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It had been damn near forever—two thousand-plus days—since I’d seen the man my dumb ass let slip away, and all I managed to whisper was his freaking name?
Fabulous, Giana. You’ve just made this a fucktastic facepalm moment.
Reed brandished a lip tilt that could’ve warmed the chill out of Antarctica. “Gigi.”
Tingles, actual tingles, zipped down my spine at the sound of his voice—still as gruff, husky, and downright sexy as I remembered—when Gigi floated from his mouth. He’d given me that nickname while we were in college, back when he was my absolute world.
We met at a keg party during Freshman Year.
He had saved me from falling into a swimming pool after one of his drunken jock buddies tried to push me in.
I swear Reed was the epitome of sex on a stick. A football tight end with a tight end.
He asked me out, and because I refused to end up butt-hurt over a jock with a playboy reputation, I kept tossing him a thanks but no thanks response. When his persistence rebounded from annoying to adorable, I finally agreed to meet him for coffee. Seven coffee dates later, we became inseparable, over-the-moon in love, cruising down a road destined for forever. Friends, even Insta followers, called our whirlwind romance “relationship goals.”
Until it fell apart.
Feigning nonchalance, I leaned against the doorframe, convinced he could hear my damn heart, its beats like a marching-band drum. “I guess this means you’re Margo’s client.”
Reed ran his thumb along his bottom lip, cocoa-eyed gaze honed down on mine. “And you’re the agent taking her place this weekend.”
I bit down on my lip, holding back a giggle. Six years apart, and we’d become a set of Captain Obvious twins.
A pause lingered before our faces cracked a smile, and when I opened my mouth to speak, Reed pulled me into his arms. “Good to see you, Gigi.”
My belly flipped as I sank into his embrace, a whiff of cologne whirling around me. The musky notes and the feel of Reed’s body against mine, his hands sliding up and down my back, shook comatose memories to life, memories I thought I’d pulled the plug on years ago. “Good to see you, too.”
Time didn’t budge while we stood in each other’s arms. Seconds turned to what felt like minutes, as though we wanted to bask in a moment too surreal for words. The chance that Reed Cortez would’ve ended up being the client I’d agreed to show million-dollar homes to was ridiculously slim, even in a world so small.
Blinking away tears, I broke our hug and motioned for Reed to step inside. Regardless of our past affiliation, he was a client now. I needed to keep things between us professional, force myself to ignore that he’d become a thousand times more eye-pleasing than he’d been in college, and, most of all, forget how at home I felt in his arms.
Besides, I was pretty sure Reed Cortez had a girlfriend, even though is Instagram page didn’t prove my assumption. Over the years, I may or may not have occasionally stalked it—ahem—glanced over it. But don’t judge me. When Reed left New York for California six years ago, reason number three hundred seventy-two why we imploded, ESPN and TMZ provided little to no coverage about him besides football stats. So, Instagram became a reliable buzz source into his personal life, a sought-after confirmation that all was good in his world, sans me.
“So, when did you come back to New York?” I led us into the kitchen, then offered him one of the Pellegrinos I’d set onto the island countertop.
“It’s been several months now.” He twisted the cap off the emerald-green bottle and took a sip. “Bought an apartment at Atelier on West 42nd Street.”
Atelier’s all-inclusive luxury building came with bells and whistles: a coffee shop, two daycare centers—one dedicated to kiddos and the other to fur babies—a gym, a yoga studio, a hair salon, a doorman, plus a rooftop lounge with 360-degree views of Manhattan and the Hudson River. New Yorkers called it Celebrityville, especially since nothing but celebs, athletes, and people famous for being famous resided there.
Two years ago, I sold one of Atelier’s hard-to-come-by penthouse units. That sale gave me a sweet taste of what earning myself a six-figure commission felt like.
But the building itself brought back buried memories of Reed, since he’d added living there to his bucket list when we were in college, and it took me weeks to come out of a spiraling could-of-should-of-but-didn’t funk.
The spiral caused me to seek therapy—which led me to therapist and ex-fiancé Chad, a Band-Aid who, ironically, in the end, only made me feel worse, like salt on an open wound.
Don’t let its afterburn transform you into a salty little bitch.
Arms folded, I shook my head, a playful smile tugging my lips. “Of course, you bought an apartment there.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The playful twinkle in his eyes told me he already knew.
“Back in college, you said you’d live there someday.”
“No, I said we would live there someday.”
A cloud of awkwardness, dark and storm-worthy, crept over us as remorse barreled through me.
When we were a couple, dreaming big was our thing. We’d made so many plans, plans that perished when our hopes and dreams collided.
