Page 165 of The Temporary Fiancée
RILEY: I’m sure it’s not that bad.
ME: It is. It is that bad.
I refresh the webpage, just to be sure that I’m not exaggerating. Nope. I’m not. It’s terrible.
Ever since Reed left for work this morning, I’ve been struggling to create a passable website for my business. Struggling, and failing.
Turns out that web design is harder than I imagined it would be, and I’m not exactly tech savvy.
“Oh, comeon,“ I mutter to myself as I refresh the page again. This time, the image I’m trying to put on it—a photo of one of my best sweaters—is halfway off the page, overlapping with the text.
I pull out my phone and tap out another message to Riley.
ME: I can’t get anything to line up.
RILEY: lol
ME: Glad you’re enjoying this
RILEY: It’s hilarious, sorry!
I sigh, setting my laptop aside, and turn my attention to the notepad that’s sitting on the coffee table. If I’m having troublewith the website, I might just ask Reed to help me with it tonight. For now, there are other things I need to pay attention to.
Like figuring out what I’m actually going to offer in my shop.
So far, I’ve got a running list of the items I usually make. Sweaters, mittens, hats, scarves. But I’ve been wondering if I should diversify the list a little, or possibly offer customs.
While I’m deliberating, tapping my chin with my pen, I hear the whir of the elevator in action. I look up excitedly; in all likelihood, this means that Reed is home early. Who else would show up at his penthouse at this hour? And who else would Henry let up, no questions asked?
To my surprise, though, when the doors roll open, it isn’t Reed who steps through.
It’s Lionel.
Immediately, I toss my notepad on the couch, face-down. Reed may be endlessly supportive, but his father has a way of making me feel judged. I have a feeling I’d lose some confidence in my business plan if he found out about it.
I don’t want to give him any reasons to dislike me, though, so I force a courteous smile onto my face. “Oh, Mr. Eastwood. Um. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I just thought I would come by to talk,” he says lightly, stepping into the room.
“Can I get you anything? A drink, or?—”
“No, no. That’s alright.”
There are a few seconds of painfully awkward silence. Then he breathes in through his nose sharply and says, “I hope you enjoyed the holiday party.”
“Oh, yes, I did,” I say, grateful for the conversation topic to latch onto. “The decorations were beautiful. It was great.”
He purses his lips and nods. “Cecily outdoes herself every year.”
“I’m sure.”
There’s another uncomfortable pause, in which he regards me, his gaze analytical. I shift on the couch, nervous under his scrutiny.
Finally, he says, “I know you’re getting a lot out of this deal.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“You clearly hoped for more,” he adds, “so I’m willing to sweeten the deal, if it helps us clean our hands of this.” There’s a sour look on his face now, as if he’s tasted something unpleasant.
