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)
He brushes his thumb gently against the I on my chain.
“My mother gave it to me once upon a time,” I say, memories of her flashing before me. But they don’t hurt now. In this moment, I feel like she’d understand me and my choices, every single one of them. I’ve read her books. I know what her religion was. Romance was her one and only church. “It’s intrépidité.”
He repeats it, not quite getting the pronunciation, but valiantly trying. Then he lets go of it, his fingertips dusting across my chest.
“I’ve always wondered,” he says softly.
That thrills me. “Have you?”
“Maybe not always,” he corrects with a slight shrug. “But definitely since that party.”
I know exactly which one he means. “Last December? In the brownstone?”
“That one,” he confirms.
“When I learned olives were your guilty pleasure?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I almost didn’t go to that party.”
“I’m so glad you did,” he says.
“That was one of my brighter decisions,” I say, laughing, but then the laughter fades. That night was a turning point. When my future came into focus. All because I said yes. Bridger and I – we are invitations accepted. We are yeses and more yeses with no regrets.
“But I learned other things that night,” he says. There’s a hint of vulnerability in his tone.
“What did you learn?” I ask, like I’m on the cusp of something big, something meaningful.
His gaze lingers on me for a good long time in the store. “You,” he says at last. “I learned you. Like how you knew all the lyrics to Ask Me Next Year.”
It’s as if gravity doesn’t have a hold of me.
I’m drifting back in time to that heady moment when he said that was what he wanted in a woman.
When we traded lyrics and looks.
When we started, for all intents and purposes, making a plan for each other.
“And so it began,” I murmur.
“And it didn’t stop,” he adds.
He blinks, like he needs to recenter himself. To shake off the haze of desire curling around us. He turns away from me, heads to the counter, purchases a brushed silver barrette. As we leave, he hands it to me.
“It’s for your first day. At your new job.”
“I haven’t gotten it yet.”
“You will, Harlow.” He links his fingers with mine. “You will.”
He’s right. On Tuesday, an offer lands in my e-mail. On Thursday, I begin at Petra Gallery. Before I leave my apartment that morning, I send him a photo of me on my first day at work. I stand in front of the Zara painting. The side of my hair is clipped back with the silver barrette.
Art Harlow is in the house.
A few minutes later, when I’m out on the street, heading to the subway, he responds with a photo.
It’s a picture of the notebook I bought him. It’s opened on his desk. On the first page, he’s written me a message.
Miss you at work. But I’ll see you tonight. Can’t wait.
I touch the I on my necklace, look at the message from Bridger, then click over to my group text with my friends, who are wishing me well.
Today feels like the start of the rest of my life.
39
WIN SOME, LOSE SOME
Bridger
With his brow knitted, Ian stares over the piles of scripts on his desk, the stacks of dog-eared books, the souvenirs from places he’s been.
I’m seated in a chair across from him in his Eleventh Avenue office. Waiting for an answer.
His feet are on the desk too, the scuffed soles of his shoes like a statement. It’s certainly his prerogative to put his feet on his own desk. But who wants to look at the bottom of somebody else’s shoes?
He steeples his fingers together. Hums. Gazes beyond me here in the chair to the books on his shelves, the complete collection of Felicity’s stories.
Ian’s quiet, and this is rare for him.
“So, do you want to hear the idea?” I ask again. Maybe he’s forgotten why I’m here.
Why do I feel like he’s the king and I’m his subject? Like I’ve come before him to ask him to please consider my idea for Afternoon Delight?
He takes a deep breath, then tears his gaze away from the books. Meets my eyes at last. “So, let me get this straight. You’ve been working on a concept for the backstory? For the Austin character on Afternoon Delight?”
“Yes,” I say succinctly, trying to strip the frustration out of my tone.
I’ve told him this. He knows this is why I’m here.
He asked me to work on the story problem. Hell, he asked his own daughter to work on it too.
But I try to wrestle away the word daughter from my thoughts. I’m trying so damn hard not to think about her when I interact with him. How I’ve spent the last few nights with her. The early mornings too.
“With Harlow,” I add, hoping it’s the last time I need to mention her name with him today.