The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (6)

Then I can finally put all this love shit in the rearview mirror.





Maria

I swallow thickly against a wave of nausea brought on by the combination of ninety-degree heat, six-inch heels, and a pregnant stomach the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, and finish typing out a text message to my assistant as I walk inside the building of my next showing.

Me: I need you to contact the mortgage broker for Mrs. Clemmons and see where they’re at with the financing for the Greenwich Village property. I’m at the property now, and if the inside is just as good as the outside of the building, they’re going to have to make an offer today if they really want it.

I assess my surroundings with scrutinizing eyes and, still, only see good things.

Doorman? Check.

Marble floors and modern updates in the spacious lobby? Check.

Yep. They’ll definitely need to put in an offer if they want a chance. The New York real estate market is booming, and the buyers currently outnumber the sellers by a landslide.

When I reach the elevator, I hit the call button and tap the tip of my heel against the marble floor as I wait for it to arrive. A distraction in the form of a text message pulls my eyes away from watching the little screen above the elevator entry doors that showcases the cart’s ascent and descent floor by floor.

Claudia: Ugh. Can’t you do it? I hate contacting mortgage brokers.

My assistant is a real gem. And by gem, I mean the worst assistant on the face of the planet. She spends more time Instagramming and TikToking with her friend Leslie than NASA spends on rocket launches, I swear.

Pregnancy hormones make the urge to throw my phone across the lobby strong, but I go with a less violent reaction and type out another text with irritated, harsh fingers.

Me: Claudia, for the love of God, just contact the mortgage broker for me.

Claudia: Can I do it after I eat lunch?

I swear on everything, my assistant might be the reason I go into labor early. Or, you know, end up on that show Snapped because I’ve strangled her.

Me: CLAUDIA.

Claudia: Okay, fine. Fine. I’ll call them now. I think pregnancy is making you moody.

First rule of life? Never tell a pregnant woman she’s moody.

Second rule of life? Never hire Claudia.

You’d think the owner of The Baros Group, a successful, high-profile real estate firm in New York, would have a competent, hardworking assistant. Sadly, that is not the case. Two years ago, I hired Claudia at my sister’s urging, and she’s been a thorn in my side ever since.

A still-employed thorn-in-my-side, that is, because apparently, I’m a masochist.

Claudia: Where can I find the number for the mortgage broker?

Lord help me. Seriously. Help. Me.

As I start to type out a response, the elevator dings its arrival, and the doors whoosh audibly with their opening. My fingers run across the screen quickly, and I don’t even bother looking up before stepping inside—and bumping right into another human.

He grunts as he catches my momentum by the tops of my arms, and I nearly jump into another dimension.

“Oh my gosh!” I cry, embarrassed by my rudeness. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention at all.” Honestly, I’m still kind of not as I finish typing a message to my worthless assistant, but once I hit send, I tuck my phone into my purse, ready to give him my full attention.

Or, at least, as much as my mortification will allow.

I cringe and look up into crystalline-blue eyes then, just as a smile is curling onto the handsome stranger’s face. But it only takes a millisecond for me to realize he isn’t a stranger at all. Truth be told, he’s as little a stranger as a man can be—my first real love and the man I gave my virginity to when I was sixteen years old. It seems like a lifetime ago and just yesterday all at once, but the memory of his gentle hands coaxing my nervous hips up to meet his is the kind of thing you don’t forget. No matter how many years have gone by.

“Maria?” he asks, his smile deepening further, if you can believe it.

Me, though? I’m nearly speechless. Because I haven’t seen my high school sweetheart Remington Winslow in two fucking decades.

And yes, trust me, if you got an eyeful of everything that Remy is now, you’d know it absolutely deserves the use of the f-word. Same strong jaw, same intense eyes, same full lips and dark hair—somehow, he looks as good as I remember. Maybe even better.

Goodness, he’s aged well.

“Remy.” His name passes over my tongue and has the power to bring back so many memories of the past.

“Holy shit,” he says, his beaming smile still in place. “I can hardly believe it’s you. Quick, run into me again so I can decide if you’re real.”

Nausea and annoying assistant all but forgotten, I smile so big it hurts. “I also can’t believe it’s you. After all this time. What are you doing here?”

His laugh is soft and gooey like caramel. “My brother lives in the building.”

“Jude?” I ask, taking a shot in the dark with one of three names I know to be his brothers’. Jude and Ty were younger—cute little shits, though—and Flynn, who was the same age as me, always had a mysterious hotness about him. But for me, it was always Remy. The moon rose and the sun set and the stars aligned when I looked into his eyes. I was young, sure, but if Remy hadn’t graduated and gone off to college before me, I’m pretty sure I would have found a way to keep him forever.