Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
There’s a cab twenty feet ahead, pulling over to the curb.
Once I jam past it, I’ll—
But my phone rings. It’s Joan. Someone swings a cab door open five feet in front of me. The wrong side—the traffic side, not the curb side.
Heart pounding terribly, I try to swerve, and I’m this close to making it when the door smacks my elbow, and bam.
My bones rattle. My head rings. I’m toppling off the bike, my foot slamming into the tire, my head smacking the pavement, all of New York saying fuck you to me too.
Pain radiates down to my marrow.
Twenty seconds later, a man in purple is over me, lifting me up, carrying me to the sidewalk. Arms wrapped around me.
When the ambulance arrives five minutes later, he tells me he’ll meet me at the hospital.
Everything goes in and out of focus except for the screaming in my bones. And the wild thought that occurs to me—maybe it’s the pain or the adrenaline, but I’m not sorry I lost that fight with the car door.
2
ALL YOUR BROKEN BONES
Harlow
I don’t call my dad on the way to the hospital. But after the nurse starts my IV, Bridger’s standing by my bed in the emergency room, telling me, “Your dad will be here soon. I reached him.” He sounds so cool, so in control.
Like he can handle any crisis.
Including finding my father while he’s finagling.
And, evidently, getting into my room in the ER. I don’t ask how he pulled it off. But that’s what Dad’s told me Bridger does. Pulls things off. Gets things done.
“Why do people open doors into traffic?” I ask, my voice trembling more than I want it to. I don’t want him to think I’m weak.
A gentle smile moves his lips. “People are terrible. But you’re going to be fine, Harlow. Ian is on his way.”
I don’t care about Ian, though, or how Bridger tore him away from Marie or Cassie or Lianne. “Thank you for being there.”
“I’m glad I was,” he says.
I feel hazy. Warm all over. Whatever they put in this IV for my broken ankle is good.
“Come see me tomorrow?” I ask. Maybe it’s a plea. Hard to tell.
The stuff in the IV is really good.
Bridger doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tics. He’s wavering. His blue eyes are chased with conflict, his brow knitting.
I’m not above a little begging when I can blame it on the drugs. “Please,” I say with a frown. “It would make me feel better.”
He nods, resigned perhaps. “You’re a good negotiator,” he says, giving in.
I tuck the compliment into my pocket as he gives me his number. “If you need anything and can’t reach your dad.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though I’ve had Bridger’s number for some time. Dad gave it to me long ago—here’s Joan’s number, here’s Bridger’s number, here’s the studio number.
I’ve never used it, but now I have permission.
When a nurse comes in to tell me it’s time to cast my ankle, he wishes me well and leaves.
My head CT scan is clear, so they send me home that night. My foot screams the next day, but painkillers shut that down quickly, and soon I’m feeling pretty good.
I entertain visitors nonstop in my living room. Layla appears in the morning, bearing lip gloss and nail polish. She’s an angel. Ethan brings tulips and gossip about our Carlisle Academy alum—the former senior class president of the most elite prep school in Manhattan was just thrown out of Yale after three years. Joan sends bouquets of dahlias, then calls, too, asking how I’m doing.
“I’ve been better,” I tell her, appreciating the motherly check-in.
After I get reacquainted with the joys of naptime, my brother FaceTimes from London, offering to catch a flight to New York to be with me. I decline but ask Hunter to tell me stories of life in England.
All day long, Dad swings in and out of his home office down the hall to check on me. After he orders a late lunch from my favorite Mediterranean restaurant, he tells me about the new storyline in Sweet Nothings, probably to distract me.
Or maybe to distract himself till he sees whoever again.
“And then Josie and Sam get all caught up in this whirlwind fling,” he says. “We see them sneak off to the wine cellar and the library.”
I have no interest in learning where his characters canoodle, but I feel too good to cut him off. “Great, Dad. Tell me more.”
He unspools the next few episodes then checks his Victoire watch and pushes up from his chair. “I have to nip off. I have a thing.” He shrugs, sheepish, and nods to the front door. “I’ll be back later, but Bridger’s going to stop by too.”
“Oh?” I try to sound blasé.
I pulled off the nonchalant look, judging from Dad’s no big deal grin. “Yes, he wants to make sure you’re okay. Good thing he was there to call 911.”