Page 39 of The Temporary Fiancée
A few days after the PR team told us the plan, and before the announcement, Reed ushers me into the passenger seat of a tiny sports car. We still have to meet with legal and iron out the contract.
I was expecting Reed to snap his fingers and summon a chauffeur, but to my surprise, he takes the wheel himself.
As he pulls out into the street, I smile at him teasingly. “You didn’t want to get Milo to drive you?”
“He’s on vacation with his family in Montreal,” Reed replies swiftly, his eyes on the road. “Besides—I wanted to take this baby out today.” He taps the steering wheel.
“Oh. Good for Milo.” Whenever Reed needs to meet me somewhere, his chauffeur takes me there in a plush black sedan. I figured that Reed’s travel situation was similar.
“I like to drive myself,” Reed says, as if he’s reading my mind. “It helps me clear my head. Sometimes, it’s better to have your own hands on the wheel, you know?”
I nod, watching him as he watches the road. Yet another little detail about Reed that adds dimension to him in my head… and makes it harder to think of this situation as simple.
“You don’t like it when other people drive you?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Some people in my position don’t bother to get their own license. They don’t have to, right? But I wanted mine, more than anything. If you drive yourself, you never have to wait on anyone. You’re the only person deciding where you go.”
It’s something I’d never considered. “I only ever take the subway,” I admit with a laugh.
He smiles, his gaze darting over to me for a brief instant. “So youneverget to drive, is what I’m hearing.”
“Never had a car.”
“Remind me to let you drive this one sometime,” he says with a devilish grin. “I’ll teach you to drive stick.”
A shudder goes through me, and I shrink down in the passenger seat. “I don’t want to be responsible for whatever happens to your precious car,” I tell him. “You’d have to sign a million waivers first.”
“Sure,” he replies. “We’re on our way to meet with Legal right now, aren’t we? I’ll just have them whip up a few liability forms, and you can drive us home.” He winks at me, and I chuckle nervously.
“You’d better be joking.”
“It’s not that hard. You’d be fine.” He shifts the car down a gear, and the engine roars like a wild animal, which does nothing to help his point. He glances over at me for a second as we idle at a red light. When we start forward again, he says, “You’re dressed pretty sharp.”
I glance down at my outfit, suddenly self-conscious. I went for my usual business attire: high heels to give myself a few extra inches, tapered suit jacket, and a fitted skirt. “Yeah. Well. This is the usual.”
“The usual?”
“My suit of armor,” I say. “My bulletproof vest.”
“What do you mean?” The corner of his mouth is pulled into a smirk.
“My old boss had a habit of trying to belittle me in front of his clients and colleagues. I had to look sharp to stay sharp. Keep myself confident.”
The smile on his face fades as quickly as it appeared. He doesn’t reply, but I can tell that he’s bothered by that.
He pulls in front of the Eastwood office building, and a valet comes forward to take his car to the executives’ garage as the two of us step into the lobby.
Reed is quiet for the elevator ride. I noticed a change in his demeanor as soon as we stepped through the glass doors at the front entrance; his relaxed shoulders are suddenly tight, and there’s no trace of the casual, lopsided grin he wore for most of our conversation in the car.
In his own spaces—in his own apartment, or his own car, or in the clubs he decides to frequent—Reed is more comfortable in his own skin than anyone I’ve ever met. But here, in his father’s building, he holds a noticeable tension in his body.
I wonder if anyone’s ever told him that.
I don’t have much time to dwell on it, however. When the elevator doors chime and slide open, I’m reminded of my own predicament.
As soon as we settle down at the conference table with the legal team, all of my fears are amplified. My stomach twists as I look up and down the row of lawyers opposite the table. Morethan a few of them are giving me unfriendly, cold-eyed stares, like we’re sworn enemies lining up to do battle.
“Reed,” I whisper to him. He lays his hand on mine for a second, reassuring, then sits forward to greet the lawyers.
