Page 74 of The Temporary Fiancée
As I’m saving the last picture in the set, the door to my office opens without warning. Lionel strides into the room.
With a sudden jolt of panic, I minimize the window, hiding the pictures from my father’s view. He’s the last person in the world I would want to see these images.
I lean back in my chair and sigh. “Couldn’t you ever knock?”
Ignoring me, Lionel marches up to my desk, a grave scowl upon his face. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“What do you think?” He folds his arms. “The girl, Reed.”
I have to fight to keep my expression steady. I don’t want my anger to show in front of my father, but his words make me seethe.The girl.She has a name.
“I don’t know why you do anything that you do,” he continues, “but this decision makes less sense than usual.”
“What are you talking about?” I say, suddenly defensive.
“The Quinn girl?” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you serious? The housekeeper’s daughter?”
So he remembers her—I was both worried he might not, and hoping. Worried because it would be a sign of what an unbelievable ass he is, but also hoping because he might give Olivia an easier time.
“Olivia’s the perfect choice,” I say neutrally. “We already knew each other. It was neater this way.”
“On the contrary. This was a poor choice, and I think you know why.”
I bristle at his wording. “Come on. Olivia and I were friends as children. Don’t you want this to play well? We werechildhood friends,Dad.”
“So?”
“So—people will eat that up. It’s believable, too. A quick engagement because I crossed paths with an old flame from younger days. People love the ‘childhood friends’ story.”
He sniffs, considering that for a moment, then nods begrudgingly. “Okay. I can see that working. But I don’t see why it had to be this particular girl. You have plenty of childhood friends you could’ve gone to?—”
“What’s wrong with Olivia?”
He purses his lips, then sighs, like he can already tell I’m going to argue. “She’s not on our level. It’s a bad look.”
I narrow my eyes at him. My father has a way of talking around what he really means, and it puts a sour taste in my mouth. He won’t say that Olivia is low class directly; he has to find ways to say it in different words. “Actually, I think it’s agoodlook, as far as the press is concerned.”
“This is more complex than?—”
“What? The press thinks I’m a spoiled, good-for-nothing player,” I say. “So getting together with a down-to-earth woman?—”
“It’s a bad look,” he repeats, cutting me off. He has a way of doing that, too. “Especially with her mother being sick.”
The anger sitting in my chest suddenly flares. I grip the edge of my desk so hard that my knuckles turn white. Maura Quinn was sick, and hurting, and my father knew that this whole time. He knew, and he did nothing to help her.
I’m beyond pissed. Through gritted teeth, I mutter what I know he wants to hear: “Trust me. I’ve got the Quinn family situation under control.”
I hate saying that. It’s not how I feel, and it feels vile to speak this way about the Quinns. But it’s what I need to say to placate Lionel.
My father nods slowly. He still seems mad, but his anger has simmered down, now; he’s no longer at the boiling point he was at when he first stepped into my office.
“Are we good?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Because I was actually in the middle of sending an email, so?—”
“No,” he says. “We’re not done. You need to bring the Quinn girl to dinner.”
“Excuse me?”
