.

Today was another day like the meeting from hell a month ago.

“Spencer, we need to discuss your… extracurricular activities,” Old Man Henderson had said, his voice dripping with disdain. Headjusted his ancient, wire-rimmed glasses, peering at me over the top of them like I was some kind of insect he wanted to squash. Theman was ninety if he was a day.

“My what?” I’d asked, keeping my voice even though my blood had already started to boil. Hendersonhas been riding my ass since the last shovel of dirt landed on Dad’s coffin.

“The models, Spencer,”another board member, Thompson,chimed in. “The constant stream of them. It’s… unseemly for a man of your stature.”

Unseemly? Myfather practically made a sport of sleeping with any woman who caught his eye—married or not—and these dinosaurs never said a word. Butbecause I occasionally enjoy the company of beautiful, consenting, single women, women my own age, I’m suddenly a liability?

“My personal life is my personal life,”I’d ground out, my jaw so tight it still aches hours later. “It has zero impact on my ability to run this company.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, son,”Henderson had sneered. “Perception is reality. Andright now, the perception is that you’re more interested in chasing skirts than securing deals.”

That meeting ended like today’s meeting—with me stalking back into my office and pouring myself a very large glass of very expensive Canadian whiskey.

Today they were pissed about some social media influencer who’s decided to use my life to increase her popularity ratings. She’sbeen sharing whatever video or image she can dig up and adding her two cents, painting me as a rich, entitled man-whore. Apparently, the world now sees me as nothing more than a playboy, a headline, a scandal waiting to happen.

They’re comparing me to my father.

In reality, I’m a man trying to hold together a crumbling empire, a son trying to bring back honor his mother’s name, and a brother trying to pave the way for his siblings to join him one day in running the family business if there’s one left to run.

God, I fucking hate this.

Shoving my chair back, I jump up, startling Linda, my assistant. Hereyes dart to me as I spin around to face the floor-to-ceiling window again. Myreflection stares back, a thirty-three-year-old man withtousledtoo-long dirty blonde hair and eyes that look tired and slightly defeated. Thecool glass against my forehead is a soothing balm to the throbbing in my temples.

Behind me, Linda sits in the guest chair, her spiral notepad in herlap,and a displeased look etched onto her face. Regardlessof the hour, she’s impeccably dressed as always, her aged blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. Thecrisp, fresh scent of her perfume—something floral and sophisticated—hangs in the air, a subtle reminder of her presence.

“Spencer, they want results,”she says, her voice crisp and professional, cutting through the silence like a knife. But there’s no harshness to the tone. Infact, she sounds sorry for me.

I glance at my watch and inwardly sigh. Aftertoday’s marathon session, she must be as exhausted as I am, yet she looks and behavesas thoughit’s nine in the morning, not eight at night. Likewe just didn’t spend hours behind closed doors, beating a dead horse, only to spend the rest of the workday holed up in my office, rehashing the entire fucking day.

Through the glass, I watch as she leans back and crosses her arms, her tailored black blazer wrinkling slightly with the movement. It’sthe first sign of relaxation since we arrived early this morning.

When Dad died, I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep his personal assistant. Ifshe’d been loyal to him and his bullshit and complicit in keeping his secrets, then I wanted nothing to do with her. I’mnothing like my father, regardless of what mainstream and social media want to believe. Buton my very first day in the office, Linda stalked in, head held high, hair pinned back, wearing one of her signature business suits, and not very subtly told me that if I intended to be a carbon copy of my father, she’d hand in her resignation, effective immediately. Thewoman is at least twenty years my senior, and I respect her more than any of the men who sat around that conference room table every third Monday of the month since the day I walked through those doors.

Dad didn’t. Hedidn’t respect women at all.Certainlynot the woman he exchanged vows with almost forty years ago.

After working with Linda over the last eight months, I’m convinced she’s the only reason he still had a business. She’sthe one who’s been helping me navigate the ins and outs of each line of business and detangle the worst of the mess.

I turn and lean my whole weight back against the window, my head thumping softly against the glass. Myhead aches. Has ached all day. Eventhe murmur of white noise from the machine I’d had installed my second week here can’t drown out the pounding in my skull. Todaywasn’t my first round with them; it won’t be the last. Theyjust pushed every button I have.

Linda clears her throat, and I shift my gaze over to her. Shelocks eyes with me, hers steady and unyielding. “They want to see a different side of you. Theserious businessman, not the party boy constantly photographed with a different model or celebrity on his arm.”

I roll my eyes. Theold guard believes I care more about keeping my supposed seducer persona than making strategic decisions for the good of my family’s business and name. It’sfucking infuriating. Sincethe moment I graduated law school, I’ve spent countless hours learning every aspect of this company, negotiating deals Dad would have screwed up. I’vespent nights strategizing the future while juggling the relentless gossip millthat surroundsme. Allwhile trying to keep Mom, Hayden, and Piper free of potential scandals or harmful news. CanI help it if I need to recharge sometimes? I’mthirty-three years old and single. I’ma healthy male who likes women. What’swrong with that?

“They think that just because my father had a reputation for casual affairs, I’m the same.”Those ancient assholes never said one word to Dad about his meandering eye or his bad decisions. Yet, the moment his body was placed in the ground, they began to double down on me.

I date. Occasionally. Hefucked around. Everychance he got. Theyneed to remember who keeps this company afloat and writes their paychecks.

“Spencer,”she says softly,butstill snapping me back to reality. “You need to show them you’re serious. Theythink you’re just out for parties and pretty faces. It’stime to change their minds and your public image.”

“Do you actually believe the crap they’re saying about me? Whatthe media says?”Linda’s disappointment, like Mom’s, would be a punch to my gut.

She tips her head, chin down, her expression one of sympathy. “You know I don’t. Buta picture without context can’t tell the true story.”

Sure, I’ve probably been with more than my fair share of beautiful women, but that’s not who I am. Andit’s not as many as they seem to think. It’sjust a part of the narrative they’ve woven about me in glossy magazines and online articles.

Linda raises an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with my silence. Sherifles through her notes and then raises her head, looking at me pensively. “Hear me out. I’vebeen toying with an idea. Whatif we bring in a journalist?—”

“I hate journalists.”Her gaze is steady and compelling even when I cut her off, but the thought of another vapid interview makes my skin crawl.

“You hate paparazzi.”

“Them too. Anybodywho wants to stick a microphone in my face and ask stupid or embarrassing questions only to become purposefully selective in what they write because they’re only interested in sound bites piss me off. Youcan’t trust them.”

She ignores me. “We’ll get someone who works with celebrities. Youcan drive the conversation. Afresh perspective could change their minds.”

“I doubt it.”

“It’s worth a try. Especiallyif we’re the ones controlling the narrative.”

“I would be in total control?”

“Yes. Wecan ensure that’s the arrangement.”

I arch an eyebrow, intrigued. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“I do. Hername is Shelby Bailey.”She pulls a piece of paper from her stack, quickly glances at it, and shoves it toward me. “She’s talented, hard-working, and has a knack for spotting the truth in all the noise. Ithink she could highlight the business side of you without getting caught up in the infamous headlines.”

Interesting. “Keep going.”

“She’s not a big name, so she’s not working for one of the main streamers.”

“But that will mean she’s out to make a name for herself.”Just what I don’t need, another influencer type looking to find her pot of gold.

“I don’t think so. Idon’t get that from the research I’ve done. Ifyou partner with her for a few days, let her follow you around and get to really know you, she can write a piece that we control. Wecan put it in our company newsletter. Share it with mainstream media even. Showeveryone you’re not just a pretty face in a designer suit It might shift the board’s opinion. They’dhave to take you seriously.”

I lean forward,my interestcautiously piqued, and take the page from her hand. It’sMs. Bailey’s resume. “Wait, you said a few days? Ithought we were talking an interview here. Acouple of hours.”

“You have a trip to Quebec City coming up to select cover models for the holiday edition of the magazine. She’s Canadian. Canadianslike snow—it’s perfect.”

I give her a look. “There’s no snow in Canada in July, Linda.”

“I know that, Spencer. Ijust meant maybe you could take her to the shoot. Shemight have some ideas. Evenbetter, extend it by a day or two. Makeit a long weekend, see the sights. Shecan be your tour guide.”

“It’s not a date.”

“No, but spending just a couple of hours with you won’t give her the whole story.”

“I have no desire to be a public relations puppet.”

Linda smirks. “You’re not a puppet, Spencer. Butyou need to convince her that there’s more to you than flashy parties and beautiful arm candy. Honestly, if she gets to know the real you, I think she’ll discover you’re not what the press makes you out to be.”

I mull it over, weighing the odds. “Alright. Reachout to her. ButI want to make sure she understands what I’m looking for. Thiscan’t be a total fluff piece. Ineed her to see the real Spencer Hollis.”

“Just don’t go falling for her, Spencer. Remember, this is work.”

What a strange statement for Linda to make. “And why would I fall for her?”

Linda gives me the look mothers give children when they’ve tried to pull a fast one. “Because she’s young and beautiful.”

“Trust me, Linda,”I reply, my voice steady. “I know how to keep my head in the game.”And my cock in my pants.

My phone buzzes before Icanfinish the thought, pulling my attention away from our conversation. It’sa text from Hayden. Ifrown as I read it because he’s asking if we can have dinner next month. He’snot supposed to be back in town for at least another two months. God, what the fuck did he do? He’sthe one that deserves the reputation. He’stechnically the most intelligent of the three of us, but that kid can’t keep his zipper closed.

That ever-present sense of familial guilt creeps in. Ihate Dad for what he put us through, and I don’t want Hayden to become just like him. Oneday soon, he’ll join me at the company, and we can’t afford for his behavior to rock the boat. If the board members think I’m a treatto deal with, they’ll all have coronaries dealing with Hayden’s antics.

Maybe Linda is right. IfI want to set the record straight publicly, then a long weekend with a journalist is only a few days out of my schedule. It’sthe least I can do to preserve our family’s name. Then, once I have them off my back, I can deal with Hayden before he starts stirring the pot.