Chapter 3
James
The smell of fresh espresso filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of leather and cedar. James sat on the edge of a sleek leather armchair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest. His phone buzzed on the table beside him, but he didn’t look at it.
His attention was locked on it.
The magazine.
It lay open on the coffee table like it had been dropped there by fate, its glossy pages spread wide for maximum impact. The headline?
“JAMES REED’S REDEMPTION ARC: The Billionaire Bachelor Finally Settles Down.”
Beneath it, the photo was worse. Much worse.
Evie.
Her eyes were on him, head tilted in that playful, knowing way she’d mastered far too easily. Her smile was small and soft, like she’d been caught laughing at something only the two of them understood. And James? James looked caught.
Like he'd just realized she was the one in control. His arm rested lightly on her waist, his fingers just barely visible. But it was enough. Enough for every single gossip site to frame it like a "tender, candid moment."
Across from him, Declan Hale, his best friend and certified instigator of every bad idea James had ever followed, lounged on the couch like he was royalty overseeing his court. One ankle was propped on his knee, and he leaned back so far he looked half-asleep—except for the wicked grin on his face.
“Oh, I love this,” Declan drawled, picking up the magazine with both hands like he was cradling a masterpiece. “Redemption arc, huh? Finally settling down, are we? How sweet. This is giving me Hallmark-movie-of-the-week energy, and I’m obsessed.”
“Don’t,” James muttered, his tone sharp as the edge of a paper cut.
“Oh, I am,” Declan shot back, thumbing through the pages like it was his personal mission to memorize every detail. “You’ve got a whole three-page spread. Look at this! They used the word ‘reformed’ twice. Twice, James. You know what that means, right?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll enlighten me,” James replied, leaning forward just far enough to grab his coffee.
“It means you’ve gone from ‘arrogant playboy’ to ‘devoted fiancé’ in under a week.” Declan flipped the page and raised a brow, his grin widening as he glanced at the next image. “And this one? Whew. They got you, man.” He tapped the photo like it was a work of art.
Evie, mid-laugh, head tilted back, her curls wild and free. Her smile was so natural, so easy, it didn’t even look posed. And James? His eyes were on her. Not the camera. Her. Like she was the only person in the room worth looking at.
“Look at you,” Declan snickered, tilting the magazine toward him. “Head over heels. Practically smitten.”
James’ jaw ticked just once, but Declan saw it. He always saw it.
“Don’t start,” James muttered, sipping his coffee with deliberate patience.
“Start?” Declan blinked, mock innocence flooding his face. “Oh, I started this. I built this, buddy. Two fucking years ago.” He pointed at himself with both thumbs, grin as wide as ever. “You’re welcome.”
“Lauren, actually,” James corrected him, setting his coffee down with a little more force than necessary. “She’s the one who officially made me a walking tabloid headline.”
“Fine. I’ll share the spotlight,” Declan mumbled. “Anyway, we,” he began, curling his tongue around ‘we,’ “didn’t just make you any headline.” He waved a hand over the magazine in the air.
“The headline. You’re America’s favorite reformed bad boy.” He grinned wide enough to show teeth. “Girls are probably making Pinterest boards about you right now.”
“They used to make them before. That’s what got me in trouble in the first place.” James winked cockily.
“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”
James pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly like he was counting down from ten. “Remind me why I’m friends with you.”
“Because I’m brilliant, gorgeous, and I always win,” Declan replied instantly, tilting his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“No,” James said dryly, leaning back into his chair. “It’s because you owe me money.”
“Pfft,” Declan waved him off, eyes still scanning the pages. “Details.” His grin turned devilish. “Speaking of details, listen to this.” He cleared his throat and read aloud with an over-the-top announcer voice:
“'Sources close to Reed say he’s always been private, but it’s clear that Evie Monroe has brought out a new side of him. Friends describe him as more patient, more present, and surprisingly attentive in his relationship.’”
Declan barked out a laugh, smacking the magazine against his leg.
“Attentive? Who did you pay to say that? You barely remember people’s birthdays, and now you’re suddenly attentive?”
“First of all,” he said, holding up a finger, “I remember important birthdays. Second,” he added, “ask Lauren; she’s the one who paid.”
“They’re already calling her ‘the woman who tamed him,’” his friend read.
“Tamed him, huh?” Declan cackled, tossing the magazine aside like it was too good to keep reading. “Oh, man. Evie’s gonna frame that. I bet she already did.”
James didn’t answer. He just sipped his coffee, slow and steady, his jaw tight as ever.
“Speaking of Evie,” Declan said, leaning forward, mischief practically pouring off him. “What’s she think of all this? Bet she’s having the time of her life.”
His phone buzzed.
James glanced at it, his eyes narrowing at the notification. Of course, it’s her.
Evie: “Did you see it yet? You look adorable, darling. Almost believable.”
His lips twitched—almost—but he schooled his expression before Declan could see it.
“Yup,” Declan said, catching it anyway. “She’s got you.”
“No, she doesn’t,” James shot back, locking his phone and sliding it face down on the table.
“She does,” Declan said with absolute certainty, pointing at him like he’d just been declared guilty in court. “This is what happens when you invite a pro into your con.”
James leaned forward, his eyes sharp as glass, his gaze dead-set on Declan. “Six months,” he said, his voice even and cold. “That’s all. She gets her check. I get my press. End of story.”
Declan tilted his head, considering him for a moment. Then he shook his head slowly, his grin knowing and just a little bit smug. “You think this is your story, huh?” He leaned back, tossing one arm over the back of the couch, his grin as sharp as ever. “Nah, man. This is hers.”
James’s eyes stayed on him, sharp as ever, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
His phone buzzed again. Another message.
Evie: “By the way, I hate that tie. Burn it. :)”
He stared at the message for a second longer than necessary. Then, slowly, he picked up the magazine again, flipping it closed with a loud snap. He tossed it back on the table with more force than necessary.
Declan just grinned wider. “Careful,” he said, his voice low with warning. “This is how it starts.”
James didn’t respond. He reached for his phone, opened Evie’s message, and typed back.
James: "Careful, sweetheart. You keep thinking about my tie, and I’ll start thinking about what you’d look like taking it off."
The plan had been to fluster her, catch her off guard. So why the hell was he the one sitting here, staring at his phone like it had just bitten him?
*****
The clock on the wall ticked far too loudly for a room this quiet. The air smelled like fresh leather and that sharp, clean scent that only came from new furniture and too much money.
The massive living room of James Reed’s penthouse was all cold, modern luxury—glass, steel, and sleek black surfaces. Too perfect. Too precise.
Evie sat cross-legged on the plush gray couch, flipping through a small notebook filled with scrawled notes and bullet points she’d written the night before.
Across from her, James sat on the edge of a chair, his forearms resting on his knees, his posture sharp but controlled. He looked like he was about to argue a case in court, not practice how to fake being in love.
“Alright,” she said, clicking her pen and glancing at her notes. “Middle names. Go.”
“Mine?” he asked, his eyes narrowing like she’d just presented him with a riddle.
“Yours, mine, the dog we don’t have—yes, yours, Reed,” she replied, tilting her head with mock patience.
“James Elliott Reed,” he said smoothly, watching her like he was waiting for her to trip up.
“Elliott,” she repeated, tapping her pen against her lip. “Sounds a little too proper for you, but I’ll allow it.”
His eyes stayed on her, unimpressed. “Yours?”
“Marie,” she said, her gaze still on the notebook. She scribbled Elliott under a bullet point like it was crucial information.
“Predictable,” he muttered, leaning back against the chair.
Her eyes flicked up. “Predictable?”
“Marie,” he said with a shrug. “Classic middle-name filler. You might as well be an Emily or a Sarah.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head slowly. “Bold talk for a man named James.”
He raised his brows like he had to admit she’d scored a point.
“Next,” she said, moving on before he could fire back. “Favorite color.”
“Black.”
She stopped writing, looking up at him with pure disbelief. “Black’s not a color. It’s a shade.”
“Are we seriously doing this?” he asked, his voice flat.
“Oh, we are,” she said, folding her arms. “I’m not telling your aunt that your favorite color is a shade.”
“Fine,” he sighed, his eyes drifting up toward the ceiling like it physically pained him to participate. “Navy.”
“Now, that’s a color,” she said, jotting it down with extra flair. “See? We’re making progress. I knew you had it in you.”
“Don’t get too excited,” he muttered, leaning forward again, his eyes flicking to the notebook in her lap. “Next.”
“Pets,” she said, glancing up at him. “Did you have any growing up?”
He blinked slowly, his gaze distant for a second before he answered. “Dog. Golden retriever. Name was Scout.”
Her lips parted, and she sat up a little straighter. “Scout? Are you kidding me? That’s the most All-American boy-next-door thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t read into it,” he warned, tilting his head like he was already regretting giving her that information.