The Temporary Fiancée (Irresistible Billionaires of Manhattan #3)

Chapter 1

Reed

The walls of my office at Eastwood Co. are decorated with framed photographs of nearly a dozen buildings.

I’ll be the first to admit that the decor is tedious, but it’s not up to me how things look around here: my father, Lionel Eastwood, is the one who gets the final say. For now. Until I replace him.

And while he still has the reins in his hands, he insists that our workplace has to be boring as all hell. Every wall in the office is covered with photographs of Eastwood Hotels from across the world.

Close to the door, above the light switches, is the Dubai location, our newest acquisition.

The building itself is basically a work of modern art, with sleek, glass sides and a strangely alluring geometric shape.

It’s flanked by palm trees and two huge fountains, the same azure blue as the ocean that I know is visible from the windows.

My eyes keep straying to it as my brother, Shane, leans over my desk. All I can think is that I’d rather be there.

“What do you think?” Shane says, shuffling the papers on my desk. “It’s not exactly ideal, is it?”

I glance up at the Eastwood Dubai, sitting pretty in its frame. Luxury views and room service. Penthouse. The Burj on one side and the sea on the other. A bottle of champagne, maybe. And a woman to keep me company.

“Reed,” Shane sighs. “C’mon. I know it’s getting late, but—”

“No, you’re right.” I shake my head, pulling my attention back to the present. “Sorry. I’ve just been here since, like, seven in the morning.”

Shane taps the paper, unsmiling. He doesn’t particularly want to be here, either. In fact, he probably wants to be here even less than I do. Shane and I aren’t close, just tolerant of each other, but I know him well enough to know that.

I clear my throat, pulling the sales projections over to give them a closer look.

Shane’s right; it’s not ideal. The Eastwood Dubai has been open for only six months, and it’s been underperforming.

Acquisitions was certain that a Dubai location would have massive returns, but at this rate, it’s going to take years for the company to recoup its losses.

“Could be better,” I say with a nod. “Could be a lot better.”

“Could it? Those guys in M Shane is six-foot-five, and can’t help but tower over everyone who approaches him.

My father says nothing. Instead, he throws a copy of a tabloid onto the desk. I recognize the publication. The Daily Examiner. It’s a real rag, even by tabloid standards, but I’ve had more than a few run-ins with them.

I don’t have to ask why he’s here. Front and center on the page, beneath a bold-lettered headline—EASTWOOD IN HOT WATER: HOTEL HEIR CAUGHT IN TWO-TIMING SCANDAL—is a picture that I recognize with a sinking feeling.

It’s a scene from The Nightjar, an upscale restaurant in uptown Manhattan. I’m sitting at a booth, my hands raised to appease two women, who are standing to either side of me, their faces mirror images of rage.

I’d been casually dating both of them, not knowing that they were friends. When I asked one of them, Monica, on a date, she must have told Jessica—and they’d begun to put the pieces together.

It was just bad luck, as far as I’m concerned. I mean, what were the odds?

Though, I’d be lying if I said this had never happened to me before.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” My father’s voice is deadly calm, but I can hear the stirrings of anger in the lows of his tone.

I grit my teeth, bracing myself. “Sure. This was all a big misunderstanding.”

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. My father’s eyes narrow. “Is that so?”

Beside me, Shane shuffles uncomfortably. If he didn’t want to be here before, he certainly doesn’t want to be here now.

“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin and looking my father in the eye. “You know how it is with the paparazzi. It’s all embellishment. They don’t really care about the actual details of the situation. They’re just looking for personal shit—”

“This occurred at a public restaurant,” he interrupts. “A fine establishment, too. I know the owners. This has damaged my reputation with them, and it’s damaged the company’s reputation in general.”

“It really wasn’t that bad.”

“According to this article, you were cheating on this girl with her close friend. They came to tell you off on a Friday night, in front of the entire restaurant crowd. Is that accurate?” My father curls his lip at me. “Or is that all embellishment?”

Guiltily, I duck my head, breaking eye contact. “Well—”

“Your improprieties have affected this family’s image in ways that you cannot begin to imagine,” my father snarls, his fury finally breaking through the veneer of calm. “You are an unprofessional, ungrateful child, and you’re bringing this company down.”

I can feel my hackles starting to rise. My hands curl into fists beneath the desk. “Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice measured. “I don’t see how my personal life has that much impact on the company.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No.”

“The fact that you can’t see the problem only illustrates it further.” Shaking his head in disgust, my father reaches over the desk to snatch up the tabloid, the paper crumpling in his fist. He smooths it out, glaring at my image on the page.

I know better than to fight with my father, so I force myself to take a deep breath. “What would you like me to do about this?”

“Get yourself together,” he snaps in reply. “Start acting like a grown man. If you don’t, there’s another Eastwood this company can go to.”

He doesn’t even look at Shane as he speaks, but I do, out of the corner of my eye. The look on my brother’s face is one of abject misery.

He doesn’t want Eastwood. He’s never wanted Eastwood.

I set my jaw, wrestling with the instinctive wave of anger that overcomes me. I can’t help but bristle at my father’s domineering attitude, the way he wields the future of this company as an implicit threat.

It would be a mistake to get into it with Lionel, though. That’s not a battle I can win right now, and it would only serve to make things worse.

So instead, I sigh. “It won’t be an issue,” I promise, my voice even.

My father gives me a skeptical look. Subtly, and without the same haughtiness, Shane mirrors it in my periphery.

“How can you be sure of that?” Lionel asks.

I have to search quickly for an answer; I didn’t think I’d get this far. “I’ll stop dating for a while,” I offer, grasping at straws. “That will repair my image in the press, right? If there’s nothing salacious for them to report on, they’ll lose interest.”

For a few moments, my father is silent, considering. Then he nods curtly. “Good. Keep your head in the game. I don’t want to see your name in print for the next few months, do you understand?”

I nod. “Loud and clear.”

He sniffs, tossing the tabloid into the wastebasket by the door. He turns on his heel to leave without so much as looking in Shane’s direction, as if we were alone in my office.

As the door closes behind him, an uncomfortable silence settles over the room. Despite the fact that one of the walls is entirely glass, with an unmitigated view of the street far below, I feel as though the walls are pressing in on us.

I look over at Shane, who stares back at me with an arched brow.

“What?” I say, irritable. I don’t mean to take out my frustrations on him, but I sure as shit can’t take that kind of tone with my father. It has to come out at some point.

Luckily, Shane has a cool head, and isn’t one to respond with the same level of annoyance. “Nothing,” he says with a shrug.

“Didn’t seem like nothing.”

“You’re not going to date for the next few months?”

“That’s what I said, right?” I shrug. “How hard can that be?”

“There’s going to be a woman in your bed by the end of the week, Reed.”

“Oh, come on,” I scoff, folding my arms. “What do you think I am, some kind of—”

“Whatever you’re about to finish that sentence with,” Shane interrupts patiently, “it’s an accurate word to describe what you are.”

I try to find the same surge of indignation that rose when I spoke to my father, but it’s gone. Shane isn’t trying to threaten me, or control me—he’s just making an observation, based on past behavior.

And, yeah, he’s right. If the past five years are anything to go by, it’s hard to imagine that I’m going to make a sudden change. I haven’t been single—at least, not in spirit—for at least a decade.

The situation at the Nightjar the other night, the fight that got my face in The Examiner? That’s not exactly a rare occurrence. In fact, by my standards, it was pretty tame. Neither of the women was married, or famous, or both.

But after enough explosive scandals with women who were married, or famous, or both, my involvement is all it takes for any hookup or breakup to turn newsworthy.

“I think you’re gonna find it hard,” Shane comments, shuffling the sales reports back into their manila folder. “Harder than you think.”

“Well, how do you do it?” I ask, an edge in my voice. I think I’m trying to get under his skin, but he doesn’t react. I can’t remember the last time I saw Shane with a woman.

“Easy,” he replies. “I don’t want to.”

“Bullshit.”

He sighs, tucking the folder under his arm. “No, it’s not. Not everyone is like you.”

That’s true enough. The past year has illuminated that fact in ways I never thought possible. My best friends, Declan and Cole, have both settled down with women—fallen in love, which I never thought I’d see happen.

To be honest, it feels like they’re still kidding themselves. The best you can get out of a relationship is good sex, the thrill of the chase, and sometimes the fun of the drama. But long term, if it becomes anything more than that…

Well, I’ve seen how it goes. Lionel can march into my office and accuse me of impropriety all he wants, but at least I didn’t get married before I started sleeping around.

“Listen,” Shane says, resting his hand on my desk.

“I don’t care if that man wants you to do forty backflips for the press—you better figure this out.

The last thing I want is to run this damned company.

I’m a designer, okay? That’s what I went to school for, and that’s what I aim to do. I’m not a fucking CEO.”

I shoot another sideways look at the Eastwood Dubai. The interesting architecture of the building, the unique design—that was all Shane. It’s his main role with the company, even if Lionel forces him to get involved in the oversight of other sectors.

“Fix your mistakes,” Shane urges. “Got it?”

I purse my lips, nodding. “Yeah. You got it.”

“Good.” Shane taps my desk, then turns toward the door. “I’m taking your event idea over to Marketing. You should head out, if you can. Go home. You’ve been here for almost twelve hours.”

I nod again, just realizing how weary I am. “Yeah. Great. Thanks, Shane.”

Once he leaves, I start to pack up, tucking my laptop into its sleeve and checking my emails one last time before I step out into the hallway. As I head for the elevator, I pull out my phone and shoot a message to one of my best friends, Cole.

I don’t bother to wait for his reply. I don’t feel like going home; after that confrontation with Lionel, I could use a friendly face.

Cole’s face is statuesque and a little intimidating, but I’ve known him long enough to qualify it as friendly.

I’d text Declan, too, but he took his fiancée, Sophie, to the Azores for a few days. They won’t be back until Monday.

I know a lot of people, both in my line of work and social scene, but when it comes to actual support, my bench isn’t that deep. And I need someone who will listen to me vent. It’s been a shitty day.