Chapter 18
Reed
I arrive at work on Monday morning even earlier than usual, a spring in my step. After the weekend I just had, it’s all I can do to keep myself from whistling like a cheerful cartoon character.
Olivia was right; our previous arrangement just wasn’t going to cut it. This, though… this, I think I can handle.
When I sit down at my desk, the first thing I do—as always—is scroll quickly through my email, looking for anything important, anything that requires my immediate attention. My inbox is always inundated, but only certain emails require action as soon as I see them.
Luckily, there are no emergencies for me to jump on this morning. I do notice, however, that I have an email from the photographer who did our PR engagement shoot—with a link to the collection.
I click it open, then scroll through the gallery link. After the photographer’s professional touches—softening the backgrounds, and the like—the photos really are stunning.
I’m glad that Olivia changed into the more comfortable dress; in the natural, rustic setting of the gazebo, it’s the perfect look. She seems so genuinely happy.
As I scroll through, though, I find myself starting to frown.
Some of these pictures are so… intimate.
Personal. The one that the photographer snapped right after our kiss, where we were both caught up in the moment—there’s such an obvious connection between us that I’m taken aback just looking at it.
All I can think is, I don’t want anyone else to see this.
I open up a window to reply to the photographer, thanking him for his patience and his skills and ordering a few of the prints for the press. I make sure to select a few of the more classic shots: the ones of me holding Olivia, of her laughing.
They’re still nice pictures, of course, but they’re less… emotional. I do make sure to save a few of my favorites, though. One where we’re locked in a kiss, and another where we’re looking into each other’s eyes.
They’re too good to leave untouched. I just don’t want to send them to the press.
As I’m saving the last picture in the set, the door to my office opens without warning. Lionel strides into the room.
With a sudden jolt of panic, I minimize the window, hiding the pictures from my father’s view. He’s the last person in the world I would want to see these images.
I lean back in my chair and sigh. “Couldn’t you ever knock?”
Ignoring me, Lionel marches up to my desk, a grave scowl upon his face. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“What do you think?” He folds his arms. “The girl, Reed.”
I have to fight to keep my expression steady. I don’t want my anger to show in front of my father, but his words make me seethe. The girl. She has a name.
“I don’t know why you do anything that you do,” he continues, “but this decision makes less sense than usual.”
“What are you talking about?” I say, suddenly defensive.
“The Quinn girl?” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you serious? The housekeeper’s daughter?”
So he remembers her—I was both worried he might not, and hoping. Worried because it would be a sign of what an unbelievable ass he is, but also hoping because he might give Olivia an easier time.
“Olivia’s the perfect choice,” I say neutrally. “We already knew each other. It was neater this way.”
“On the contrary. This was a poor choice, and I think you know why.”
I bristle at his wording. “Come on. Olivia and I were friends as children. Don’t you want this to play well? We were childhood friends, Dad.”
“So?”
“So—people will eat that up. It’s believable, too. A quick engagement because I crossed paths with an old flame from younger days. People love the ‘childhood friends’ story.”
He sniffs, considering that for a moment, then nods begrudgingly. “Okay. I can see that working. But I don’t see why it had to be this particular girl. You have plenty of childhood friends you could’ve gone to—”
“What’s wrong with Olivia?”
He purses his lips, then sighs, like he can already tell I’m going to argue. “She’s not on our level. It’s a bad look.”
I narrow my eyes at him. My father has a way of talking around what he really means, and it puts a sour taste in my mouth. He won’t say that Olivia is low class directly; he has to find ways to say it in different words. “Actually, I think it’s a good look, as far as the press is concerned.”
“This is more complex than—”
“What? The press thinks I’m a spoiled, good-for-nothing player,” I say. “So getting together with a down-to-earth woman—”
“It’s a bad look,” he repeats, cutting me off. He has a way of doing that, too. “Especially with her mother being sick.”
The anger sitting in my chest suddenly flares. I grip the edge of my desk so hard that my knuckles turn white. Maura Quinn was sick, and hurting, and my father knew that this whole time. He knew, and he did nothing to help her.
I’m beyond pissed. Through gritted teeth, I mutter what I know he wants to hear: “Trust me. I’ve got the Quinn family situation under control.”
I hate saying that. It’s not how I feel, and it feels vile to speak this way about the Quinns. But it’s what I need to say to placate Lionel.
My father nods slowly. He still seems mad, but his anger has simmered down, now; he’s no longer at the boiling point he was at when he first stepped into my office.
“Are we good?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Because I was actually in the middle of sending an email, so—”
“No,” he says. “We’re not done. You need to bring the Quinn girl to dinner.”
“Excuse me?”
“Family dinner. I need to vet her more thoroughly. See her in person—in action.”
I take a deep, quiet breath. When my father is on my nerves this severely, the best thing to do, I’ve found, is to imagine myself somewhere more pleasant. In the past, that’s been a beach in the Antilles with a topless model, or else in the spa somewhere tropical.
Now, the first place my mind goes is Olivia’s bedroom, with her sprawled on the bed before me.
Not the most useful image for this particular moment, but at least it stops me from killing my dad.
“Fine,” I say in a clipped tone. “Sure.”
“Wednesday night,” he says.
“Okay. We’ll be there.” I wave a hand, trying to get him to leave my office.
He stares at me, his eyes cold. “Don’t blow this off, Reed. Remember—”
“I’m taking this seriously,” I insist, leaning back in my chair. “Besides, what are you going to do—replace her? It’s too late for that.”
“No,” he says, his voice low and threatening. “I won’t replace her. I’ll pull the plug on the entire thing.”
On you. That’s what he means, even though he’s prevaricating, as always. He’ll give up on me. He has another son he can force the mantle onto.
Stiffly, I nod. “We’ll be there.”
“Good.” With that, he turns and leaves.
As soon as he’s gone, I let my shoulders drop and close my eyes for a second. The frustration is still buzzing in my skull. I pull out my phone to text Cole and Declan—they’re not gonna believe this shit.
Well, they are gonna believe this shit, I guess. Neither of them is a stranger to bad parental relationships. But that’s sort of the point of texting them—they’ll know what I’m talking about.
When I unlock my phone, though, the first thing I see is a text from Olivia from around an hour ago.
OLIVIA: I’ve been getting feedback from the engagement thing all day.
OLIVIA: All good things! My phone is blowing up, and it’s all positive.
I smile despite myself, then start to type out a response.
ME: That’s great! Sorry I didn’t see this earlier, I’ve been too busy to check my phone.
ME: Also come to think of it, I probably won’t be able to check again till I come home—have a meeting.
ME: Can you order in so it’s there when I get home?
My phone chimes almost immediately with her response.
OLIVIA: Sure thing!
I tuck my phone in my pocket, then pack up my things to head down the hall to the conference room. A few of the sales guys are already there, but it looks like I’m not late.
As I sit down at the head of the table, my phone vibrates again with another chime. I check it quickly:
OLIVIA: Can’t wait for you to get home.;) I have something for you to eat… lol
I bite my lip and pull my chair closer to the table so that no one will see my sudden, undeniable, aching hard-on.
Inconvenient timing aside, I love that I don’t have to deny my attraction to her anymore. I spend the entire meeting texting her under the table, telling her exactly what I want to do to her, and for how long, and why.
The sales team probably notices that I’m distracted, but if anyone asks, I can play it off like it was something else. I’m finally free to tell her what’s on my mind, and I’ll be damned if I waste that chance.
The day starts to drag after the sales meeting. Olivia is busy picking up lunch, and has stopped responding to my increasingly sexual texts, which, if anything, has me even more frustrated.
I can’t stop wondering where she was when she typed each of her responses. What she was doing. What kind of sounds she was making.
It’s making my workday… difficult, to say the least.
At around two in the afternoon, I’m sitting behind my desk, desperately trying to force my eyes to focus on my computer screen.
There’s a sales report open for all of the European locations of Eastwood hotels, and there’s apparently something here that requires my immediate attention, but all of the numbers just keep sliding down the screen.
Which isn’t good, because I have at least four more action items to take care of before I leave for the night. At this rate, I’ll be here until one in the morning.
And still, all I can think about is Olivia.
I pull out my phone to check my texts again, hoping that she’ll have replied. As I start to unlock it, there’s a knock on my office door, startling me.
I look up and clear my throat. “Come in.”