Page 106 of The Temporary Fiancée
I don’t think I hid it well, either.
The whole night turned into a mess, just like everything else I touch, and now the whole situation feels fucked up. Olivia and I haven’t had sex since that night. We’re like strangers living together, with none of the fun or easy companionship from before.
More than anything, I want things to go back to normal between us. For the first time since we signed this contract, we’re out of sync. I hate it. I feel like we’re barreling toward disaster. But I have no idea how to fix it.
It’s got me agitated. Unsettled.
Unable to focus.
I sit back in my chair, frowning at the document open on my computer screen. For some reason, all of the legalese is suddenly as dense as molasses. I’ve been plugging away at the same task for the past half hour—wasting time. Getting nowhere.
Figures.
With a groan, I lean heavily on my desk. I need to find a way to soothe my frustration, or this day is going to last years.
I pull out my phone and dial my assistant’s number. She picks up immediately, as always. “Mr. Eastwood. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Marjorie. Can you have something delivered to my office for me?”
“Of course. What do you need?”
“Some knitting needles,” I tell her. “And a roll of yarn.”
She’s silent for several seconds.
“Marjorie?” I prompt, wondering if the line has gone dead.
“Um—sorry, sir,” she says. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Did you sayknitting needles?”
“Yes. And yarn. Please and thank you.”
There’s another long pause before Marjorie says, sounding suspicious, “Alright. If you say so, Mr. Eastwood.”
After hanging up, I turn to my desktop to wait for my supplies to arrive. I minimize the window with the documents I was going through—that’ll have to wait until I get my mind right—and instead bring up YouTube.
I typehow to knitinto the search bar, then peruse my options. Without sound, I watch a few of the videos. How hard can this really be?
It always seems to calm Olivia down; in fact, she’s told me before that she knits whenever she’s stressed. She finds it soothing, apparently. I figure that if it works for her, maybe it’ll work for me.
Twenty minutes later, I’m regretting that decision.
The yarn tangles hopelessly easily, and I can’t figure out how to make the starting knots that the woman in the video did. I keep fumbling with the needles; I have no idea how to make them move easily in my hands the way they do for Olivia.
This is hard as fuck. It’s way more frustrating than it is stress-relieving.
While I’m grappling with the needles, the door to my office flies open without warning. I jump, nearly dropping my knit creation, which seems to just be a big knot of yellow yarn.
My father bursts into my office. His face is severe, rage etched across his features. Without saying a word, he marches up to my desk and tosses a newspaper down in front of me.
I let the yarn and needles fall into my lap, reaching for the paper. It’s flipped to an article that features a photo of me and Olivia outside of the hotel at the party a few days ago. The headline reads,REED EASTWOOD’S NEW LOVER CAUGHT IN SEXUAL HARASSMENT SCANDAL.
I have to read the words five times before they start to make sense—before I realize what they’re trying to say.
“Looks like the media’s been more interested in the girl since the engagement was announced,” my father says, his tone clipped.
As he stands there, his arms folded, I begin to read the article.
In a shocking move after months of radio silence, Reed Eastwood did the unthinkable—got down on one knee andproposedto a woman reporters have identified as Olivia Quinn. At first, it looked as though, after years of playing the field, New York City’s most notorious pleasure seeker was seeking only to settle down with his true love.
