Page 98 of The Temporary Fiancée
“Your approval rating has gone up drastically since the last time.”
I blink, taken aback. “It has?”
“Yes. It has.”
“So… that’s a good thing,” I say slowly. “Right?”
“I would say so.” His scowl is lighter than usual; I can tell that he’s pleased, albeit reluctantly so. “You’ve been making good progress with your image.”
I only have a few moments to bask in that praise before he wipes the smile off of my face with his next words.
“We need to take this a step further. I’ve scheduled an interview for you and the girl later this week. Do you remember Maisy O’Conner?”
I frown, unable to stop myself. I’m very familiar with that name. Maisy O’Conner once wrote a column about my various exploits in thePost,under the evocative titleIt’s Time To Talk About Reed Eastwood.
She dragged my name through the mud worse than any tabloid writer ever has—probably because she was a writer for a paper with more legitimacy, writing about my entire history rather than just one screw-up. She’s a seasoned reporter, too, which lends the piece some credibility.
It’s the article people always reference these days whenever I come up. It compiles all of my shortcomings in one convenientplace—gives the reader a run-down of every single time I’ve ever put a foot wrong.
When the article was first published, I was amused. After all, that piece must’ve taken a lot of digging, and my name was right in the headline. It almost felt good to be at the center of something so splashy.
But now that my father has made his stance on my habits clear, and with the fate of the company uncertain, I’m less inclined to laugh at the situation.
“Yes,” I say sullenly. “How could I forget?”
“She has agreed to interview you and the girl for thePost.This is your chance to fix things, Reed.”
I breathe out slowly through my nose, thinking. If I were alone in this, I’d relish the chance to get in front of Maisy O’Conner and set the record straight—tell my side of the story, and try to fix my image myself.
But I’m not alone in this. A clause in my contract with Olivia flashes through my head—the part where I promised to protect her reputation. If I expose her to the public eye, then let her down…
I clear my throat. “I… don’t think we’re ready for that.”
“Come again?” Lionel raises an eyebrow.
“I think it’d be better to keep press attention away from us,” I say lightly. “Olivia is a very private person.”
He gives me a disbelieving look. “She agreed to a relationship withyou.You’re a pseudo-celebrity. Your face was on threeUs Weeklycovers. You live in the spotlight. And now you’re telling me that she’s aprivate person?”
“She agreed to help me as a favor, but I don’t think she’s?—”
“No. Stop.” He holds out a hand to cut me off. “You’re paying her to fill this role. She doesn’t get to avoid the spotlight.”
I open my mouth to argue, but can’t find the words fast enough.
“Let’s say you were directing a movie, but your lead actress didn’t want to appear on camera. Would that be acceptable to you? Would you proceed without filming? Forgo your theatrical release?”
I shake my head. I did know that this was coming—that, eventually, PR would expect one or both of us to give some kind of statement to the press. I just didn’t think it would happen sosoon.
The announcement is fresh. The papers are still wondering about us, speculating about our relationship. It feels too soon to let Olivia get in the water with these sharks.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait?” I ask. “Let the initial news cycle die down, then bring it back up again?”
“We want to capitalize on it,” he says archly. As soon as he speaks, my business instincts know he’s right. I can’t win this argument by appealing to strategy.
So instead, I decide to drop the subject. I give a stiff nod. “Is that all you want from me?”
“Yes. That’s all.”
