Chapter 35
Reed
On Christmas morning, I wake up before Olivia. I can’t help it; I couldn’t wait any longer, nor convince myself to go back to sleep. For the first time in my life, I feel like an actual kid on Christmas.
I get out of bed carefully, doing my best not to disturb her, and head out to the living room. A piece of her Christmas-themed lingerie is lying across the back of the couch, and at the sight of it, I can’t suppress my grin.
My cock half fills at the memory of last night, of Olivia in that sexy lingerie—of the way she stripped, putting on a show—and of fucking her.
Easily the best Christmas Eve I’ve ever had.
I head to the kitchen and set a pot of coffee to brew, then cross the apartment back to the bedroom. I glance out of the windows as I go. The snow has slowed down since last night, but a fresh blanket of white covers the tops of the skyscrapers around The Luxe.
In bed, Olivia is just beginning to stir. She sits up sleepily as I enter the room, sniffing.
“Did you start some coffee?”
“Sure did,” I say, smiling. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too.” She rubs her eyes, and a slow, sleepy grin spreads across her face.
“I want to give you your Christmas present.”
At once, her face falls. She looks a little pained, and abruptly alert. “But… wait. I didn’t think we were exchanging gifts.”
“It’s a surprise,” I tell her patiently. “I didn’t want to give it away.”
“Okay, but… I didn’t get you anything,” she says with a grimace. “I—”
I sit down on the edge of the bed and interrupt her by pulling her onto my lap, running my fingers through the tangles in her hair. “Of course you did. You got me you. The best gift I’ve ever received.”
She sighs. “But—I didn’t get you a real gift.”
“Did you hear what I just said? You gave me my first happy Christmas in years. Nobody has ever given me anything better than that.”
She frowns, biting her lower lip, and says, “Okay. But… I’m still going to get you a real gift.”
“Well…” I tilt my head to one side, gesturing to the nightstand, where the vibrator I got her is resting next to the lamp. “You could always get me more ‘friends’ to get you off with.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t that really be a gift for myself?”
“Making you happy makes me happy,” I say. “So it would all work out in the end.”
She leans in to kiss me, and I respond eagerly, my fingers brushing the edge of her jaw. She hums, contented.
I reach into my pocket and fish out the envelope I have there. I press it into her hand as we kiss, and she draws back, an adorable little furrow between her brows.
“Okay,” she says begrudgingly. “What’s this?”
“Your gift.”
She looks up at me skeptically, but opens the envelope nonetheless. She pulls out the folded piece of paper inside. Her eyes scan it several times, widening with each readthrough; then her hands drop, and she looks up at me in shock. “Is… is this…”
“Yeah. It is.”
Her jaw drops, and tears well at the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head. “Oh… oh my god. This is way too much. I can’t…”
“No, it’s not,” I tell her gently, laying my hand on her wrist. “I’d give you the world if I could. This is just a small corner of it, but it’s a start.”
She looks at the paper again—the deed to the building where, she told me, she has always dreamed of opening up a shop. Her own business. She wipes her eyes, and lets out a tiny, choked laugh. “I can’t accept this.”
“Of course you can. It’s yours.”
“But—but—how did you—”
“I bought it for you,” I say. “You can do whatever you like with it. You can open up a shop there, or not. Either way—it’s yours now.”
She’s silent for a long moment. Then she kisses me again, more emotion in it than ever before. I cradle the back of her head with one hand, and for several seconds, she rests her forehead against mine.
“I like spoiling you,” I murmur.
She laughs weakly in response, and says, “I believe it.”
I press a kiss to her forehead, and she beams up at me. I realize suddenly that it’s true—that spoiling Olivia is my new favorite activity. Something feels warm in my chest—seeing her happy like this is the best thing I can think of.
Most of Christmas day is a delightful blur. Olivia and I spend the entire morning together, just the two of us—eating leftovers, lounging on the couch, watching the electric fire, and, of course, having more sex.
Unfortunately, we don’t get to enjoy these luxuries all day.
Our presence is expected at the Eastwood family’s Christmas event.
Every year, my mother throws something that could almost be described as a party—a stiff, formal gathering that is always just a show of some kind, more about networking than celebrating.
This year, the Quinns have been invited to the party, too. I insisted, even though my father wasn’t exactly thrilled about it.
We head downstairs at around four in the afternoon to climb into the car and head to the country club for the Christmas party, and already, I’m regretting this. I know we’re expected to make an appearance, but the homey, cozy feeling of lounging around with Olivia is really all I want out of today.
If it weren’t for the fact that Olivia’s parents will be waiting for us, I’d be tempted to bail on the event altogether. But the thought of poor Robert and Maura, out of their element and forced to interact with my family, keeps me from telling the driver to turn around.
The party, when we arrive, is… fine. Plenty of familiar, if stiff, faces. Food. Drinks. The atmosphere is subdued and formal despite the festive decorations. It’s nothing like the homey, cozy feeling of being in my living room with Olivia.
Almost as soon as we arrive, Olivia spots her parents in the crowd and heads over to see them. I follow in her wake, avoiding eye contact with other partygoers. I don’t want to get drawn into a conversation just yet.
Maura and Robert are both dressed to the nines, though they seem disoriented in this crowd. They smile widely as soon as they see Olivia. Maura throws her frail arms around her daughter.
“Merry Christmas, sweetie,” she says. Then, to my surprise, she turns to me and wraps me in an equally tight hug. “And Merry Christmas to you, too!”
Once she releases me, I smile at her and say, “Merry Christmas to both of you.”
Robert shakes my hand firmly. I notice that his hand is over his wife’s shoulders, his thumb gently brushing her upper arm. Their closeness is touching, as is the warmth in their eyes as they speak to their daughter. They love the way a family should.
“Oh, look,” Olivia says, startling me out of my reverie. She points across the room, over to the huge windows that overlook the snow-blanketed golf course. “It’s Shane.”
“You can’t be surprised to see him,” I point out. “It’s the Eastwood family Christmas party, and he’s… well, an Eastwood.”
“But I feel like we never see Shane,” she says.
“I should probably go wish him a Merry Christmas, actually.” I nod to the Quinns, who both smile back at me. “Do you mind if I catch up with all of you afterward?”
“Go, go.” Maura smiles at me, waving a hand. “Say hi to your family.”
I make my way across the party, wading through the crowd, until I’m at Shane’s shoulder. He’s off by himself a bit, holding a glass of wine and staring almost forlornly out at the empty golf course.
“Hey,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder. He jumps as if startled, nearly spilling the wine.
“Reed,” he mutters, once he recovers from the surprise. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I didn’t,” I chuckle. “You’re just too wound-up, man. Chill.”
“Here?” He raises an eyebrow, glancing back at the crowd of well-dressed, uptight guests our parents have assembled. “Not exactly the best place to ‘chill.’”
“Okay,” I concede, nodding. “Fair enough.”
“That’s Olivia’s family, isn’t it?” Shane gestures with his wine glass toward the Quinns, who are talking animatedly to each other. I find myself smiling involuntarily as I watch Olivia saying something to her father.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Do they know?”
“Know what?”
“About your situation,” Shane says. “With their daughter. You know.”
I don’t respond right away. I’m trying to dig up the words, readying myself for the confession. After a moment, I say, “Honestly, at this point… you don’t even know about our situation.”
“Oh?” Shane raises a curious eyebrow, taking a sip of wine.
I haven’t usually confided in my brother; our relationship has been fairly distant, particularly for the past few years, even though we work in proximity to each other. It’s just the way that my family has always been, both in and out of the office.
But lately, Shane and I have been getting a little closer. Over the past few months, I’ve started to notice that he’s in my corner when my parents aren’t—that we seem to be on the same side of every conflict.
So I decide to take the plunge.
“Actually,” I confess, “things have sort of… taken a turn between us.”
“What kind of turn?”
“I’m… I’m serious about her.”
“Serious? What do you mean, serious?”
“I mean that this isn’t just a PR stunt to me. Not anymore.” I watch Olivia and her parents as they make their way across the party, over toward the bar. “This started out with contract negotiations, and now… well, it’s a lot more than that.”
“Wait…” A slow, uncharacteristic smile spreads across Shane’s face—a genuine look of delight, which is rare for him. “You’re actually falling for her?”
I nod, turning back to the windows, and Shane huffs a quiet laugh. He claps a hand on my shoulder.
“Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Me, neither,” I admit. “But here we are.”
“To be honest with you,” he says, “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out. I’m just glad it was before the deadline.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t try to act like you knew that we—”
“Knew that you what?” My father’s voice, as cold and sharp as ice, cuts between us like a bullet.
Shane freezes in place, shooting me a guilty, apologetic look. Behind him, Lionel approaches, his hands folded behind his back. From his scowl and stiff posture, it’s clear that he heard at least some of our conversation.
“Merry Christmas, Reed,” my father says, giving Shane no more acknowledgment than a curt nod. “Can I have a word with you?”
“Of course,” I say uneasily.
“In private,” he adds, reaching out to press his hand against my shoulder.
Shane meets my gaze as our father pulls me aside, toward the country club’s entrance hall. He grimaces, then mouths, we’ll talk later.
Once we’re out of earshot of the rest of the party, my father wastes no time getting down to business. “What the hell was that about?”
“What the hell was what about? I was talking to Shane.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” my father snarls. “What were the two of you talking about?”
I steel myself. I was going to have to do this eventually, and there’s no point in drawing it out any longer than I have to—I might as well tell him the truth.
Besides, I’m not sure why I’m assuming that he’ll take this news poorly. I’m a grown man—I make my own decisions, and live my own life. He may have told me to find a fake fiancée for PR reasons, but he doesn’t get to dictate what’s real about my feelings.
And anyway, this will only make things easier, from a PR standpoint. If I only want to be with one woman, it’ll be even more clear to the media that I’m not the same man I once was. He has nothing to complain about.
Still, this entire time, I’ve gotten the sense that my father isn’t exactly Olivia’s biggest fan.
“I want to marry Olivia,” I say. “I want to make this official.”
My father stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “You want to what?”
“Marry her. For real.” Before he can say anything else, I add, “You should be happy about this, right? This will definitely kill my reputation as a playboy, won’t it?”
My father’s scowl deepens, but to my relief, he doesn’t argue the point further. Instead, he nods, unenthused. “Well. So be it, then.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
Stiffly, he shrugs, turning back toward the party. Over his shoulder, he says, “Just be careful, that’s all. A man like you can’t always afford to trust a woman like her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I can feel my hackles starting to rise—my protective instincts urging me to defend Olivia.
“She might be in this for the wrong reasons, son. Plenty of women are just digging for gold. Don’t be naive enough to let her take advantage of you.”
Anger flares in my chest, but I force it down. There’s no point in starting an argument here—it’ll just create a scene.
As my father heads back into the party, I call after him, “It’s not like that. She’s not like that.”
“We’ll see.” He shrugs again, but doesn’t turn to face me.