Chapter 3
Reed
Celibacy, as it turns out, is hard work—but contrary to the tabloids’ image of me, I’m a hard worker. I put my mind to the task.
For three long months, I do exactly what my father asked of me: I don’t date.
I don’t hook up. I don’t even go to the kinds of parties or clubs where someone might expect me to hook up.
I wear exclusively long sleeves, lest the sight of my bare arms get any stalker paparazzi too excited.
Wouldn’t want the starving Examiner to publish an exposé about me in a T-shirt.
I’m the model of restraint, really.
And it sucks.
I haven’t had a dry spell this long since…
well, ever. The fact that it’s a PR-enforced dry spell does nothing to improve my mood about it.
I expected the guys to give me shit for it, but both Cole and Declan seem to approve of my idea, which just makes it suck more.
How am I supposed to complain about it, if everyone thinks it’s so important for my image?
Three months, almost to the day, after I made my pledge to my father, he appears in the doorway to my office at Eastwood. There are storm clouds gathering on his face, but that’s not an indicator of anything in particular. That’s just Dad.
“What’s up?” I swivel my rolling chair toward him, steepling my hands on top of my desk. “What can I do you for, Dad? I’m crazy busy right now, so if it’s—”
He clears his throat to cut me off. “The Eastwood Hotel Corporation has done another publicity poll on your image.”
“Oh,” I say, the automatic smile frozen on my face.
Irritation flickers in my chest, but I don’t let it show; I don’t want to give him a reason to tell me off.
If all goes well, I could be in the club tonight, and in the king-sized hotel bed of an A-lister tomorrow morning. “Well, let’s hear the verdict.”
“It’s tainted,” Lionel says, arching a brow.
“What’s tainted?”
“Your image,” he says impatiently. “Public opinion is the same as it always has been. Your little experiment has been a failure.”
I sit up straight, dismayed. “But that’s impossible. I was basically a goddamn nun for the past three months. I haven’t so much as looked at a woman the entire time, I swear.”
“It doesn’t seem to matter.” My father’s voice is clipped, and I suspect that he might not believe me. “Even if you’re not giving the tabloids material, they’re publishing new stories anyway.”
Only then do I notice the roll of magazines tucked under his arm. He unrolls them and passes a sheaf of them over to me. I flip through the covers, taking in the titles.
More than a few of them are old news. They’ve dredged up some of the more sensational stories from the past, dragging my fling with that heiress back into the limelight, or sinking their teeth back into my sordid affair with a famous singer and her twin sister.
I turn that cover around. It features a red carpet photo of the singer and a paparazzo’s shot of me getting out of a black car. Unrelated pictures. “This is old news,” I tell my father. “That Sofia Bellafonte shit, that was almost a year ago.”
“I’m aware,” he says drily. “Some of it’s old, certainly. Some of it, less so.”
I frown, flipping through the magazines until I get to the bottom.
The Examiner, again, my fucking nemesis.
There’s a picture of me being kicked out of a club, my hands raised to shield my face from the camera flashes.
I recognize the scene; it’s at least two years old.
But the date is from last Tuesday, and the headline is unfamiliar.
EASTWOOD HEIR BEHIND CLOSED DOORS WITH ROYAL COUSIN?
“What?” I look up at my father, aghast. “Dad, I—this isn’t real. I haven’t slept with anyone since I promised you I wouldn’t. And I don’t think I’ve ever slept with a Royal… that I know of.” I hesitate, then add, “They’re making this shit up.”
He purses his lips, nodding thoughtfully. “That may be the case,” he says. “But there’s only one takeaway here, and it’s that this isn’t working.”
“What do you mean?”
“You may not be giving them any new material,” he says, “but that doesn’t matter. They’ve got a deep well of old stories to turn to, and they seem perfectly eager to speculate on who you’re fucking in private, don’t they?”
I grimace, reaching for the cup of coffee at the edge of the desk. If I imagine hard enough, I might be able to pretend that it’s a gin and tonic.
“Nothing short of drastic measures is going to make you less of a publicity risk to this business,” Lionel says.
“What are you suggesting? What could make the tabloids shut up about me at this point? The end of the world?” I take a sip of the coffee. It’s unpleasantly cold.
“The absence of tabloid fodder isn’t enough. We need something else. Something new for the media to focus on.” He holds out his hands, like he’s pitching a new business strategy in a meeting with investors. “A fiancée.”
I almost spit out the coffee. When I manage to swallow it, I stare at him. “A what?”
“You heard me. It will be the perfect thing to reform your reputation. We give the press a new story to latch onto. A doting fiancée. Lavish wedding plans. None of it has to be real—it just has to be believable.”
“Is this a joke?” I glance around, looking for a hidden camera. “Are you fucking with me?”
“No,” Lionel says, shaking his head. “Listen, Reed—like I said, it doesn’t have to be real. There’s no need to panic. After an allotted period of time, we can call off the wedding. People will still see you as a family man.”
“This is crazy.”
“Is it, now?”
“Yes, “ I say. “What if I don’t want to go along with it, huh? What then?”
Lionel folds his arms, fixing me with a cool, harsh stare. “Then this company won’t be passed to you. It’ll go to Shane. And you’ll be cut out—permanently.”
My shoulders tense. I hate my father’s demanding nature, his judgmental tone, the way he didn’t even trust me to hold my word. But I have no choice. I can’t lose my position in this company. I was born for this role.
I grit my teeth and say, “Fine. I understand. We’ll go with the damned fiancée story.”
“Good,” Lionel says. “Now, we need to find a candidate—and soon.”
“Wait,” I say quickly. “I’ll do it—but on one condition.”
“And what might that be?”
“I get to choose the woman.” Maybe this will all be more tolerable if I have some say in the matter. I don’t know what my criteria should be, but I’ll think of something. If I talk it over with the guys, they might have some advice.
Lionel’s jaw tightens. I can tell that he’s unhappy with the idea. He might think that I’ll fuck something up, or maybe he’s just pissed that I’ll have any autonomy at all; who knows.
At long last, he nods reluctantly. “I can work with that.” He sniffs, then adds, “Make sure you choose someone to make the family name proud. And, of course, you’ll need to have Legal draft you a contract. An NDA. Something ironclad. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say wearily. “Now if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of—”
My father turns to leave, closing the door behind himself before I can finish my sentence.
Rather than jump back into my work, I sit back in my chair, my hands folded on my chest. I stare at the ceiling for a long time, contemplating what I just agreed to.
This is absolute, complete bullshit.
There’s a quiet voice in the back of my mind, a voice that sounds like my father’s: But it just might work.
And I’d do anything, to take the mantle of this company.
Riley and Cole’s engagement party, the first social event I’ve really attended in the past few months, is a private affair in a rented-out restaurant. They’ve hired a caterer, and there’s an open bar, which comes as a huge relief. After the day I’ve had, I need it.
The bartender seems a little surprised when I ask him for a tequila shot and then a whiskey neat, but I don’t feel like explaining myself. I take the shot, then move over to one of the high tables to silently nurse the whiskey.
It’s a great party. There’s a pianist, and the music is sweet and lovely. Some people even dance at a few of the more upbeat tunes, but for the most part, it’s all conversation and drinks and hors d’oeuvres.
They chose a fancy venue for this, one of the nicest restaurants in Manhattan. If this is what the engagement party is like, then I can’t wait to see how big they go for the wedding.
Declan saunters up to join me at my table. I look around for Sophie, and see her across the room, chatting animatedly with Riley and Cole.
“Check them out,” Declan says, nodding over at the couple. “Don’t they look happy?”
“Happy, for sure,” says another voice to my left. I glance over to see Noah, Cole’s neighbor and Riley’s foster brother. I’ve met Noah a few times at Cole’s poker nights. “And in love.”
I nod and make a small noise of agreement. At least, I hope they’ll interpret it as a noise of agreement. I’m happy for Cole, obviously, but I don’t really have much use for love myself.
“Reed—” Declan begins, and I take a gulp of whiskey. I don’t want to hear the spiel again. Love this, joy that. There’s only one thing on my mind tonight.
“I think this might be the perfect opportunity to end my dry spell,” I say, looking around the room. “Here I am, at this fancy shindig—”
“What are you talking about?” Declan laughs. “There’ll be time for that later, won’t there?”
“Unfortunately not,” I say, my voice sour. “Seeing as I’m about to get locked down in a marriage I don’t even want. Now or never, right?”
“What do you mean, marriage?”
“Oh, that’s right. I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell you yet.” I roll my eyes. “Apparently, my father thinks my image is so bad that the only solution is to settle down. Get a fucking fiancée.”
Noah clicks his teeth and shakes his head. “Are you kidding?”
“Nope. That’s Lionel Eastwood.”
“What happens if you don’t do it?” Noah asks.
I exchange a grim glance with Declan, then say, “Let’s just say it’s a non-starter.” I take another sip of the whiskey, scanning the room—assessing my options.