Chapter 21
Reed
Before I step into my father’s office, I pause in the hallway to collect myself—or, at the very least, to prepare myself for whatever foul mood he’s in. Lately, when my father asks to see me, he’s always in a bad mood—particularly when he calls me to his office, rather than the other way around.
Whatever the reason for this meeting, I’m almost positive that it’s something bad. Something he disapproves of.
Steeling myself, I open the door.
My father’s office, a corner office on the top floor of the building, is the best office Eastwood has to offer. The walls are all pristine glass from floor to ceiling, and the view outside is the best view of Manhattan that I’ve ever managed to find, anywhere in the city.
It’s a pity that he’s the one sitting behind the desk.
He turns in his straight-backed chair to face me, his hands folded, and for a minute, I’m certain that I know what this is about.
He’s going to chew me out for what happened at that stupid dinner. He’s going to scold me for walking out on him.
I grit my teeth, steeling myself for when he starts yelling.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward and says, “PR conducted a few focus groups. To assess the state of your image.”
Well, that’s a relief. Based on my father’s ever-present scowl, it’s impossible to tell if this is good news, or bad news, but at least it isn’t the worst news. He hasn’t decided to pull the plug on me yet.
“Okay,” I say, doing my best to take this shift in stride. “And what did they find?”
“Your approval rating has gone up drastically since the last time.”
I blink, taken aback. “It has?”
“Yes. It has.”
“So… that’s a good thing,” I say slowly. “Right?”
“I would say so.” His scowl is lighter than usual; I can tell that he’s pleased, albeit reluctantly so. “You’ve been making good progress with your image.”
I only have a few moments to bask in that praise before he wipes the smile off of my face with his next words.
“We need to take this a step further. I’ve scheduled an interview for you and the girl later this week. Do you remember Maisy O’Conner?”
I frown, unable to stop myself. I’m very familiar with that name. Maisy O’Conner once wrote a column about my various exploits in the Post, under the evocative title It’s Time To Talk About Reed Eastwood.
She dragged my name through the mud worse than any tabloid writer ever has—probably because she was a writer for a paper with more legitimacy, writing about my entire history rather than just one screw-up. She’s a seasoned reporter, too, which lends the piece some credibility.
It’s the article people always reference these days whenever I come up. It compiles all of my shortcomings in one convenient place—gives the reader a run-down of every single time I’ve ever put a foot wrong.
When the article was first published, I was amused. After all, that piece must’ve taken a lot of digging, and my name was right in the headline. It almost felt good to be at the center of something so splashy.
But now that my father has made his stance on my habits clear, and with the fate of the company uncertain, I’m less inclined to laugh at the situation.
“Yes,” I say sullenly. “How could I forget?”
“She has agreed to interview you and the girl for the Post. This is your chance to fix things, Reed.”
I breathe out slowly through my nose, thinking. If I were alone in this, I’d relish the chance to get in front of Maisy O’Conner and set the record straight—tell my side of the story, and try to fix my image myself.
But I’m not alone in this. A clause in my contract with Olivia flashes through my head—the part where I promised to protect her reputation. If I expose her to the public eye, then let her down…
I clear my throat. “I… don’t think we’re ready for that.”
“Come again?” Lionel raises an eyebrow.
“I think it’d be better to keep press attention away from us,” I say lightly. “Olivia is a very private person.”
He gives me a disbelieving look. “She agreed to a relationship with you. You’re a pseudo-celebrity. Your face was on three Us Weekly covers. You live in the spotlight. And now you’re telling me that she’s a private person?”
“She agreed to help me as a favor, but I don’t think she’s—”
“No. Stop.” He holds out a hand to cut me off. “You’re paying her to fill this role. She doesn’t get to avoid the spotlight.”
I open my mouth to argue, but can’t find the words fast enough.
“Let’s say you were directing a movie, but your lead actress didn’t want to appear on camera. Would that be acceptable to you? Would you proceed without filming? Forgo your theatrical release?”
I shake my head. I did know that this was coming—that, eventually, PR would expect one or both of us to give some kind of statement to the press. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.
The announcement is fresh. The papers are still wondering about us, speculating about our relationship. It feels too soon to let Olivia get in the water with these sharks.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait?” I ask. “Let the initial news cycle die down, then bring it back up again?”
“We want to capitalize on it,” he says archly. As soon as he speaks, my business instincts know he’s right. I can’t win this argument by appealing to strategy.
So instead, I decide to drop the subject. I give a stiff nod. “Is that all you want from me?”
“Yes. That’s all.”
I turn to leave his office, closing the door behind me. I didn’t agree to the interview, but I know he’ll still expect us to go along with it. As far as I’m concerned, the issue was left unresolved.
But one thing is clear. My father isn’t willing to give Olivia a single inch of leeway. Just as I was afraid of, he sees her as nothing more than a prop, here to serve a purpose—and he won’t settle for a partial performance.
I’ve gotten somewhat used to Olivia greeting me when I come home from work.
Most of the time, she’ll be in the living room, hard at work on one of her knitting projects.
She always seems happy to see me, and I’ll be honest—it’s nice to have company after work.
Much better than coming home to an empty penthouse.
Tonight, though, Olivia isn’t knitting. She doesn’t look up as I round the corner from the hallway.
She’s on the couch, curled up into a ball, wearing my hoodie and sweatpants. They’re huge on her, of course, more like blankets cocooning her than clothes. Her face is red, like she’s been crying.
I feel as though I just swallowed a ball of lead. “Olivia? What’s wrong?”
She sniffles a little, looking up at me. I’ve never seen her this upset before; her sadness is palpable, coming off of her in waves.
“It’s fine,” she says, pushing herself upright and swiping at her eyes. “It’s just… my mom had a bad day.”
I sit down next to her on the couch, laying a tentative arm over her shoulders. “What happened?”
“Some days are worse than others,” Olivia tells me, her voice breaking. “Today was one of the worst. When she’s tired, and in a lot of pain… she’s just not herself. She… she snaps at people, and…”
Olivia trails off, and I pull my arm tighter around her shoulders, hugging her close. I don’t know what to do. She seems so miserable, and it makes my chest ache in a way that I’ve never felt before.
It’s awful. I want nothing more than to comfort her, but I can’t fix this, no matter how much I’d like to. No matter how much I spend on her mother’s treatment program, no matter how many specialists I hire, Maura will still be struggling with MS.
I don’t know what to do about this helpless, desperate feeling, but my instincts are screaming for me to do whatever it takes to make Olivia feel better.
So I say, “Let me take care of you tonight.”
She gives me a startled look, her eyes still teary. “What?”
“Just… trust me.” I give her shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll run you a hot bath.”
She hesitates, but then nods. She allows me to help her up off the couch and guide her into my room, where she waits on the edge of the bed while I draw up a bubble bath in the huge tub.
She sits cross-legged, watching me walk in and out of the bathroom, gathering up everything I can think of that would make this bath more pleasant.
I get some lavender-scented tea candles from the guest bathroom in the hallway and line the sides of the tub with them. I pour a hefty amount of the bubble bath into the tub, and by the time it’s filled with hot water, the cloud of foam towers several feet above the edge of the tub.
Satisfied, I head back out into my bedroom. Olivia has stripped off her clothes, which are in a pile beside the bed. She lets me scoop her up into my arms, and I carry her back into the bathroom, gently lowering her into the bath.
She sighs as the water reaches her shoulders, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. I step out of my jeans and shrug off my shirt, then touch her shoulder lightly.
“Move forward a little. I’ll join you.”
With a feeble smile, she obliges, leaving enough space for me to sink into the water behind her. She settles back against me.
“Are you comfortable?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “Very.”
“Good.” Without thinking, I begin to massage her shoulders. She breathes in a huge breath, leaning her head against my chest.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to bring you down, or anything. I just…”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to thank me for anything. You seemed like you needed this.”
She turns her head, flashing me a grateful smile. “I did. But that’s why I’m thanking you.”
Her skin is smooth against mine in the water.
A now-common thought flashes through my mind: I’m so glad I chose her.
I’m so glad she agreed to this. I don’t think I could’ve done it with anyone else.
Sharing my home with Olivia has become second nature; even now, there’s no awkwardness between us, despite the vulnerability of nakedness.
She lets out a shaky sigh. “It’s hard—going through this. I know that it’s harder for her than it is for us, but… it’s hard for us, too.”