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)
His breath seems to come out in a harsh pant, then he drags a hand over his hair and seems to shake off the fog. “We’ll be meeting with Mason Stein, the agent for TJ Hardman,” he says, regrouping as he mentions the romance novelist. “His agent is interested in striking a development deal for his books. I’d like him to land at Lucky 21.”
That’s genius. “I’ve read all his novels,” I offer, feeling a little like I just discovered an ace up my sleeve.
Bridger’s eyes widen. “All of them?”
“Every single one,” I say, proudly.
“Which one lends itself most to a TV show? Besides Top-Notch Boyfriend,” he says, since that book was made into a movie.
“Look Me Up,” I say confidently. “The fake boyfriend relationship is told almost in little episodes. And it lets you get into queer content, which is a growing market.”
“It is. Good thinking,” he says.
When we reach CTM, he exits the town car first then offers me a hand. Like a gentleman.
Or perhaps an opportunist?
I take his hand. He curls his fingers around my palm. A whoosh rushes through me. This is only the second time we’ve touched. Really touched. My hand tingles first, then my whole body.
There’s a taut moment when I swear his fingertips brush across my skin before he lets go.
“Thank you, Bridger,” I say, then softly I add, “And thanks for having me.”
He swallows after those last words.
Having me.
Maybe that was a Freudian slip. But maybe not.
He gestures for me to go first. I head into the lobby ahead of him, letting him look. Letting him watch me.
When we’re in the elevator, he steals a glance at me then tears himself away instantly.
I rein in a grin.
In the CTM conference room, Bridger introduces me simply as “Harlow at Lucky 21.” Maybe he doesn’t want to draw attention to my newbie status as an intern. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to use my last name and let on that nepotism is at play.
I’m not terribly bothered. But I am curious.
I say hello, then Bridger is all business with the agent, batting around possibilities. Then he turns to me and says, “Harlow has some thoughts on Look Me Up.”
Whoa. Talk about trial by fire.
“I love thoughts,” Mason says drily, then waits for me.
I’ve been raised on pitches—selling is second nature. “The first episode would be true to the book, and you could cliff it when the guys see each other again,” I begin, then sketch out the rest of what could stay and what could go from the enemies-to-lovers-to-pretend-boyfriends storyline.
Mason nods approvingly. “Interesting.” He taps his chin for a few seconds. “We have lots of interest in development deals for TJ. But we’ll be in touch.” He takes a beat. “And soon.”
Once we leave the offices and we’re safely in the elevator, Bridger shoots me an approving smile. “He never says soon. That’s good, Harlow.”
“I’ll drink to soon,” I say, feeling a little giddy over it.
As we head to Amsterdam Avenue, Bridger reaches for his phone, but then his gaze drifts longingly to a sidewalk café with white tables and green chairs, somehow both homey and trendy. He raises a brow in a question. “I was going to call the driver, but any chance you’re hungry? I skipped breakfast.”
I’m not hungry at all. “Yes,” I say instantly.
We grab a table in the parklet. I order a salad, and he chooses a risotto. After the server leaves, Bridger undoes the cuffs on his shirt, rolls them up once, then twice. I glimpse the faint black lines of his ink, something like leaves.
Someday, I want to ask about the art on his arm. But when he catches me looking, his expression turns unreadable.
Now’s not the time for something so personal, not when I’ve just started making headway with him again.
Instead, I glance around so I don’t seem so…obvious.
My attention snags on a woman in a leopard-print dress several feet away. She’s chatting on the phone, like any New Yorker, all while walking a peacock on a leash.
In a flash, I grab my phone and snap a shot of the woman and her pet.
Bridger studies me quizzically. “You just took a picture of a peacock.”
“What else does one do when someone walks a peacock?” I counter, feeling like I’m getting my Bridger rhythm back.
“Take pictures I suppose,” he says, with a glint in his eyes. Maybe he’s getting his groove back too.
“Then why didn’t you snap a photo?” I ask. Maybe I’m a little saucy.
“That’s a damn good question. I suppose I should have captured the moment.”
“Do you wish you had a peacock picture? Maybe I could share mine,” I say, teasingly.
A faint flush spreads on his cheeks. “Yes, please do that, Harlow.”
With a smirk, I send it to him with the words, Ask me why I took it.