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She rolls her eyes. “There are many adjectives to describe you, Reed Rivers. But humble and ordinary aren’t two of them.”
I cross my arms over my chest, beaming a huge smile at her. “You know, Georgie, when you roll your eyes at me like that, when I’m simply trying to have a conversation with you, it comes off condescending. Like you think I’m silly and stupid and you’re better than me.”
“Good. I’m glad you’ve understood my body language to a tee.”
I chuckle.
“But, don’t worry, I only think I’m better than you when it comes to a few distinct things: brains, beauty, and emotional intelligence. Other than those three areas, I’m fully aware I’m just a girl—a silly, adorable girl, who’s play-acting confidence in her mommy’s heels and doing the best she can to make her way through life.”
I shake my head. “You’re never going to forget that ‘mommy’s heels’ comment, are you?”
“Never. Brace yourself. You’re going to hear it a lot this week.”
“Lovely.” I perch an ass cheek on the edge of my desk. “Look, if I come off as condescending or arrogant at times, it’s only because... I am.”
She chuckles. “Well, points for honesty.”
“I couldn’t do what I do for a living, and have the success I’ve had, without sincerely believing I’m the best. But that doesn’t mean I think I’m an inherently more valuable human than anyone else. In a lot of ways, I still feel like that same college kid who couldn’t afford to fix the slipping transmission and busted window on his shitty-ass Honda.”
“Well, that explains your six fancy sports cars.”
“Seven, actually. My beloved Ferrari is in the shop.”
“Oh, no. So sorry to hear that. Whatever will you do until your seventh sports car is returned safely to you?”
“Barely survive? Cry into my pillow every night? It’ll be tough, but I’ll soldier on.”
“I’m sure the Bugatti will help get you through.”
“Barely.”
“So, what’s wrong with your beloved Ferrari?”
“The front right fender got bashed in a couple weeks ago. It broke my damned heart.”
“What happened?”
“It was the craziest thing. I was driving on Mulholland, taking a curve a bit too fast, when a tree jumped out into the middle of the road, right in front of me. Too quick to swerve.”
I’m thinking she’ll return my joking demeanor, but she looks concerned. “Were you hurt?”
I shift slightly on the edge of my desk. “No. But I can’t say the same for the front right fender of my Ferrari. It was smashed up pretty badly.”
Without warning, Georgina beelines to me at the edge of my desk, nudges her way between my thighs, and kisses me. I don’t know what’s prompted this sudden, urgent display of affection from her, but I don’t question it. Without hesitation, I wrap my arms around her back and return her kiss with passion, every cell in my body exploding with desire for her.
Finally, when we break free from our passionate kiss, Georgie nuzzles her nose along my jawline and whispers, “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt in that crash. The world would really miss having Reed Rivers in it.”
Goosebumps erupt on my arms and neck. Where did this come from? “Hey, are you okay? I’m fine. Really.”
She nods. “It just scares me to think everything can change in the blink of an eye. That someone as young and fit as you could have been gone, just like that.” She snaps her fingers. “Sorry. Was that too dark?”
I smile sympathetically. I’m sure Georgina’s thought a lot about mortality these last few years, with her father fighting for his life. Far more than most people her age would think about it. “No, it’s a good reminder. I was cocky driving around that corner. Going way too fast. It was a good wake-up call for me that I’m not actually invincible.”
She nods her approval and then resumes looking around the room. She looks at a framed magazine article—a Forbes “30 Under 30” piece featuring me. She runs her fingertips across the spines of the books on my shelf. Self-help, motivational, business, and fitness titles, mostly. And then she notices a small framed photo on my desk.
“Is this you?” she asks, picking up the frame.
It’s my favorite photo from when I was a kid. The one shot from my childhood where my smile, and my mother’s, too, seemed genuine and not put on for the camera. It’s also the one shot I’ve got that includes both my mother and Amalia. Also, a shot from my one and only childhood birthday party—the one time in my life when my mother, still grieving Oliver, somehow pulled her shit together enough to do that thing all the other kindergartners’ mothers had done that year for my classmates: she threw me a big birthday party with balloons and a cake and paper plates bearing images of my favorite cartoon. It never happened again. But, to this day, I remember how much fun I had at that once-in-a-lifetime party. How much fun Mom had, too. Truly, I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven that unique, carefree day with my mother and Amalia and the kids from school—the mysterious place my mother had always told me my big brother Oliver had gone to live.
