Page 56 of The Temporary Fiancée
“Lunch wine?” I laugh, taking the drink from him and swirling it around the glass. “What does that even mean?”
“Wine that’s good with lunch.”
I roll my eyes, but take a sip of the wine nonetheless. To my surprise, it’s a rich flavor, light, but tinged with notes of berries. Suddenly, I can see exactly what it means.
He grins smugly. “You like it, don’t you?”
I sigh, then concede with a nod. “Yeah. I like it.”
“That’s great. When the waiter comes back, I’ll get us a bottle.”
We don’t have to wait long. The waiter reappears before long, and Reed places the order, along with requests for house salads and ciabatta sandwiches.
“How are things over at Eastwood?” I ask.
Reed shrugs. “Good.”
“Just good?”
“My father seems satisfied with the solution I came up with,” Reed says, dropping his voice so that he won’t be overheard. “A few folks from legal are still giving me dirty looks in the hallway, but what can you do?”
He doesn’t seem bothered, but I am. It was my reluctance in the meeting that caused this issue. “Reed, I’m?—”
He holds up a hand to stop me. “Don’tapologize. Those guys are dicks. They weren’t expecting you to stand up for yourself, but they should have been.”
“If you say so.”
Reed and I chat about his work for a while, and he tells me about the work he’s been doing—overseeing some event planning for the Dubai location of the hotel chain, keeping his brother on-budget for the early designs of a future hotel, and helping to negotiate an acquisition.
It’s overwhelming, and it practically makes my head spin. In the past few days, he’s had to put out half a dozen fires. It’s a wonder he ever has time to get up to trouble at all.
The waiter brings our lunches, and it’s quiet between us as we start to eat—but only for a minute. The waiter interrupted our conversation about the building Eastwood is buying in Montreal, and I want to hear the end of that story.
“So wait,” I say, swallowing a mouthful, “whatwas the issue between the owners?”
“They were an older divorced couple, and they had two different opinions about whether to sell,” Reed says. “She wanted to, and he didn’t. They owned fifty-fifty shares, and obviously, you can’t change the branding of a hotel if only fifty percent of its ownership agrees.”
“But I thought you said Eastwood was going ahead with the new location.”
“They are now.” Reed takes another sip of wine, then grins at me. “After I had a talk with him.”
“What did you do to convince him?”
“What else? Gave him a better offer, and told him that he won’t regret the decision once he’s sunbathing on the deck of his new yacht.”
I laugh. It’s surprising how easily Reed can make me laugh; I can’t remember having this much fun at lunch in a long, long time.
As we talk and eat, I start to become vaguely aware of a few paparazzi. There’s a man with a camera on the roof of the building next door, just as I thought there would be, and there’s another in the windows across the street.
But it’s easy enough to brush them off when I’m focused on my conversations with Reed. In fact, I’m enjoying myself, which I never would’ve thought possible. I was dreading this lunch, but so far, it’s been nice. A warm afternoon, a balcony table, a bottle of wine, and good company.
Eventually, the waiter comes back to clear our plates, inclining his head in Reed’s direction. “Your dessert will be ready momentarily, sir.”
Reed’s expression lights up, and he gives a nod in return. “Sounds great. Whenever you’re ready.”
He leaves, and we’re alone again. I’m about to say something—to prompt Reed into another conversation—when he abruptly gets to his feet, buttoning his blazer. His hand slides into the pocket of his slacks.
I’m about to ask him where he’s going, but the words die in my throat. He drops to one knee in front of me and holds up a tiny box wrapped in black velvet.
