Page 77 of Not Over You

* * *

Reed,

I can’t do this, can’t risk getting hurt all over again.

Margo, the real estate agent initially assigned to you, will continue the purchase process from here.

Thank you for coming to my rescue this weekend.

I wish you nothing but success with your TV show and future endeavors.

Giana

Four Days Later

* * *

“Have you tried contacting her through the real estate agency?” Dad slid a beer bottle across the kitchen table, then sat across from me, taking a swig from his bottle.

After meeting with Food Network about Gridiron Foodie, I’d come to my parents’ house to pick up Scarlett. Filming would start in two months, and producers wanted to review their contractual obligations. My lawyer had added unique circumstances, such as Scarlett, my parents, and my future wife appearing in episodes, especially since the show would be set and filmed at my new home. I was tired, emotionally wrecked, and pissed off.

“Yeah, I called Monday”—I chugged back a few sips of beer—“they told me she no longer worked there; she resigned earlier that day.”

All my text messages to Giana bounced back as undelivered, and each time I tried to call, it just rang, leading me to believe she’d changed her phone number.

Dad’s brows lifted. “She must really want to avoid you.”

Truth always hurt, but his blatant declaration seared my heart.

None of it made sense to me. Our connection, our chemistry, sizzled.

I mentally combed through shit that happened over those days: conversations had, what was said, what wasn’t said. I knew I’d be fucked the moment we kissed.

And all I knew now was I missed the opportunity to love her the way she deserved to be loved.

Missed the chance to make all our stupid wrongs right.

Missed her.

“You’ve fallen for her all over again, haven’t you?” Dad sat back in his chair, arms folded. He’d always thought Giana and I’d end up married and was the one who lent me money to buy her that ring six years ago. Then he fussed at me for letting her go as if our split had been my decision alone.

“Yep,” I admitted, finishing off my beer. “And now she’s gone.”

One Week Later

* * *

“Princess tea party!” Scarlett skipped and hopped around the apartment, arms flailing in the air, elation cinched in her squeaky little voice.

“Only if you ask nicely.”

We were celebrating getting keys to our new home in the Hamptons the next day.

Takeout and a Disney movie sounded perfectly fine to me.

Scarlett, on the other hand, wanted pizza and a princess tea party, which made me want to heave.

Having a princess tea party required me to fully participate.

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