Chapter 11
Olivia
It’s strangely easy to coexist in the penthouse with Reed.
I’m not sure what I expected. That his place would be a mess, probably. That he would trash it every night and wait for maids to crawl out of the woodwork and clean up after him the next day. That he would treat me like staff, look past me like I was lower than him.
But… he doesn’t. His apartment is always immaculate, and watching him move through it is humanizing. It takes him from the party animal on the tabloid covers to a man who loads his dishwasher, tends houseplants by the windows, and sometimes prepares me sandwiches for lunch, which I never expected.
And, most importantly, he’s kind to me.
It made me laugh to find his waiting stack of T-shirts and its accompanying note, but it didn’t stop me from wearing them. Now that he’s pointed it out, it feels weirdly disrespectful to wear an ex’s shirt in his house, even if this is all just for show.
At first, I was surprised that he noticed it at all. Over the past few days, though, I’ve realized that Reed is an observant person.
He noticed that I always wear fuzzy socks, and the day after the PR meeting, I found a bundle of new ones lying on my bed, arranged to look like a bouquet of flowers. The gesture was adorable, sweeter than anything a man has ever done for me.
When I found him later in the living room and asked him why he’d done it, he told me that he was practicing.
Practicing. To play the perfect fiancé.
“From where I’m starting, that’ll take a pretty hefty amount of practice, wouldn’t you say?” He gave me a crooked smile, and I laughed in lukewarm agreement.
But after how Reed handled the PR meeting, I’m not so sure it’ll be a huge stretch. Not for him. He has a surprisingly soft side, for a man who’s infamous as a player and a heartbreaker.
With the PR meeting over, I thought I’d seen the last of Eastwood Hotels and its charming executives, but unfortunately, this particular aspect of the charade is a never-ending torment.
A few days after the PR team told us the plan, and before the announcement, Reed ushers me into the passenger seat of a tiny sports car. We still have to meet with legal and iron out the contract.
I was expecting Reed to snap his fingers and summon a chauffeur, but to my surprise, he takes the wheel himself.
As he pulls out into the street, I smile at him teasingly. “You didn’t want to get Milo to drive you?”
“He’s on vacation with his family in Montreal,” Reed replies swiftly, his eyes on the road. “Besides—I wanted to take this baby out today.” He taps the steering wheel.
“Oh. Good for Milo.” Whenever Reed needs to meet me somewhere, his chauffeur takes me there in a plush black sedan. I figured that Reed’s travel situation was similar.
“I like to drive myself,” Reed says, as if he’s reading my mind. “It helps me clear my head. Sometimes, it’s better to have your own hands on the wheel, you know?”
I nod, watching him as he watches the road. Yet another little detail about Reed that adds dimension to him in my head… and makes it harder to think of this situation as simple.
“You don’t like it when other people drive you?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Some people in my position don’t bother to get their own license. They don’t have to, right? But I wanted mine, more than anything. If you drive yourself, you never have to wait on anyone. You’re the only person deciding where you go.”
It’s something I’d never considered. “I only ever take the subway,” I admit with a laugh.
He smiles, his gaze darting over to me for a brief instant. “So you never get to drive, is what I’m hearing.”
“Never had a car.”
“Remind me to let you drive this one sometime,” he says with a devilish grin. “I’ll teach you to drive stick.”
A shudder goes through me, and I shrink down in the passenger seat. “I don’t want to be responsible for whatever happens to your precious car,” I tell him. “You’d have to sign a million waivers first.”
“Sure,” he replies. “We’re on our way to meet with Legal right now, aren’t we? I’ll just have them whip up a few liability forms, and you can drive us home.” He winks at me, and I chuckle nervously.
“You’d better be joking.”
“It’s not that hard. You’d be fine.” He shifts the car down a gear, and the engine roars like a wild animal, which does nothing to help his point. He glances over at me for a second as we idle at a red light. When we start forward again, he says, “You’re dressed pretty sharp.”
I glance down at my outfit, suddenly self-conscious. I went for my usual business attire: high heels to give myself a few extra inches, tapered suit jacket, and a fitted skirt. “Yeah. Well. This is the usual.”
“The usual?”
“My suit of armor,” I say. “My bulletproof vest.”
“What do you mean?” The corner of his mouth is pulled into a smirk.
“My old boss had a habit of trying to belittle me in front of his clients and colleagues. I had to look sharp to stay sharp. Keep myself confident.”
The smile on his face fades as quickly as it appeared. He doesn’t reply, but I can tell that he’s bothered by that.
He pulls in front of the Eastwood office building, and a valet comes forward to take his car to the executives’ garage as the two of us step into the lobby.
Reed is quiet for the elevator ride. I noticed a change in his demeanor as soon as we stepped through the glass doors at the front entrance; his relaxed shoulders are suddenly tight, and there’s no trace of the casual, lopsided grin he wore for most of our conversation in the car.
In his own spaces—in his own apartment, or his own car, or in the clubs he decides to frequent—Reed is more comfortable in his own skin than anyone I’ve ever met. But here, in his father’s building, he holds a noticeable tension in his body.
I wonder if anyone’s ever told him that.
I don’t have much time to dwell on it, however. When the elevator doors chime and slide open, I’m reminded of my own predicament.
As soon as we settle down at the conference table with the legal team, all of my fears are amplified. My stomach twists as I look up and down the row of lawyers opposite the table. More than a few of them are giving me unfriendly, cold-eyed stares, like we’re sworn enemies lining up to do battle.
“Reed,” I whisper to him. He lays his hand on mine for a second, reassuring, then sits forward to greet the lawyers.
“Good morning, everyone,” he says. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
The head of the legal team, a tall, middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit, nods. “Very well. Everyone, you should have a copy of the contract draft in the folder before you.”
All at once, everyone opens up the manila folders on the table and produces a printed copy of the contract. I fidget, nervous; I don’t have my own copy. Luckily, Reed does. He shifts it over so that we can both peruse it.
“Mr. Eastwood,” says the head lawyer, “I’m a little concerned about this document.”
“Well, that’s why we’re here,” Reed replies patiently. “What’s wrong with it, Tom?”
“I’d like to see more protections for the company, and for your wealth,” Tom says.
For a moment, his gaze slides to me, his eyes narrowed.
“There’s a lot of language in this contract related to your would-be fiancé’s well-being, but I think we need more disclaimers to ensure that your finances aren’t being exploited. ”
Reed frowns, his brow furrowed, but says nothing.
One of the other lawyers chimes in: “We’ve taken the liberty of adding a few potential clauses to the document. You’ll find them in red.”
Sure enough, the General Counsel’s version of the contract is marked up like a harshly-graded essay with changes to the wording.
“We’ve emphasized the outcomes of the arrangement in particular, and made amendments to the non-disclosure section,” the lawyer continues.
“I don’t see why that’s necessary,” Reed says slowly. “I thought we’d covered all of the bases.”
“We wanted to make sure it was clear that Ms. Quinn will receive nothing more than the agreed-upon compensation after your public split. That there will be no additional payouts, no pre-nuptials, nothing like that.”
“In particular,” another of the lawyers adds, brushing her dark hair behind one ear, “we wanted to avoid the potential for Ms. Quinn to hold Eastwood Hotels hostage for further payment.”
I blink, startled. “But… I wouldn’t do that.”
The lawyer at the end of the table gives me a simpering look. I can tell that she’s restraining herself from rolling her eyes, and a flash of anger goes through me.
“Of course you wouldn’t, sweetie,” she says. Her tone is condescending, and she speaks slowly, as if I can’t understand her. “But we have to write contracts to cover all of our bases, even if you’re a total saint, okay?”
“We also wanted to emphasize that Ms. Quinn will receive no compensation if a split occurs before the contract is fulfilled,” the head lawyer adds.
“Termination of the contract occurs at six months, or at Eastwood’s discretion.
If Ms. Quinn backs out early, she’s well within her rights to do so, but she is owed nothing. ”
My heart sinks. It’s all I can do not to shrink down in my chair, despite the shield that my outfit is supposed to provide me. These people don’t trust me as far as they could throw me. They’re acting like I’m only here to cheat Reed out of his money.
Before either Reed or I can say anything in response, we’re interrupted by the trill of Reed’s cell phone. He scowls, fishing it out of his pocket, and checks the caller ID. He swears under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I have to take this—it’s the events coordinator in Dubai. Could you all excuse me for a moment?”
The lawyers nod and mutter a chorus of quiet agreements, and Reed gets to his feet, shooting me a particularly apologetic glance. He steps out of the room, closing the door behind himself.