“That son of a bitch.” I jumped up.
“Oh no! She’s gone crazy!” Sophie exclaimed. “Woman deranged!”
“I’m not going to kill him,” I snapped, pulling on my coat. “Maybe just maim him.”
51
Evan
While my family headed over to the Olive Garden to the screaming protests of Imogen, I slipped out and headed back to my penthouse. On the way, I stopped by the Svensson Investment tower. Most of their employees had gone home, but Greg and Carl were still working. Archer was lying on the couch in Greg’s office, banging a tennis ball against the opposite wall.
“Did you see the press release?” Carl said excitedly when he saw me. “It just went out on blast. We’re the next big development. Fist bump!”
I ignored him. “Greg, you have to give Ivy her condo back.”
“No.”
“But—”
“You can’t waffle back and forth on this deal. I’ve been quite indulgent.”
“But Wes Holbrook will sell me an alternate property,” I begged. “Ivy’s going to see the press release. She’ll hate me.”
“It’s too late. Papers have been signed. Buy her some chocolate and flowers. Tell her you did it because you thought you two were going to move in together,” Archer suggested. “You just have to spin this into your favor. Sebastian made it sound like you two were super-duper in love. She’ll forgive you.”
“I might have done a few other things wrong,” I admitted.
“This sounds like a personal problem. It does not sound like my problem,” Greg snapped. “I will not have your ineptitude in the relationship department affect my business.”
My phone went off.
Ivy:You lying sack of rotting meat.
“I need to go.”
“If you’re leaving, take Archer with you!” Greg called after me.
* * *
Ivy was waitingfor me when I pulled up in front of my condo building. I didn’t even get to open the door before she was throwing marshmallows at my car.
“What the—” I swore as a half-melted chocolate bar smeared over my windshield.
“Stop! You’re ruining my car!” I yelled at her as she pelted me with marshmallows.
“You stupid jerk!”
A marshmallow hit me on the nose.
“For someone who hates sports, you sure have good aim,” I growled.
“I don’t hate sports!” she shrieked. “Just sports-themed wedding cakes and assholes who pretend to be friends with people then literally steal their homes from them.”
“Look, I can explain—”
A packet of graham crackers hit me in the chest.
“Ow. Look,” I told her, holding out my hands, “I’m sorry. I can fix this. It’s not my fault.”
