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)
After he reads the message, he looks up, curious. “I thought we established why you took it. Because it’s there.”
“Yes. But I might have a collection too,” I say.
That’s met with an arched brow. An inquisitive grin. This is so much better than his avoidance. Maybe Layla was right.
“All right. I’ll ask. Do you have a peacock collection, Harlow?”
“No. But I’ve been taking pictures this week of found things in New York. I post them on my socials,” I say.
“Show me,” he says. It’s a demand. A hungry one. I can hear him saying it in other ways.
With enthusiasm, I click on my feed, turn my phone around, and watch as he scrolls through the images I took this week. The birdcage and its TV for hipsters caption. A book I spotted on a stoop of a building: The Gentleman’s Guide to Good Dressing. Then, the banana.
“Black lace on a banana,” he says, clearly amused. “Someone’s having fun tonight.”
“Yes, I bet they are,” I say, then slide my teeth over the corner of my lip.
He watches my every move. “Yeah, I bet they are,” he repeats, a little hot, a little husky. “How long have you been doing this?”
“I started this week.”
“Any reason?”
To settle my nerves over working with you. To have something to do. A project, a focus, a story.
I keep that to myself. “They’re like a puzzle. I’m trying to solve it,” I say.
I’m trying to solve you.
The food comes, and we dig in. As Bridger lifts his fork, he says, “I wonder when you’ll find the next one.”
It’s as if he’s merely musing on the topic.
“Me too.”
Then, after we eat, I return to the question of his introduction. “Why did you call me by my name rather than introducing me as an intern?”
His jaw tics almost imperceptibly.
I continue, asking, “Or as Harlow Granger?”
His eyes lock on mine, intensely, importantly. “Because that’s how I see you. As Harlow.”
Not as an intern. Or a Granger.
He leaves that there with all its implications. And I take those implications home with me, tucking them close, keeping them near.
That night, I’m lounging on my couch reading, when my phone pings and Bridger’s name appears. Immediately, I click over to his text, breathless with anticipation.
Then there’s an image of a Post-it note on a street sign. Someone wrote Get supplies on it.
It’s just supplies. But it’s also not.
I reply.
Harlow: I hope someone got their supplies.
Bridger: I hope so too.
Then when I’m about to return to my book, another note pops up. A double text.
Holy shit. A double text.
Bridger: You never want to miss supplies.
Harlow: Never. It’s a rule.
Bridger: One you shouldn’t ever break.
Harlow: I wouldn’t.
Bridger: I didn’t think you would.
We’re not talking about supplies. And I’m no longer wondering if he was avoiding me. I know he was. And now he’s not.
Especially when he double-texts once more.
Bridger: You don’t seem like a rule breaker.
I’m all kinds of turned on as I write back, But maybe I am.
11
AND I GIVE IN
Bridger
I give in.
I finally take up yoga.
I’ve got to do something with all these wild, dangerous thoughts of Harlow. Maybe the practice will help.
I make plans for Sunday morning with Axel Huxley. The thriller writer lives in my building, and he’s become a friend over the last few years.
A devotee of the downward-facing dog, he’s been urging me to go for some time.
“Yoga is the best. It keeps me limber so I can write literally till the day I die,” he says as we head to the yoga studio around the corner from our Gramercy Park building, following the yoginis in tight pants, rolled-up mats tipped on their shoulders, leading the way.
“Bet that’s not what you want to be limber for,” I say drily.
“Which is what I was going to say about you. So, I’m surprised at your advanced age you haven’t taken it up sooner?”
“I’m so old at thirty-one,” I say, but the sarcasm in my tone hits me all wrong. I am old when I think about the woman I’m craving. Ten years is a lifetime. But the age gap isn’t the biggest hurdle.
Still, I can’t let Axel win the battle of barbs. “Speaking of advanced age, I believe you’re still and always will be older than me?”
“And I believe I just came up with the name of my next villain,” he says, then over enunciates, “Bridger,” with a certain evil panache.
“Sounds good to me,” I say.
He laughs, then we’re quiet for a beat.
“So…who is she?” Axel asks as we cross the avenue. “The reason you’re taking up yoga after all this time.”
Shit. Am I that obvious? And if I’m that transparent to my friends, what will Ian say when he notices? Hey mate, who’s the new bird who’s got you so tightly wound?
My eye twitches.
“She’s no one,” I say.
Axel hums doubtfully. “But it sounds like she’s someone.”