I look at Josh, and he shrugs, making it clear he’s deferring to his wife on this one. But I can’t sign onto this madness. Yes, I’m willing to do “anything” to get Georgina back. But only within reason. I’ll apologize profusely. I’ll even beg Georgina for forgiveness. But I can’t give myself a personality transplant! I’m Reed Rivers. A survivor. A fighter. A hustler. I’m a man who transformed his name from a badge of shame into a badge of honor—from a cross to bear into a designer label. I’m not a guy who’s going to grovel in the way Kat’s describing. And even if I were, why would I do that, when I’m certain it wouldn’t work! Georgina fell in love with me this past week, every bit as much as I fell in love with her. I’m sure of it. Which means, to win her back, I can’t turn myself into a guy she doesn’t even recognize—some simpering version of myself with no swagger and no game and no pride. The only thing weeks and weeks of groveling would do is make Georgina lose respect for me. Which, in the end, wouldn’t help my cause at all.
Once again, that same idea from before, the one that would vindicate me, pops into my head as my best option. But, quickly, my rational brain discards the idea as a non-starter, for all the same reasons as before. No. That’s not the answer. But neither is groveling. What I need is to get back to basics. And what’s the most basic thing I know in life? Everyone’s got a price. All I’ve got to do to win Georgina back is figure out her goddamned price in this particular situation... which, I admit, is a tall order, like Kat said. But, still, I’ll do it. I’ll figure out her price, whatever it is. And once I do, I’ll give it to her. I’ll bribe her with it. And that’s how Reed Rivers, The Man with the Midas Touch, is gonna play—and win—this particular game of chess.
Chapter 3
Georgina
Monday, 7:16 pm
“Georgie,” Dad whispers, rubbing my arm. The edge of my bed lowers with the weight of his body. “There’s a delivery guy at the front door. He says he’s got a stationary bike for you. Does he have the right address?”
“Oh. Um.” I rub my eyes and glance out the window. It’s dusk. Nearly dark. When did that happen? When I crawled into bed it was just past noon. “Yeah, uh, the bike is mine. It was a gift.”
Dad’s eyebrows shoot up—a sure sign he knows that bike wasn’t cheap.
“It’s from my boss,” I add quickly. “CeeCee Rafael gives every new intern a stationary bike. She says it helps with productivity.” I hate lying to my father, but I don’t have a choice. There’s no way I’m going to tell him the bike was a gift from the CEO of River Records.
Dad turns on the lamp beside my bed. “That’s quite an employment perk, especially for a summer intern.”
“CeeCee is generous.”
Dad looks at me for a long beat, his eyes letting me know he thinks I’m full of crap. But, whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he stands and says, “I’ll accept the delivery, then. I thought for sure there had to be some sort of a mix-up.”
“Nope. It’s mine.”
When Dad leaves the room, I grab my phone to check the time. But my phone is still turned off. I turned it off two days ago while sitting in the back of that Uber—right after I’d started receiving frantic voicemails and texts from Reed—and I haven’t turned it on since.
When my phone springs to life, a backlog of text- and voicemail-notifications comes up—a bunch of them, not surprisingly, from Reed. My stomach churning, I slide into my texts, and, consciously ignoring Reed’s messages, head to one from Alessandra.
Landed safely in Boston. I hope you’re feeling better. I love you.
I tap out a reply.
I just woke up. I got back into bed after driving you to the airport this morning. Don’t worry. I’ve decided to stop wallowing now. I love you, too. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Next up, I’ve got a text from Zasu, my co-writer on the special issue.
I’ve secured a 2:00 meeting with CeeCee on Wednesday, so we can go over all the interviews we’ve got lined up. It was hard to get onto CeeCee’s calendar that day, since it’ll be her first day back from vacay,