Page 97 of The Temporary Fiancée
He gets up from the stool and stands behind me as I demonstrate the correct technique for making stovetop s’mores. I fire up the gas burner and spear him a marshmallow.
“You gotta hold itabovethe flame,” I explain. “You want it to get that perfect, golden-brown crust.”
“How do I know when it’s ready?”
“Here—” I hand him the stick. “Start cooking it, and I’ll show you.”
He holds the marshmallow over the fire. “Is there a secret trick, or?—”
“Just watch the color. You want it to be nice and crispy on the outside, but gooey in the middle.”
Reed frowns at his marshmallow. “It’s not cooking.”
“It is,” I assure him. “It just takes a little time.”
“But wouldn’t it cook faster if I—” he lowers the stick, letting the marshmallow touch the blue-edged gas flame. Immediately, it catches on fire.
Reed yelps, backing away from the stove with his flaming marshmallow held aloft. He looks so comical that I can’t help but laugh at him.
“Olivia! What should I do?”
“Don’t worry,” I chuckle. “It happens. Here, let me?—”
I gently lay my hand on his wrist, standing on my toes so that I can reach the burning marshmallow. I inhale, then blow out the fire. Reed is left holding a charred mess of a marshmallow, which he stares at forlornly.
“So… looks like I messed that up.”
“You can still eat it,” I say. “The inside should be just fine. It’ll be nice and squishy.”
He gives me a dubious look, but presses the marshmallow between two cookies nonetheless. While he’s busy assembling his s’more, I neatly toast another perfect marshmallow for myself.
As we enjoy our s’mores together, talking and laughing, my tension from this morning—and the coldness that settled between us last night—feels like a distant memory.
Chapter 21
Reed
Before I stepinto my father’s office, I pause in the hallway to collect myself—or, at the very least, to prepare myself for whatever foul mood he’s in. Lately, when my father asks to see me, he’s always in a bad mood—particularly when he calls me tohisoffice, rather than the other way around.
Whatever the reason for this meeting, I’m almost positive that it’s something bad. Something he disapproves of.
Steeling myself, I open the door.
My father’s office, a corner office on the top floor of the building, is the best office Eastwood has to offer. The walls are all pristine glass from floor to ceiling, and the view outside is the best view of Manhattan that I’ve ever managed to find, anywhere in the city.
It’s a pity thathe’sthe one sitting behind the desk.
He turns in his straight-backed chair to face me, his hands folded, and for a minute, I’m certain that I know what this is about.
He’s going to chew me out for what happened at that stupid dinner. He’s going to scold me for walking out on him.
I grit my teeth, steeling myself for when he starts yelling.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward and says, “PR conducted a few focus groups. To assess the state of your image.”
Well, that’s a relief.Based on my father’s ever-present scowl, it’s impossible to tell if this is good news, or bad news, but at least it isn’t theworstnews. He hasn’t decided to pull the plug on me yet.
“Okay,” I say, doing my best to take this shift in stride. “And what did they find?”
