Page 55 of Not Over You

It’s worth mentioning that Margo and I weren’t friends, teammates, cohorts, or besties who vacationed in Nantucket.

For the last five years, we’d been competitors at Dynasty Realty, New York’s hottest real estate firm, which catered to celebrities and athletes.

Margo and I had our respective sites set on earning top-seller status; as such, a keep-your-enemies-close vibe swirled around us like a category five shitstorm.

And our rivalry didn’t stop at who could sell more million-dollar homes. Our one-up game was fierce, whether it be a new pair of shoes, invites to exclusive parties, or who sold what home to whom for how much.

“C’mon, Giana, I’d totally do the same for you.” Silence, just a beat, sailed by before the ever-so-anticipated passive-aggressive jab bounced out of her mouth. “I mean…if you had a boyfriend.”

I could almost see Margo, face aglow with Mean-Girl Skank cheer, getting off on her serpentine reference to my epic post-engagement breakup—which happened over a year ago, mind you—that made me the salty little bitch I am today.

“Bye, Margo.” My voice remained pacified, unbroken as I took the high road, holding back F-you with the strength of a thousand mighty warriors. “Enjoy your weekend in Paris.”

Before I could tap the red end call icon, hang up ahead of my brain exploding, Margo singsonged, “You’ll earn a full—not a split—commission if my client purchases any of the properties you show him this weekend….”

In a seller’s market that had grown wilder by the second, working as a real estate agent had more monetary ups than downs. Commission I’d earned on homes sold over the past three years yielded the cash needed to pay off student loans and Noni’s house. Money made also allowed me, a twenty-eight-year-old nobody girl from Jersey, the opportunity to purchase a condo in desirable SoHo. The condo’s space may have only been large enough to house a fire ant, but the terrace and the fancy-as-hell doorman who greeted residents twenty-four-seven were bonus perks that made it worthwhile.

Still, if I were to ever launch a real estate firm—a goal of mine since college—my bank account needed more dough.

“Full commission?” Surely the Cutthroat Queen couldn’t have been that desperate.

“Yes, full commission.” She sighed as if the admission made her heart bleed. “The buyer has a shit-ton of wealthy connections, a long list of potential buyers. If I cancel on him, he’ll go to Empire and take those potential buyers with him.”

Empire Real Estate, Dynasty’s only rival, was run by the Vetari family—real estate mob bosses who pounced at the chance to snag buyers whenever the time seemed ripe.

“Where are you scheduled to show homes?” It was a mere question, not a commitment to step in for her and forgo my weekend “hair washing” plans.

“The Hamptons.”

Margo’s two-worded reply sounded more like a mic drop, a crafty move from a poker player who slapped a winning card on the table. Commission, minus broker fees, on a home sold in the Hamptons would’ve been enough to make my dwindling bank account do cartwheels. And while the coastal community for the rich and famous harbored broken memories that set my heart ablaze, I decided to take one for the team.

“Fine.” My snappy it’s-whatever-like comeback deserved an Oscar. “I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, babe…”

I turned up my middle finger at babe and endured the forever-long minutes it took Margo to provide detailed next steps. By the end of her spiel, she promised to email me her client’s file, the seven home listings scheduled for our tour, and text me the lockbox code to Dynasty’s corporate estate. Apparently, showing homes in the Hamptons was a weekend event packed with tours and entertainment. And because the seaside community was three hours from New York City, agents were provided overnight accommodations at the firm’s six-bedroom waterfront property, which I’d never been to.

“He’ll meet you at the estate at ten tomorrow morning,” she babbled, “so I’ll order a car to arrive at your place around 6 a.m.”

Ugh. An early pickup meant I’d have to kiss my Friday Night Ozark Bingefest goodbye. “Have fun in Paris, Margo.”

Who knows what jolted me awake? Exhaustion must’ve lured me to sleep. After staying up for hours packing, I nodded off during the entire three-hour ride into the Hamptons.

Falling asleep meant I failed to peruse the client’s file, didn’t study which home amenities appealed to him most, or learn what he could be swayed on even if the price ran over budget.

At least Margo’s eye-stabbing spiel disclosed that the potential buyer once played professional football, loved to cook, and wanted a luxurious refuge far from New York City’s hustle and bustle. I prayed I’d score a favorably commissioned sale from the seven homes we were to tour this weekend.

Nico, my driver, slowed to the posted fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit, then politely told me we were almost there.

Lampposts lined the narrow street, and a smile curved my lips as we drove past a rustic blue Welcome To East Hampton sign.

The coastal city was quaint. Lively. It was a little past 9 a.m., yet, women, men, and families were already scattered about, all outfitted in swimsuits and summery garments, cheer igniting their faces.

With the push of a button, I lowered the sedan’s dark tinted window.

Crisp air kissed my cheeks, sunlight beaming through the cloudless sky. I breathed in the briny sea air, my face hanging out the window like Rover on a family road trip.

My gaze flicked past trendy shops and fresh seafood restaurants I had frequented with my ex-fiancé Chad. The Hamptons had been where we’d spend our holidays, relaxing and unwinding. Every year, I looked forward to those memorable nuggets in time until he, and his new fiancée, ripped my heart out and hammered it into a trillion unrepairable pieces.

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