The RSVP (The Virgin Society #1) Read Online Lauren Blakely

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors: Series: The Virgin Society Series by Lauren Blakely
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Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
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This girl.

“Yes. Yes, we were talking about that,” Dominic says, then with some of his questions dismissed, he leans in and gives me a hug. “Good to see you again.”

When he lets go, he shakes hands with Bridger. “Hey there,” Dominic says. “I still want to talk to you about a spin-off.”

“Anytime,” Bridger says in a cool, even tone as he gives a quick hello.

Before he can say anything more, I set a hand on Bridger’s arm. “I should go. I’m meeting my friends for that thing,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Some VIP blah, blah, blah,” I say to them both, like can you believe what I have to do with my ride or dies.

Dominic laughs. “Sounds so thrilling.”

I just shrug and smile. The Upper East Side girl, so jaded with it all.

Bridger jumps into character immediately. “Have fun, and thanks for the tip on the nineties school. It’ll help with Afternoon Delight.”

“I’ll let my dad know,” I say, then blow them both kisses and hightail it out of there, without looking back.

There’s no way we’re leaving together now, so it’s best to act like we’re…nothing to each other.

That thought nicks away at me, little knife jabs at my heart. But it has to be like this. It just does.

Once I’m outside on Madison Avenue, I don’t look back even though I’m dying for a final glimpse. I resist, marching forward, off to see my friends for my blah, blah, blah thing, leaving Bridger behind to handle our unexpected gallery crasher.

The whole time, as I put distance behind me, my pulse is spiking.

Even when I circle around and head back down Third Avenue, I’m still aware of the fumes of lies I’m giving off.

They’re like a cloying perfume, chasing me, clinging to me.

They don’t leave even when I reach my building, head inside and give Bridger’s name to the doorman.

“He’s dropping something off for me. So you can just put him on the list,” I say, thinking ahead, planning.

Then, I reach the elevator, and I blow out a huge, stuttering breath. It rushes to break free from my lungs.

Anxiety swirls up inside me, but then my phone pings with a text.

Bridger: You’re a genius. I’ve been roped into dinner. But you’re a brilliant genius. And I owe you.

Then I’m laughing, wildly laughing as the elevator rises. Holy shit. We pulled it off. We are one hell of a team. When I’m inside my home a few seconds later, I write back.

Harlow: Come over later if you want…You’re on the list. I just added you.

Bridger: I wish. We’re going downtown. To a private club. He has a whole pitch for a new show. I don’t think I can get out of it. Wish I were going to see you.

I swallow a knot of emotions.

Maybe I was a fool to give up the job.

Maybe I was stupid thinking I’d finally gotten Bridger after wanting him for so long, chasing him for so long.

Maybe I was never meant to have him.

In the morning, I’m hunkered down on my couch, researching Amelie’s collection while batting away thoughts of Bridger and where we’re going—nowhere, probably, just nowhere—when my phone rings with the building’s number.

I grab it and answer.

“It’s Andy,” says the building’s handyman. Andy the handyman. “Henry gave me a package for you. To bring up.”

Oh. I haven’t ordered anything. Maybe it’s something fun from my cousin? A necklace? “I’ll head down,” I say.

“It’s pretty big,” he tells me. “I’ll bring it up. Just wanted to make sure you were home.”

When he knocks a few minutes later, I’m up and at the door already, swinging it open. I gasp when I see the size and shape of the package.

My insides jump, but I tell myself to calm down.

It’s probably something else. Something other than what I’m imagining. My daydreams are too dangerous, and I try to snuff them.

“Thank you,” I say, then take the rectangular package from Andy, letting the door fall closed with a soft thud.

I carry it to my couch, breathless with anticipation, then set it down. I step back and stare at it. Brown butcher paper covers it, and my name is on the front.

There’s no way.

There’s just no way.

Carefully, I undo the tape on one corner, then the other, then one more.

I peel off the paper.

I freeze.

Then, in slow-motion, I unfreeze, clasping my hand to my mouth.

I can’t believe it. Bridger bought me the painting from last night. The Zara Clementine. And there’s an envelope in the corner with my name on it.

With eager fingers, I open the envelope. Inside is a sheet of stationery from the Bettencourt Gallery.

I’m sorry for the way last night ended, but now you can look at this anytime. You’ve never looked so beautiful as when you were gazing at this with longing in your eyes.


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