Chapter 1
Reed
The wallsof my office at Eastwood Co. are decorated with framed photographs of nearly a dozen buildings.
I’ll be the first to admit that the decor is tedious, but it’s not up to me how things look around here: my father, Lionel Eastwood, is the one who gets the final say. For now. Until I replace him.
And while he still has the reins in his hands, he insists that our workplace has to be boring as all hell. Every wall in the office is covered with photographs of Eastwood Hotels from across the world.
Close to the door, above the light switches, is the Dubai location, our newest acquisition. The building itself is basically a work of modern art, with sleek, glass sides and a strangely alluring geometric shape. It’s flanked by palm trees and two huge fountains, the same azure blue as the ocean that I know is visible from the windows.
My eyes keep straying to it as my brother, Shane, leans over my desk. All I can think is that I’d rather bethere.
“What do you think?” Shane says, shuffling the papers on my desk. “It’s not exactly ideal, is it?”
I glance up at the Eastwood Dubai, sitting pretty in its frame.Luxury views and room service. Penthouse. The Burj on one side and the sea on the other. A bottle of champagne, maybe. And a woman to keep me company.
“Reed,” Shane sighs. “C’mon. I know it’s getting late, but?—”
“No, you’re right.” I shake my head, pulling my attention back to the present. “Sorry. I’ve just been here since, like, seven in the morning.”
Shane taps the paper, unsmiling. He doesn’t particularly want to be here, either. In fact, he probably wants to be here even less than I do. Shane and I aren’t close, just tolerant of each other, but I know him well enough to know that.
I clear my throat, pulling the sales projections over to give them a closer look. Shane’s right; it’s not ideal. The Eastwood Dubai has been open for only six months, and it’s been underperforming. Acquisitions was certain that a Dubai location would have massive returns, but at this rate, it’s going to take years for the company to recoup its losses.
“Could be better,” I say with a nod. “Could be a lot better.”
“Could it? Those guys in M&A—they seemed to think this was a slam dunk, but I think they misinterpreted their tea leaves a little.”
I bite my lip, looking back up at the Eastwood Dubai, beckoning from its frame. This time, it’s a calculating glance rather than a longing one.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, “they definitely did. But we can turn this one around.”
“How?”
“With a little bit of flair.”
Shane inhales through his nose, looking tired. “Reed, if this is going to be another of your?—”
“Hear me out.” I hold up my hands, envisioning it. “We pull a few contacts. Get someone big to hostsomethingbig atthe Eastwood. We’re not suffering from a lack of interest, we’re suffering from a lack of marketing. Name recognition. That’s a much easier fix.”
Shane gives me an appraising stare, one eyebrow raised. I think I can tell what he’s waiting to hear.
With a sigh, I shrug and add, “Listen, if it makes you feel better about the whole idea, I won’t even go to the damn shindig, okay?”
“There we go,” Shane mutters. “You know that if he found out about any new?—”
As if on cue, there’s a sharp knock on the door. Without waiting for a reply, my father throws it open and steps into the room, slamming it behind himself hard enough to make the Eastwood Hotels rattle on the wall.
“Dad,” I say, rising to my feet at once. “What’s?—”
My father—tall and hard-featured, like his face was carved from stone—storms across the room, looming over me at the desk. He tries his best to loom over Shane, too, which is difficult; Shane is six-foot-five, and can’t help but tower over everyone who approaches him.
My father says nothing. Instead, he throws a copy of a tabloid onto the desk. I recognize the publication.The Daily Examiner.It’s a real rag, even by tabloid standards, but I’ve had more than a few run-ins with them.
I don’t have to ask why he’s here. Front and center on the page, beneath a bold-lettered headline—EASTWOOD IN HOT WATER: HOTEL HEIR CAUGHT IN TWO-TIMING SCANDAL—is a picture that I recognize with a sinking feeling.
It’s a scene from The Nightjar,an upscale restaurant in uptown Manhattan. I’m sitting at a booth, my hands raised to appease two women, who are standing to either side of me, their faces mirror images of rage.
