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)
“What’s the problem?”
“That’s the question. The script needs some work,” he says, then drops a kiss on my cheek.
And I’m dismissed.
I got away with this flirtation, and the theft of his awareness feels wicked and wonderful.
Especially since I plan to keep getting away with it.
I spend the day doing a final check of the French translations for Afternoon Delight and double-checking the art references. Finally, I’m using my schooling here.
The day flies by, but I still want the end of it, when others start to leave, to come even faster.
Around six, I knock twice on Bridger’s door. He’s at his desk, bent over his tablet, a pen in hand, music playing softly.
“Come in,” he says.
I don’t want to come on too strong, though, even as I push on the door, closing it. But lightly, almost like it’s closing of its own volition. Not mine. Once I take a seat on his couch, I start with something easy. “I keep meaning to ask…what kind of cabaret tour is your mom doing?”
His gaze swings to the shut door, then to me. “Her favorites. A mix of showstoppers and torch songs,” he says, then lifts a brow. “That’s an odd question.”
“I was starting with a softball. Were you expecting me to come in and brainstorm a solution to Afternoon Delight?”
He sighs heavily. “Would you please?”
“Want me to read the scripts?” I offer. I’m not sure he’ll let me. My dad would. But I don’t want permission from my father. I want permission from Bridger.
“Do you want to?”
I shoot him a look that asks, Don’t you know me? Because I think he does know me. I think he should by now. “Of course I do,” I say.
“I’ll send them to you,” he says, then leans back in his chair, that sapphire-blue shirt making him look like a king, his stubble making him look…virile. “Soon, you’ll be taking my job.”
I laugh. “Watch out, Bridger. I’m angling for the big desk,” I say, letting my gaze drift to his very big desk.
Big desk. Big desk. I swear those words flash in his eyes.
“Yeah, it’s a good size,” he says, deadpan and deliciously dry.
“Maybe I should read the scripts at your desk,” I say, feeling all kinds of bold. Who knew a meeting with Daddy would wind me up like this? I feel a little topped off, amped up even. Like I can ski a black diamond, the wind whipping past my hair, snow flying in my wake.
“Feel free to set up camp. Stay all night,” he says, and yes, hell yes. Everything is complicated all right, but he’s not shying away from our office flirtation.
Give in, Bridger. Give in to me.
“Well, that’s quite an invitation,” I say.
“I’ve noticed you’re good at invitations,” he says.
“And how are you at RSVPing?” I counter.
Laughing, he shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe I’m here. “I could be better,” he says.
“You’re telling me,” I say.
Another laugh. Another I can’t believe what you’re doing to me sigh. Then, a look. It leaves me heady…this close to woozy.
But Bridger glances toward the shut door, wincing. We’re not truly alone. Too many others bustle beyond that wood.
Music plays from his computer. Company, the Raúl Esparza production. “Do you go to Broadway still?” I ask, since I sense he needs a shift from invitations and complications. Otherwise, I’ll be the one winding him too tightly, and I can’t have that.
“I do.”
“Do you have a Broadway crew? Theater friends?”
He shakes his head. “I mostly go alone,” he says, then twirls his pen. Nervous habit? Maybe. “Not everyone shares my musical taste. But that’s okay. I don’t mind going solo. I’m used to it.”
“Why?”
“You want to know?” He sounds doubtful but intrigued. I have the sense he doesn’t talk freely about himself. Or maybe people don’t ask. Perhaps he’s so used to pitches, to I have an idea for a show.
Maybe he needs someone who wants to know him, truly know him, and also to listen. I’m that person. “I do want to know. Very much so,” I say, backing off the flirt, playing up the earnest.
Because this is truly how I feel.
Normally, he’s on guard. But the edge in his eyes seems to burn off. There’s more vulnerability than I’m used to seeing. This isn’t Bridger the dealmaker. This is the man. “I grew up backstage. I learned stage left and stage right before actual left and right. I did my homework in theater dressing rooms,” he says.
That image lodges in my head and heart. A young Bridger, sprawled out on his stomach, pencil in hand, doing algebraic equations amongst feather boas and pancake makeup.
“I can see that,” I say, delighted, and I lean forward on the couch, even though there’s still a room between us. “That’s so you.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. It’s who you are. Your love of stories came from there. Your passion for entertainment.”