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)
“Sounds like a story,” he offers.
“A good story,” I say, but I hold back other words. I don’t say a love story, but I hope he hears it in my tone.
“You could tell that tale,” he says.
“Maybe I will,” I say.
The black skyscraper looms ahead. In a few minutes, we’ll step inside the cool, air-conditioned building where we play our roles.
Boss and intern.
But sometimes, even within those walls, I just feel like we’re a man and a woman. Like I do right now. “Or,” I say, returning to the you should come to Paris vibe, then seizing it, just taking what I want, “we could go to a show here. On Broadway.”
It comes out in a hot rush. I feel fizzy, dipped and coated in sugary hope as he stops at the corner outside the park and looks me straight in the eyes. Briefly, his tongue darts out, wetting his lips, like he’s thinking. He takes his time, then speaks quietly. “Do you think that would be obvious?”
God. Yes. I want obvious. Badly.
But instead I tilt my head, play innocent. “What’s obvious?”
“I think you know what I mean,” he says, his voice low, perhaps a warning.
I don’t want to heed it. “Do I?”
He nods, never taking his eyes off me. “You’re a smart woman.”
“I know,” I say, the ions vibrating between us.
His brow arches. “Know that you’re smart or know what I mean by obvious?” The current between us is electric, fully charged.
“If we go to a show, I would think it would be obvious how complicated this has become,” he says.
Flames blaze up inside me. Anticipation clings to the air. This is the turning point. Keeping my gaze on his beautiful blue eyes, I don’t ask. I state, making all my intentions crystal clear. “Do you know I know all the lyrics to Ask Me Next Year?”
He’s silent, jaw ticking, as if he’s considering what to say next or whether to say it at all. Then in a voice that almost wobbles, he says, “If they ever did a revival—”
“Bridger,” I cut him off in a sharp whisper.
My father is staring at us, standing in front of the black building. His head is tilted, his gaze curious.
My chest hollows.
I step back, wave, and smile. “Hi, Dad.”
The look on Bridger’s face is blank. He’s erased all emotions in an instant.
But the look on my father’s face is delighted. “So it’s going great? The internship?”
I shudder out a breath. “It is,” I say, at the same time that Bridger says the same.
I’m sure we both feel the same utter relief.
I feel, too, like I’m getting away with murder.
13
BIG DESK
Harlow
The message blinks up at me the next morning as I grab my phone on the way to work. The hair on my arms stands on end.
Dad: Can you swing by the set on your way to work?
Did he hear us yesterday after all? Does he know? Another message lands with a sharp buzz.
Dad: My car will be waiting outside your building.
Dread crawls up my spine. I leave, the door shutting with an ominous clang.
My pulse spikes as I head down the hall, then it shoots out of control as I step into the tiny elevator car, surrounded by men in suits, women in sharp trousers.
They are the other denizens of this building. This fancy twelve-story building I could never afford on my own. I shirk to the back of the elevator, completely out of place.
The twenty-one-year-old interloper. The fake, the fraud. They live here for real. My gorgeous one-bedroom is entirely unearned.
My stomach nosedives as the elevator plummets. The rightful residents, those who probably earned their homes, shift their stances, scroll on phones, check watches.
I stare at the brass doors, throat tight. The elevator arrives at the lobby.
Ashamed, I hang behind, then head for the exit.
“Good morning, Ms. Granger,” the doorman says.
“Good morning, Henry,” I say, smiling, wishing I didn’t feel like I live with a silver spoon in my mouth.
But I like my silver spoon too much to spit it out.
On the street, a gleaming black car waits for me. My dad’s driver stands by the door, swings it open, gives me a good morning.
I say hello, with my stomach churning. Once inside, I check that the partition’s up, then, I FaceTime my brother in London, where it’s early afternoon.
He answers right away, his dimpled face appearing on the screen, his brown eyes curious but concerned. He’s in the office, a bank of TV monitors behind him. He’s a producer at Webflix in London. “Hey, what’s up, Lo?”
“Hi,” I say, breath stuttering.
Instantly, he gets me. “Shit, what’s wrong?”
I shake my head, a lump forming in my throat. “Hunter,” I say, my voice low as the car pulls into morning traffic. “Dad called me to the set today. I have no idea why, but it feels foreboding.”