Chapter 20
Reed
My alarm wakes me up early the next morning—early enough that the sky is still somewhat dark, the light not yet reaching its way through my curtains. For a few moments, I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, and think about last night.
I had a great time with Olivia, of course. She was as delightful as ever. After we walked out of the restaurant, we wandered the streets of the city for hours until we came upon Central Park, stopping every now and then for a kiss.
But dinner with my family is still weighing on my mind. I’m still pissed at my parents, despite Olivia’s patience with the whole situation.
That dinner didn’t have to go so far off the rails. My father and I have always had a contentious relationship—I never thought to question it too much. I figured we just had opposing personalities, or something. Some people can’t help but argue, right?
When his shitty comments are directed at Olivia, though… Olivia, instead of me… it’s impossible to ignore him. All night, he kept stoking my instincts to defend her; I couldn’t wave his stupid insults away, no matter how hard I tried.
And I really, really tried.
I climb out of bed and stretch, then shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the shower. As the hot water pours over my head, I try to picture it rinsing away everything that happened last night.
I’m sure there will be consequences with my father. I’m sure that our relationship will be even worse now.
But in the meantime, I don’t feel like worrying over it. I have enough on my plate as it is.
I take a quick shower, dress myself, then head out into the hallway. The smell of fresh coffee wafts from the kitchen.
I can hear the sound of Olivia’s shower running; she must be in there right now, but it looks like she’s already brewed a fresh pot of coffee. She left a little pink sticky note on the counter next to the coffee machine.
Have a great day today! Hope this helps you get a good start.
Olivia
Despite the thoughts of my argument with my father still weighing on my mind, I can’t help but smile. Like all of her other notes, it’s weirdly cute.
I pluck the sticky note from the counter and tuck it into my pocket. I’ve been forming a collection of them at work, where they live in the top drawer of my desk.
I pour my coffee into a travel thermos so that I can make a stop before I get to the office today.
There’s one thing that happened last night that’s within my power to fix, at the very least, and I’m determined to make it happen—but I still don’t want to arrive late to work, or the fight with my father will only get worse.
I head out before Olivia gets out of the shower, cup of coffee in hand.
On my way to Eastwood’s headquarters, I ask my driver to stop at one of the retailers on Fifth. I want to get a new coat for Olivia.
She was cold last night, and the air is getting more and more crisp each day. Fall is here, and I don’t think she has a good winter jacket. The only coat I’ve seen her wear is a light summer jacket, at best.
Besides, my wife-to-be should be decked out in comfort and luxury.
Normally, I’d get one of my assistants to pick something out and send it back to the penthouse; it’s how I generally go about gifting.
My time is extremely limited, so even if I want to do something thoughtful, I often don’t have space in my schedule.
But it needs to be different with Olivia. I don’t like the idea of handing off a task so personal. Just like with the engagement ring, something about giving my fiancé gifts feels too intimate to be delegated, whether the engagement is fake or not.
A store assistant approaches me, smiling brightly. “Hello, sir. Do you need any help?”
“I’m just looking for a good winter jacket,” I say. “Something warm, but still stylish.”
The employee nods and gestures to a rack toward the front. “The newest selection is up there. If you need anything, feel free to ask.”
“Thank you.” I head toward the rack and sift through different jackets. I end up choosing a black one that’s thigh-length, lined with a soft, touchable fleece. It’s got to be the warmest one here, but it’s still fashionable.
On my way back to the register, I notice a display with winter hats, scarves and gloves. On a whim, I pick out a matching set of each, all a light lavender color that I think will match with Olivia’s dark hair.
“Is this all?” asks the cashier.
I nod. “Is there any way you can ship it? Same day?”
“Of course,” he says. “I just need an address to send it to. In-state, it should arrive within twenty-four hours.”
I pay for the coat and the shipping, thank the cashier, then head out of the store. Doing something nice for Olivia like this always seems to put me in a good mood—and a good mood is like armor when I’m on my way to work, where I’m all but certain to have a run-in with my father.
Luckily, though, the workday passes by quickly. I find myself busy with a million things, and it’s easy enough to stay focused on that. Lionel doesn’t bother me at any point during the day, either. Maybe he doesn’t think it’s worth it. Maybe he’s giving me the cold shoulder. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, I’m not going to question it.
At the end of the day, when I arrive home, the penthouse smells amazing.
I head for the kitchen, the source of the aroma, and find Olivia at the stove. There’s something sizzling in a pan on the front burner, and she’s tending it, stirring slowly and humming while she cooks.
“What’s going on in here?” I ask.
She jumps, startled, and turns toward me. “You scared me,” she accuses.
“Are you cooking?”
She sniffs, drawing herself to her full height—which, unfortunately for her, isn’t an inch over five-foot-one. “Yes, I am.”
I arch a brow. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
“My mom’s rehab is going well,” Olivia says, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite the blush over her cheeks. “She’s improving more than she has in months. Her stamina’s increasing, she’s getting stronger—and it’s all thanks to you.”
“Of course not,” I say. “It’s the doctors, and it’s—”
“No, it’s true,” she interrupts. “You were the one who found and paid for that rehab program. Without it, she’d be getting worse, and instead, she’s getting better.”
“So you’re making me dinner?”
“Dinner isn’t even scratching the surface of what I owe you,” she says, returning her attention to the stove. “But it’s something. To show my gratitude.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest, but she immediately shakes her head.
“I want to, though.” She turns the heat down on the burner, and the sizzling of the meat in the pan—ground beef, I think—grows quieter. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, since our dinner last night was stressful, I felt like you might need an antidote for it.”
I find myself smiling. “You know what? That sounds nice.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So what are you making?” I approach the stove, looking over her shoulder at the pan. There’s seasoned ground beef in there, along with some sliced bell peppers and onions.
She frowns down at the pan thoughtfully, inspecting its contents. “It was supposed to be fajitas, but I’m not really sure I followed the recipe right.”
“Well, it smells great,” I tell her. “I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”
“Thanks.” She grins. “I’m almost done, actually, if you wouldn’t mind setting the table.”
“You got it.” I head over to the cabinets across the kitchen, select two plates, and go to the dining table just outside.
I have a larger table in its own room—the room where we hosted all of our friends for dinner—but since it’s just the two of us, I figure that the breakfast nook will be a better setting.
As I lay out the plates, I keep stealing glances at Olivia in the kitchen. She’s started humming again as she pulls a batch of flour tortillas out of the oven, where she was warming them. She portions the fajita filling into a bowl and sticks a pair of serving tongs into it.
It only takes her a few more minutes to finish up dinner. She joins me at the table, presenting the dishes with a flourish. “Voila. Hope it’s edible. I’m not entirely sure I did this right.”
We each take a minute to make ourselves a fajita. I overfill mine a little, and some of the extra meat spills out of the side. Her eyes are fixed on me as I take a bite.
It’s decent. She’s not the most amazing cook in the world.
But I don’t tell her that. Because it doesn’t matter. What matters is how sweet this gesture was.
With my mouth still full, I give her a thumbs up, and she beams.
“Not bad?”
“Not bad,” I say after I swallow. “Pretty damn good, actually.”
“Well, don’t give me all the credit,” she says, folding her own tortilla. “I didn’t exactly make up the recipe.”
“But you followed it to perfection.”
“Thanks,” she says, grinning. “Flatterer.”
“I mean it.”
“Sure you do.” She takes a bite, frowning pensively, then says, “You know, it’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I’m not much of a cook.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” I reply. “I’ve known plenty of people who can’t even operate a stove.”
She fires back immediately. “Yeah, of course you have,” she teases. “Lots of people in your social circles who just let the maids do all the cooking. You know, it’s a miracle you know how to hold a spatula.”
“Hey, I’m a pretty good cook.”
“Yeah, that’s the miracle,” she says, laughing.
As we finish our food, we chat about our days. She’s so easy to talk to; she seems comfortable in my presence, and the two of us keep talking long after our plates are empty. She asks me about my father and about my workday.
She’s so sweet—so kind. She would be so easy to fall in love with.
The thought, when it comes, stops me in my tracks. I freeze up in the middle of describing the blueprints Shane is working on, staring at her as though she just struck me.
She frowns, tilting her head. “Reed? You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Yeah. Sorry. Just lost my train of thought.”