“When something seems too good to be true, it usually is. Reed McMahon is not the guy you want him to be.”
—LittleMissMidTown
Every muscle in Reed McMahon’s body tensed, anticipating, assessing. He shifted his weight, moving his hips as he prepared to unleash all his frustration into a single powerful swing. He’d had the kind of week that made him want to pound something into oblivion.
With a white-knuckled grip, he pulled back and focused on his target until the rest of the world fell away. The baseball whizzed past him and his bat connected with air.
Reed swore under his breath and reset his position. His team, Smokin’ Bases, was one run down in the final inning with two outs. Losing to a group of Columbia graduates who loved to fist-bump one another was not an option. The week from hell would not be made worse by a crushing ball game defeat.
Reed had to make this swing count.
The pitcher went through his routine of rubbing the ball in his gloveless hand and stretching his neck from side to side. He drew his arm back and sent the next ball sailing in Reed’s direction. It was perfect—fast, but perfect. He swung and the bat made a satisfying crack as it sent the ball flying through the air, eventually bouncing in the empty pocket between right and center field.
He took off, pumping his legs as fast as he could toward first base. An outfielder scooped the ball up and threw it hard, but he overthrew it and it grazed the top of the first baseman’s glove, giving Smokin’ Bases enough time to get a runner across home plate.
That tied them. “Keep going!” the third base coach shouted as their captain, Gabriel, legged it down the home stretch.
Reed ran for second, but the other team recovered and their second baseman landed the tag perfectly across Reed’s midsection.
“Out!” the pitcher called. But Gabriel had already made it home and the run counted.
Reed’s hit had given them a one-run victory. The rest of his team whooped and jogged onto the field to shake hands with the opposition.
“I knew you’d save us.” His teammate and friend, Emil Resnik, slapped a hand on his back as they walked off the field.
Reed grabbed his workout bag and fished around for a bottle of water. “Just waiting for the right moment to attack.”
“Like a snake.” Emil flattened his fingers against his thumb and made a striking motion. “I think we’ve earned a beer or three.”
“God yes.”
Reed brought the water bottle to his lips and tossed his head back, relishing the slide of the cool liquid down his throat. After a game, his body felt looser. The tension he carried with him Monday through Friday eased out of his muscles. This was the thing he looked forward to each week.
He pulled his phone out of the small pocket on the side of the sports bag and turned it on. Multiple alerts made the device buzz in some kind of digital battle cry.
One hundred notifications. That couldn’t be good.
He scrolled through the list and sure enough, the majority had “Bad Bachelors” in the title. “God fucking damn it,” he muttered. “Not this shit again.”
“That was a killer hit you had there, man.” Gabriel came over to where Reed stood, ready to congratulate him on locking in the win. “What’s going on?”
A new message appeared in his inbox from a colleague titled I knew you got around but daaamn.
“There’s some bullshit new app that rates New York ‘bachelors.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “And apparently I’m top of the bad guys list. I’ve been getting emails about it since Friday.”
“Have you checked it out?” Gabriel asked as he whipped off his T-shirt and changed into a fresh one.
Reed glanced at a woman leaning against the black railing that sectioned off the North Meadow diamond from the rest of Central Park. She was dressed in a suit, which was an odd choice given it was the weekend. “Hell no. I couldn’t care less what these women are saying about me. Probably that I’m some heartless brute who only cares about sex.”
“Accurate,” Emil said with a grin. “And it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”
“Except now it’s out there for the whole world to see and the guys in the office are having a field day.” He shook his head. “They think it’s hilarious.”
He’d come back to his desk after a meeting on Friday afternoon to find some cheap plastic trophy with Reed’s picture affixed to it, along with the words #1 Lady Killer in bright-red letters. This person had also taken the liberty of “enhancing” the little gold man’s appendage with putty.
Classy.
But Reed wasn’t worried. Gossip like that tended to fizzle quickly, in his experience. There was always something more scandalous to worry about than a man having sex.
“What’s wrong with loving women so much you can’t have just one?” Gabriel chuckled when his pregnant wife, Sofia, whacked him in the arm with the scoring clipboard. “What? I’m talking about Reed.”
Reed stuffed his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. “They know what they’re getting into, but then they cry foul when I don’t want to see them again.”
“Because they all think they could be the one to change you.” Emil dug his elbow into Reed’s rib cage. “They think they can tame the beast.”
“There’s nothing to tame.” He picked up his gym bag and slung it over one shoulder.
The sun hung low in the sky. Central Park was busy as always, full of tourists and locals out soaking up the rays now that the cold weather had finally started to disappear. Everything was green again, and that usually put a smile on his face. But Reed’s frustration settled like a weight on his chest.
“I’m sure it’ll blow over.” Emil slung an arm around Reed’s neck and pulled him away from the field. “I’ll buy you a beer. That should cheer you up.”
They made their way to the edge of the field, heading in the direction of the path that would lead them out to West Ninety-Sixth Street. It was Reed’s Sunday ritual: baseball in Central Park, beers at his favorite sports bar in Brooklyn Heights so they could watch a game—preferably the Mets—and then he’d head over to Red Hook to check on his dad before going home. Nothing messed with his Sunday routine, not even a shitty mood.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Sofia said with a cheeky wink. “He’s got enough money for a therapist. Isn’t that how rich people handle their problems?”
Gabriel and Emil, along with a few other guys and girls on the team, were mechanics, and they loved to rib Reed about his white-collar job. Sofia joined in the fun, even though she had a degree and worked in an office just like Reed.
“None of you seem to have an issue with my money when I’m paying for drinks,” he responded dryly.
“Yeah, that’s right. Maybe we won’t buy you a beer after all,” Gabriel quipped. “Although we did get a new client at the shop. Some trust-fund baby with a hard-on for Audis. God knows why he’d spend so much money on them when he could have something better.”
Gabriel and Emil dissolved into their long-running argument about the best luxury car manufacturers and Sofia pretended to stick her fingers in her ears. Reed tuned out the familiar banter. Despite having a salary with enough zeros to make most people’s eyes bulge, he didn’t live in Manhattan or drive a sports car. A huge chunk of his money went to paying for health care and a near full-time caregiver for his father. The leftover cash was funneled into conservative investments.
Beyond keeping up appearances at work—which required a wardrobe fit for dealing with upper-crust Manhattanites—his home life was fuss free. He’d paid off his DUMBO apartment a year ago when he’d made partner and received a generous signing bonus, and had turned that place into his personal sanctuary.
“Reed?” The woman who’d been watching their game waved to catch his attention. She wore a light-gray suit and her eyes squinted behind a pair of black glasses. “Are you Reed McMahon?”
“Who’s asking?” Emil piped up.
“I’m Diana Lay with Scion magazine. I was hoping to grab a few moments of your time, Mr. McMahon.” She looked directly at him but he could see the hesitation in her face.
In his sweats and a red baseball cap, he looked totally different from the photos floating around online, which were mostly corporate headshots and a few professional photos from galas he’d attended for work. But they all showed the same image—a polished, curated, and tailored level of perfection he prided himself on. A fake version of him that didn’t exist at a weekend ball game. Or any other time when he wasn’t at work.
Ugh, he should have guessed she worked for Scion. They’d been trying since the previous Wednesday to get ahold of him. The “society journal,” which could only be referred to as such in the loosest of terms, was now mostly online. But it continued to boast a half-million readership of gossip-hungry people with no lives of their own. Scion wrote about the upper echelons of the “socially prominent” in New York, Greenwich, and the Hamptons. Surrounding the articles was extensive advertising for boat shoes and diving watches.
“You missed him,” Reed said without breaking his stride.
“I don’t think I did.” The woman hurried after him, her sensible, low-heeled shoes no match for his well-loved sneakers. “How do you feel about being rated New York’s Most Notorious Bachelor?”
“You’ll have to ask the man himself.”
“So you’re denying you’re Reed McMahon who works at Bath and Weston?” she asked, out of breath as she tried to keep up with his long strides. “And that you’re the son of Adam McMahon?”
At the sound of his father’s name, Reed stopped dead in his tracks and the woman almost slammed into him. “Leave him out of this.”
She smiled like a cat who’d gotten the cream. “Were you aware of the Bad Bachelors app before today?”
He was tempted to keep walking, but the last thing he needed was for her to think there was a story here. “No comment.”
“Come on, you must have something to say about it.” She used a cajoling tone that made his blood boil.
He knew her type—parasitic gossip columnists who called themselves journalists but were more likely to talk about a sex tape than anything of substance. However, he wasn’t about to let his anger show. That would only make her dig deeper.
He gave her a cool, well-practiced smile and shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.”
“Does it bother you that all these women are airing your dirty laundry to the world? Or does part of you believe you’re getting what you deserve?”
He kept his gaze steady. “No comment.”
“What does your father think about all this?” She looked at him with a bland expression, although he had no doubt bringing up his father was intended to incite an ugly emotional reaction in him. “Do you think you’ve disappointed him?”
Hell would freeze over before he gave this woman—or anyone—an ounce of satisfaction in seeing him break over this nonstory. “You mentioned you worked for Scion, correct?”
“That’s right.” She held her phone out, the recording app on, ready for a juicy quote he’d never give her.
He’d had dealings with Scion in the past, namely when he’d needed to help a wealthy businessman get his family-friendly image back on track after photos leaked of him and his wife engaging in some more unique BDSM activities. As much as he wasn’t a fan of Scion’s work, he’d never done anything to piss them off.
“So you work for Craig Peterson?” He kept his tone even.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “I do.”
“Craig’s a close personal friend of mine.” It was a total lie, but he’d met the guy on a few occasions at work functions. He allowed the awkward silence to stretch long enough to make the woman shift on her heels. “In fact, Bath and Weston does good business with Scion. I’m not sure he’d appreciate you harassing the source of some important advertising money. Money that, if I’m not mistaken, is quite critical to keeping the company afloat, given how your CFO has been suspected of embezzling company funds.”
Thank God he had that little tidbit up his sleeve. Rule number one of working in PR: always keep your ear to the ground.
Her face paled. “I’m just doing my job.”
“I understand. I’m also doing mine.” He paused. “If I find out that you or anyone from your establishment has gone near my father, I will make sure more people know why Scion is in such bad shape.”
“You’d do that to your close personal friend?” Her lip curled.
“To protect my family? Sure.” He leaned in closer to her. “And if I’d do that to Craig, imagine what I’d do to someone I don’t care about.” Reed didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he turned and stalked to where Emil, Gabriel, and Sofia waited for him. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
A few hours later, Reed parked in the street outside his father’s house. He’d been jittery all evening, unable to sit still and concentrate on watching the game. Eventually, he’d slipped out of the bar while the others were mid-discussion about a fielding error. They didn’t need him bringing down the mood.
And he had this horrible, niggling suspicion it wouldn’t be long before the reporters went after his father.
The temperature had dropped, and Reed shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweats as he walked up the steps leading to the front door. The stairs were effectively his father’s prison guard, because he could no longer walk up or down them unassisted. But Reed’s offers to buy his father a new place—or at the very least have some kind of ramp or elevator installed—had fallen on deaf ears.
The house itself was in serious need of a makeover. The old clapboards were cracked and peeling. At some point they’d been a light blue, but now they looked like flaking reptile skin. Spider webs decorated the corner of the screen door with thin, silvery strands. Reed brushed them away with his hand and wiped his palm down the front of his thigh.
“You know you don’t have to come around every weekend.” Adam McMahon’s raspy voice sounded as he opened the door. Light spilled onto the small landing where a few long-dead potted plants sat.
“I’m hoping one weekend you might let me do some work around his place.” Reed walked into the house and embraced his father, careful not to knock the oxygen tank that was his constant companion.
“I’m hoping one weekend you might come here and not give me a hard time.” His father paused to catch his breath before they made their way slowly to the living room.
“If it were anyone else, I would show up and do it without asking permission.”
“If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t care.”
Reed grunted his agreement. “Did Donna come by today?”
“Yes.” His father frowned. “She gave me a hard time…on your orders apparently.”
“She’s a caregiver, Dad. That’s her job.” Reed sunk down into the old green sofa his father refused to replace, sitting in the exact spot required to avoid having a spring poking into his ass. “That’s what I pay her for.”
“Yeah, yeah.” His father ambled over to the leather recliner Reed had purchased a few months back as a surprise gift. One that hadn’t been well received at the time—earning a muttered “waste of money” comment from his father—but now bore a nicely worn groove from daily use. “You want a drink?”
“Nah, I’m good. I had a beer with the guys before I came over.” His phone vibrated, but he didn’t recognize the number flashing up on the screen. Probably someone else poking their nose into his business. He ignored the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
Bracing a bony hand against the recliner’s armrest, his father lowered himself slowly into a sitting position. Even the simplest of actions left him breathless these days, but God forbid anyone try to help him. Adam McMahon might not be in the best of health, but he’d swat a hand in your direction that would still sting like hell if it connected.
“So tell me about this phone dating thing,” his father said. “Bad Bastards something or other.”
Ice ran through Reed’s veins. “How do you know about that?”
“A lovely young lady came by the house today.” His father’s lips lifted into a wry smile. “She had a lot of questions about you.”
“What was her name?” His fingers dug into the couch cushion.
“I don’t know. I didn’t write it down.” His father rubbed a hand along the whiskery, gray stubble that coated his jaw. “But I told her I wasn’t going to talk about my son behind his back no matter how much he needs a clip over the ears.”
Of course the old man would turn it on him. “For what?”
“For being a shortsighted idiot. You’re telling me you date all these women and not one of them is worth more than a single meal?”
It probably wouldn’t help to admit that a good portion of his dates never even made it to dinner—not that the women seemed to mind too much when they were legs up, screaming his name. “I don’t have time for a relationship.”
“Bullshit. You don’t want to end up like me.”
Reed’s chest squeezed and that made him want to punch something. He hated feeling like he couldn’t help his father. And this was the one problem that couldn’t be fixed by whipping out his credit card or arguing the old man into submission.
“That’s not it, Dad.”
“Sure it is.” A rattling cough broke the quiet, the ugly sound echoing in Reed’s ears.
The muscles in his jaw twitched as he tried to think of a response. He was a master talker, always quick with the right thing to say. But his father’s honesty never ceased to render him speechless.
“You should find a nice girl, Reed.” His father grunted as he struggled to shift in the recliner. The chair seemed to swallow the old man’s deteriorating frame. “You should settle down, get married, have a family…before it’s too late.”
No way. Fate had stopped him from getting into a sham marriage once before, and he couldn’t be happier that he’d dodged that bullet. He was perfectly happy being single and playing the field. And no amount of judgment from his father or some pushy reporter would change that.