Page 13 of The Single Dad

“It’ll cost you a dollar fifty to replace them,” Declan says without looking up from his phone. “Are we putting you out? Ah, here we go—” He turns around the phone with a smug expression. “Us Weekly article on you from last week.”

Reed groans, his free hand rising to rub his forehead. “God, I was hoping you guys wouldn’t see that shit.”

“After the whole debacle with that heiress you brought to Nora’s party, I didn’t think it could get worse,” I tell him archly.

Reed has developed a reputation for pulling these kinds of stunts. As the owner of the upscale Eastwood hotel chain, an international franchise, he’s often rubbing shoulders with powerful people—and, as such, has made a name for himself amongst New York’s elite.

Unfortunately, they know him best for his tabloid-fodder romantic trysts with unattainable women. The latest scandal is hardly surprising.

“Oh, come on,” Declan mutters. “Isabella Fontana? The actress?”

Reed draws himself upright, sniffing. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“It’s everyone’s business. Paparazzi got your ass outside of the Eastwood in Brooklyn.” Declan leans over to show me the pictures, and I snort in amusement at the shot of Reed, his shirt half-buttoned, flashing a coy wink at the hidden camera with his hand on the brunette woman’s waist.

Even though the photo is overexposed to hell and back, he still manages to look good. At six foot three, he towers over the woman, who looks familiar from some recent awards flick; the flash of the camera can’t even hide his amber-flecked brown eyes.

“Isn’t she married?” I ask idly, raising an eyebrow at him.

Reed clears his throat. “You know, I’m glad you asked that. She was married, yes. But she got divorced.”

“Because of you?” Declan snipes.

“No. Before me. By at least two months.” Reed smiles, pleased with himself. “Come on, fellas. Anyone gonna tell me I’m a good boy?”

I shake my head. “You’re a saint,” I say dryly.

Reed takes another swig of scotch, seemingly satisfied with that.

“What a fucking mess,” Declan comments.

“Oh, shut up, lover boy,” says Reed.

“Are we playing, or did you two come over here just to give each other shit?” I ask, looking between the two of them.

“That was a big part of the motivation,” Reed admits, “but I guess we can play poker while we’re at it.” He leans forward, studying his hand.

“Then ante up, gentlemen.”

With that, Declan, Reed and I each toss a chip into the center of the table, and our game finally gets started.

I burn the first card at the top of the deck, placing it off to the side, then start to deal out the next round. For a while, it’s quiet as all three of us sip our drinks, poring over the cards.

My hand isn’t great, so I clear my throat and say, “Check.”

“Raise,” says Reed, tossing another chip into the pot.

Declan frowns at his cards, narrowing his eyes from me to Reed, deep in thought. After a moment, he says, “I’ll call.”

Reed makes a hissing sound with his tongue like the sizzle of a stovetop, and play returns to me. While I’m placing new cards and pondering my piece-of-shit hand, Reed pipes up.

“Hey, didn’t you have a ton of interviews with nannies today, Cole? How’d that all turn out?”

I sigh. “To be honest, it was a fucking nightmare, for the most part.”

Reed guffaws. “How bad could it be?”

“You have no idea. Some of these women treated Archer like a cute dog, or something. They’d clearly never interacted with any kids in their entire lives.” I think back to some of my interviews from earlier in the day. “Ugh, the last one was this older woman who was, like, some type of governess or something. She was nasty to the poor kid.”

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