Chapter 14
Olivia
A few days later, Reed’s driver drops me off next to the sidewalk awning of Off-Fifth, an upscale, exclusive restaurant.
I know this place by reputation only. It’s a popular hangout spot for celebrities and paparazzi alike. I’d never dream of coming here, though—it would take years of calling just to get a reservation.
For Reed, though, this is a nice, regular lunch spot. His assistant called to make the reservation two days ago. It was enough to make me wonder if Off-Fifth has a hotline in the back office, for when Reed Eastwood wants to go on a spur-of-the-moment afternoon outing.
Well, not exactly spur-of-the-moment. This lunch date was conceived by the PR team, all part of the overarching strategy. Since it’s almost a guarantee that Reed will be spotted by paparazzi here, Eastwood’s PR team can control the reveal of our relationship.
The paparazzi will see us together, and rumors will circulate prior to the company’s official announcement of our engagement. All according to plan.
I straighten my dress—the knee-length one I picked up at the boutique the other day, a little dark for this sunny weather—and head inside. The host looks up and smiles as I enter.
“Miss Quinn?” he asks.
“That’s me.”
“Right this way. He’s waiting for you outside.” The host gestures with a menu, then leads me upstairs to the restaurant’s second floor. Outside of some glass doors is a quaint, brick patio, lined with flower boxes.
Reed is the only one out here, and I feel a sudden rush of relief when I realize that he’s rented out the patio. Even though I know we won’t be alone—the goal is for someone to snap a picture of us—it’s nice to at least have the illusion.
Reed waves as I approach, then leans forward to plant a chaste kiss on my lips. He’s good at this.
“You look lovely, as always,” he tells me, then nods to the host. “Thank you.”
“Your waiter will be out to take your order shortly.” With that, he disappears, leaving the two of us to our date.
As I get settled at the table, I can’t help my cynical, cursory glance at our surroundings. I’m trying to locate the paparazzi’s nests. We’re on a balcony, so they can’t get us from the street, but there are plenty of other options. The PR guys wouldn’t have chosen this spot if there weren’t.
Just next to us, there’s a low-roofed building that I could imagine them camped out on. There’s another balcony across the street, and of course, plenty of windows in the adjacent high-rises—
“You ever been here?” Reed asks, derailing my train of thought.
I give him a look, stopping myself just short of rolling my eyes. “To Off-Fifth? Are you kidding me?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Of course not,” I scoff. “You have to be, like, at least a B-lister to get a foot in the door.”
“That’s not true,” Reed protests. “Would you call me a B-lister? I’m just a corporate heir. I’m practically invisible.”
I lean forward, glancing around to make sure no one will overhear me. “You’ve slept with enough celebrities to qualify as one yourself. I’ve seen your face at enough grocery store checkouts.”
He chuckles, seeming genuinely delighted. He’s so animated, rocking back with the force of his own laughter. It takes me off-guard. He knows we’re being watched, just like I do; how can he be so casual?
After a few seconds of watching him, my mind starts to wander away from my discomfort. I stop glancing at the windows of neighboring buildings, too focused on the way the sun lights up his eyes, drawing my attention to the flecks of amber within the brown irises.
“Let’s get a bottle of something,” he suggests, picking up the menu. “Something light. It’s Saturday; we might as well enjoy ourselves.”
I nod in assent. The waiter comes back and takes our orders—a bottle of prosecco, and two sandwiches that Reed promises me are “to die for.” When the waiter leaves again, Reed reaches across the table to take my hand, gazing at me with soft eyes.
“How was the shopping trip?”
I exhale, smiling despite myself. “Intimidating.”
“What do you mean, intimidating?”
“Well, I didn’t know everyone was going to give me the VIP treatment,” I admit. “And the car… not to mention the price tags on everything…”
“Hey,” he says. “This is your world now, okay?”
I bite my lip, nodding.
“You can get used to it, right?”
“The other girls gave me some advice while we were out shopping,” I say with a shrug. “And I guess it won’t be too hard to get used to. After all—” I brush a hand against the bodice of my new dress—”I don’t think I’ve ever worn anything this nice.”
“It looks great on you,” he says warmly.
The compliment is so genuine that it catches me off guard, and for a moment, the thought of the paparazzi in their nests slips from my mind.
Reed takes a sip of his drink, a chilled glass of rose-colored wine. “You should try this,” he says, offering it to me. “It’s the perfect lunch wine.”
“Lunch wine?” I laugh, taking the drink from him and swirling it around the glass. “What does that even mean?”
“Wine that’s good with lunch.”
I roll my eyes, but take a sip of the wine nonetheless. To my surprise, it’s a rich flavor, light, but tinged with notes of berries. Suddenly, I can see exactly what it means.
He grins smugly. “You like it, don’t you?”
I sigh, then concede with a nod. “Yeah. I like it.”
“That’s great. When the waiter comes back, I’ll get us a bottle.”
We don’t have to wait long. The waiter reappears before long, and Reed places the order, along with requests for house salads and ciabatta sandwiches.
“How are things over at Eastwood?” I ask.
Reed shrugs. “Good.”
“Just good?”
“My father seems satisfied with the solution I came up with,” Reed says, dropping his voice so that he won’t be overheard. “A few folks from legal are still giving me dirty looks in the hallway, but what can you do?”
He doesn’t seem bothered, but I am. It was my reluctance in the meeting that caused this issue. “Reed, I’m—”
He holds up a hand to stop me. “Don’t apologize. Those guys are dicks. They weren’t expecting you to stand up for yourself, but they should have been.”
“If you say so.”
Reed and I chat about his work for a while, and he tells me about the work he’s been doing—overseeing some event planning for the Dubai location of the hotel chain, keeping his brother on-budget for the early designs of a future hotel, and helping to negotiate an acquisition.
It’s overwhelming, and it practically makes my head spin. In the past few days, he’s had to put out half a dozen fires. It’s a wonder he ever has time to get up to trouble at all.
The waiter brings our lunches, and it’s quiet between us as we start to eat—but only for a minute. The waiter interrupted our conversation about the building Eastwood is buying in Montreal, and I want to hear the end of that story.
“So wait,” I say, swallowing a mouthful, “what was the issue between the owners?”
“They were an older divorced couple, and they had two different opinions about whether to sell,” Reed says. “She wanted to, and he didn’t. They owned fifty-fifty shares, and obviously, you can’t change the branding of a hotel if only fifty percent of its ownership agrees.”
“But I thought you said Eastwood was going ahead with the new location.”
“They are now.” Reed takes another sip of wine, then grins at me. “After I had a talk with him.”
“What did you do to convince him?”
“What else? Gave him a better offer, and told him that he won’t regret the decision once he’s sunbathing on the deck of his new yacht.”
I laugh. It’s surprising how easily Reed can make me laugh; I can’t remember having this much fun at lunch in a long, long time.
As we talk and eat, I start to become vaguely aware of a few paparazzi. There’s a man with a camera on the roof of the building next door, just as I thought there would be, and there’s another in the windows across the street.
But it’s easy enough to brush them off when I’m focused on my conversations with Reed. In fact, I’m enjoying myself, which I never would’ve thought possible. I was dreading this lunch, but so far, it’s been nice. A warm afternoon, a balcony table, a bottle of wine, and good company.
Eventually, the waiter comes back to clear our plates, inclining his head in Reed’s direction. “Your dessert will be ready momentarily, sir.”
Reed’s expression lights up, and he gives a nod in return. “Sounds great. Whenever you’re ready.”
He leaves, and we’re alone again. I’m about to say something—to prompt Reed into another conversation—when he abruptly gets to his feet, buttoning his blazer. His hand slides into the pocket of his slacks.
I’m about to ask him where he’s going, but the words die in my throat. He drops to one knee in front of me and holds up a tiny box wrapped in black velvet.
There’s a moment of absolute silence between us. I hold my hands to my mouth to mask my shock. I could swear I can hear the click of a camera shutter from the building next to us, despite the distance and the sounds of traffic from the street.
This is it.
We didn’t discuss it beforehand. It’s a struggle just to stay standing, let alone school my face into an appropriately delighted expression. Surprise might have to suffice.
“Reed,” I whisper.
Instead of replying, he flips open the lid of the ring box. My head is spinning; I can barely see the ring itself. It’s just a crystalline blur, nestled into the velvet.
“Olivia Quinn,” Reed says, raising his voice to be heard clearly, “will you marry me?”
I wasn’t ready, I almost reply. I didn’t know you were going to do this today.
But that wasn’t our deal. So instead, I swallow my shock, lower my hands from my mouth, and force a smile. Then a nod.
“Yes! Of course!” I fling myself at him, mostly so that I can bury my face in his shoulder, hiding myself from the watching cameras.
I’m embarrassed, and flustered by the public proposal.
I know that my picture is about to be in multiple magazines—everyone is about to be invited into this moment that should be intimate.