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)
Good in bed for sure.
Maybe even good out of bed.
But one thing at a time.
Layla furrows her brow, takes a minute. “Look, odds are nothing will come of this,” she says, ever pragmatic.
I nod, taking the truth on the chin. “I know.” Do I ever know.
“But maybe he needs something from you,” Layla offers helpfully.
“Yeah, he needs her panties removed and her body spread out before him,” Ethan stage whispers.
I snort laugh.
Layla slugs him again. “I meant something…emotional, philosophical, you ball-carrier.”
“Oh, right, that,” Ethan says, then shrugs helplessly. “Testosterone. What can you do?”
That’s the question, though. “What can I do?” I press, staying the course.
Layla taps her finger against her chin, and I think hard too, replaying last night for the millionth time.
But I focus on the words this time, not the intimacy.
His This is too risky.
Bridger’s worried, understandably, that someone would find out about us. “He must need reassurance that I’m trustworthy,” I say, like I’ve just answered the right question in class. “That I will keep not only his secrets, but this secret.”
Layla’s blue eyes brighten. “Oh yes, that’s it, baby,” Layla says, offering a palm for smacking.
Ethan does the same.
“And I can definitely keep our secret,” I add. After all, I’ve spent the last several years of my life amassing an absolutely pristine track record of keeping things to myself. I’ve never once breathed a word of Dad’s affairs beyond the vault of my two best friends, who I met all the way back in grade school. We’ve seen each other through our parents’ divorces and my mother’s death, through family addictions and disorders, and through good nights, bad mornings, joys and victories.
“So you need to let him know you’re not about to blab,” Ethan adds.
Except, am I such a good secret keeper? I wince, a little embarrassed over how I just disproved my point here at this lunch. “But I told the two of you,” I say, like a confession.
Layla pulls a you’ve got to be kidding me face. “We rent space in your brain. We don’t count.”
“This is the vault,” Ethan says, drawing an air circle around us. Then he drops that hand onto the Formica. “We could even be a secret society, the three of us.”
“Yes!” Layla says, enthused. She slams her palm on top of Ethan’s.
“I want in,” I say, adding my hand to theirs.
“You’ve been in,” he adds. “And now we swear allegiance to…what’s our society called? Do we use The Virgin Club? After our favorite dating column?”
We’ve all grown addicted to a helpful, sex-positive dating column under that name. We share it with each other every week, along with our comments on positions, ideas, approaches, strategies. But I have a name unique to us.
It’s perfect. With a sly smile, I whisper, “We’re the Virgin Society.”
Layla regards me with mischief. “And I nominate you to be the first one to break her virgin vows,” she says with a devilish smirk.
And I want Bridger to be my first. “I accept your nomination.”
Tonight at the gallery, I’m going to steal Bridger away, tug him into a nook or alcove, talk to him, reassure him, and let him know I’ll look out for his honey and him.
19
VERY DIFFERENT SOMETHINGS
Harlow
I won’t give Jules the satisfaction of thinking I’d stay late for any reason tonight. At six on the dot, I pop up, grab my things, and say breezily, “See you tomorrow. I’m heading out with friends tonight. Shopping and all.”
I contemplated telling her I had volunteer work at the children’s hospital but the more you say, the more it’s clear you’re lying. I’ve learned that from Dad.
“Of course,” Jules remarks as she gathers her bag.
She doesn’t ask for more. Because she thinks I’m a privileged brat anyway. There’s nothing I can do to convince her otherwise.
“Oh, and I started that new database you wanted,” I add. “The one with the list of all the agents. I added their favorite gifts too,” I say with a breezy shrug, “in case we ever need it.”
Her eyes flicker with a hint of surprise, but she erases it quickly. “Cool,” she adds, then rises too, and before I know it she’s walking down the hall with me to the elevators. Christian from reception is already gone for the day.
I squint ahead.
Oh.
Is that Isla with Bridger? Their backs are to us, but they’re talking by the elevator banks.
That’s odd. I hardly ever see Isla over here near Columbus Circle. She’s usually at the writers’ room on-set over on Eleventh.
“But do you know when he’ll be back?” I hear her ask Bridger.
“I’m not sure,” Bridger says, his tone professional, a little distant. “He and his fiancée are busy planning the wedding.”
It’s pointed, the emphasis on fiancée.
“Okay. So he’ll be here all next week?” Isla asks, almost like a plea.
“I believe so, but Isla, you’re the head writer for Sweet Nothings. You know what you’re doing. We trust you with the storyline,” he says, firm, not placating. It’s a reminder she doesn’t need my father for work.