Page 60 of Not Over You

Clearing the air regarding my sister’s wedding helped soothe the tension that burned a hole in my soul—not that the burn of her marrying my ex-fiancé could ever be soothed. Their impending nuptials became taboo, something I didn’t speak of, and very few other than select family and friends were privy to it. Still, while I wanted nothing more than to scratch Sofie’s eyes out for her heart-stomping betrayal, every girl deserved a dreamy wedding.

But the gazillion rapid-fire text messages she kept launching to my cell, on the other hand, could wait.

I had a hot blast-from-my-past client to focus on.

And although none of the three luxury homes we toured sparked his interest, our conversations kept us cheesing like Cheshire Cats as he drove us to the next house on the list.

“Remember when you got busted sneaking in your house past curfew?” Reed made a sharp right onto a tree-lined street, his infectious grin stretched wider than the sky.

“Oh my gosh, how could I ever forget? In fact”—I tugged the hem of my dress up mid-thigh, granting him a modest peek —“here’s the scar I got climbing through my bedroom window—”

“Where your grandma waited in the dark like a barnyard owl ready to ambush innocent prey.”

“She totally scared the crap outta me,” I admitted, the two of us laughing out loud at the distant memory that sounded much funnier now than it did back then.

“Thank goodness you had a legit excuse for coming home past midnight.”

“My excuse wouldn’t have mattered if you and your swoon-worthy charm weren’t there to smooth things over with Noni.”

Reed only needed to flash his pearly whites to win Noni over, and that night had been no different. We’d spent hours in the hospital emergency room with my best friend Stacy, who sat hunched over in the fetal position.

Diagnosis: appendicitis.

Our cell phones had died, and even if they hadn’t, I simply couldn’t call home with what would’ve been viewed as “another excuse,” especially since I’d broken curfew two weeks prior.

Noni had this annoying habit of waiting up for me in the living room. So, my ingenious, well-thought-out plan was to climb through my bedroom window, then parade nonchalantly through the living room—right past Noni, of course—into the kitchen for a drink of water as if I’d been home before curfew, all along.

But in the history of epic fails, my elaborate plan went down as the most epic.

Noni, in Reed’s words, “busted” me as I climbed through my bedroom window—which had a serrated, splintered wooden frame that scraped my thigh.

“Come on now, just admit the blood gushing out of your leg is what helped smooth things over, not me.” Reed grinned from ear to ear, steering up what felt like a mile-long driveway, the car’s tires crunching sandy gravel. “As soon as your grandma saw red, she went from wanting to choke you for breaking curfew to being the doting Noni who patched up ouchies.”

“While you charmingly explained how our cell phones died and that we couldn’t leave Stacy alone at the ER….”

Shaking his head in denial, Reed chuckled as he parked his G-wagon at an angle in front of a topaz-colored house with white shutters.

Oak trees and white-flowered bushes shaded its facade, and at first glance, the home possessed a historic, refined charm much like a Victorian-style manor built in the nineteenth century. As a little girl, I dreamed of living in a house so picturesque, its tall turret reminiscent of a castle fit for a princess.

Killing the car’s engine, Reed turned to face me. “So, how is Noni?”

I shifted in my seat, and when our gazes met, the familiar warmth in his made heat rise from my neck and up my cheeks. “Noni’s great—still living in that same house in Jersey, if you can believe it. She’ll flip out when I tell her you’re my client.”

“And Stacy?”

“Best friends forever. She’s in London now, loving life as a travel nurse. We make it a point to chat at least three times a week.”

“How ’bout…” He halted mid-sentence, momentarily ripping his gaze from mine—as though whether to proceed required careful consideration. “Your mom? How’s she?”

His question, which I knew would swoop in sooner or later, triggered a knot of pain in my chest. “Mom’s a lot better—started a new medication about two years ago that seems to be managing her highs and lows.”

A frigid pool of silence rushed over us; my mother, a single mom who left my sister and me when I was just a baby, had always been a less-than-popular topic for anyone, before and after her diagnosis. My grandma began raising us well before Mom left. I owed everything to Noni, the peanut butter to my jam.

Eager to pounce on a more upbeat subject, I unfastened my seatbelt and said, “We should check out this house, pray there’s something about it that holds your interest.”

A cocky smile claimed his lips. “You sayin’ I’m picky, Ms. Rossi?”

I tried to fight the fat grin on my face. Reed Cortez never settled, and his tendency to be picky turned out to be one of his finest qualities. “Damn right.”

---