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)
Instead I say, as emotionless as I can, “I should get back to work.”
Her eyes flash with a touch of disappointment, then she says, professionally, “Me too.”
That night, I send her a photo of the record player.
Bridger: I took this photo for you.
That feels like a small victory too. I resisted telling her the depth of my obsession. Then, she replies.
Harlow: I took this one for you.
It’s a shot of her crossed ankles, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. And I give in even more.
Bridger: I’m keeping it.
12
THAT EXTRA INCH
Harlow
I start wearing skirts every day.
The man likes my legs. Might as well give him what he wants.
I zip up a gunmetal gray skirt that hugs my hips and hits at my knees.
Ah, who am I kidding? This hits an inch above the knees. Sometimes, you need that extra inch.
I check my reflection in the mirror, give myself an approving nod, then take off for work. Along the way, I reread last night’s texts. I replay the last week, then the last few months.
Bridger seems to like to chat on the path, on the phone, at cafés. And while he seems okay to chat at work every now and then, he’s definitely more reserved behind his desk.
Maybe I need to get him out of the office.
“Waitress” plays in my earbuds, but I’m barely listening to the festive tune. My strategy brain is working overtime as I traverse the edge of Central Park, feeling the clip-clopping of horses more than I hear it.
I could ask him to a show.
I could invite him to take pictures with me after work.
But is that too much, too soon?
I squint, thinking, then I think harder when I spot a flash of emerald green. Tailored pants, thick, dark hair—Bridger is fifty feet ahead, walking along Central Park South, headed for the office.
As if of their own accord, my feet pick up the pace. Wait. Am I truly doing this? Power walking to catch up to him?
No, I can’t be that obsessed. I can’t be that girl. But then Fate must love me fiercely because he stops to check something on his phone. My breath catches as I walk and I hope.
I do not run, and still, I reach him. Like that, I’m no longer miles from nowhere. I’m next to Bridger.
“Morning, Bridger,” I say.
He looks up. A smirk already owns his lush lips. “You’re everywhere, Harlow.”
Does he think I’m a stalker?
But before I answer, my phone buzzes in my skirt pocket.
His grin widens, his eyes drifting to the source of the sound. “Like I said…”
As I slide open my phone, tingles rush over my shoulders. A picture pops up on the screen.
A strange one. A Tupperware container in the dark, with the lid flipped open. Inside it is a keychain with an Eiffel Tower tchotchke hanging on the silver circle. “Does this count? It’s someone’s geocaching. Well, their cache,” he says.
He took another photo for me, and this feeling in my chest—like bubbles shook up—must be what effervescent is. “Where did you find it?”
“I was walking through the park the other night. Before a dinner party thing—I usually do that—and I spotted this behind a rock,” he says, methodical, but a touch excited too.
There’s so much to unpack there. So much Bridger intel. But I start with the easiest one. “This absolutely counts,” I say. “Can I post it?”
“Be my guest,” he says as the cars and cabs and buses trundle by. But as they move, we stay still outside the park, the early June morning wrapping around us.
I was right. Bridger lets go outside of the office.
“Then thanks for the invitation,” I say, with a sexy smile. I post the picture quickly, then show him the caption: I’ll be going back soon. You?
His expression shifts. Serious, concerned. “You’re leaving?”
A line digs into his forehead. That’s…a tip-off. “Not yet…” I say, then trail off, letting the possibility of my absence hang there. To torture him.
Fear can be a good motivator, after all.
“Soon?” The concern is almost too much. I want to abate it, but I want to toy with it too.
I’m a cat playing with her catch.
Am I lying? Not really. I might go back to Paris, so I reassure him with, “Not too soon.”
He says nothing. But in the slight twitch of his lips, then how he purses them together, he’s reassured. He’s cool Bridger again, in control Bridger again.
I like all the Bridgers, but I especially like when he shows me his wishes and his wants. I like when I’m those wishes and wants. I shrug playfully, then toss out, “You should come with me.”
We’re not really going to Paris, but it’s a trial balloon.
He laughs, like that’s ridiculous, then starts walking to the office. “Should I now? Go to Paris?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I hear there are all sorts of things to find and photograph there. Chapeaus on park benches, discarded art in alleys, abandoned flowers in passages.”