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)
In no time, she’s next to me, thigh to thigh, our bodies turned, our faces near.
“All day I couldn’t wait for tonight,” I tell her, and it hurts saying those words. Because we can go nowhere.
“I counted down the hours,” she whispers.
“And you should never have to protect me,” I tell her, emphatic, pressing my forehead to hers.
“But I want to. And I can,” she says.
My heart squeezes. She’s so young and so strong at the same damn time. It doesn’t take a genius to know why. She had to sculpt herself into this young woman with her own tools. Had to do it with no role model while her one living parent chased his narcissistic, selfish desires.
“No, Harlow. Don’t protect me,” I murmur into her hair, drawing an inhale of her shampoo and I’m lost. Just lost in the vanilla scent of her.
I inch back, look at her eyes, gleaming with passion.
Then I drop my lips to hers and kiss her once more. It’s a whisper of a kiss. We’re both holding back, perhaps acutely aware that we can’t tumble out of the car, looking kiss-drunk and bruised.
But I know in the soft press of our lips, in the hands on arms, hands in hair, hands so eager to touch, that I can’t protect myself from what’s happening either. Because this is the kind of kiss that erases everyone before it.
Soon, though, I find the will to pull away, looking at her dazed eyes as I say, “What are you doing to me?”
“I thought that was clear,” she says, that naughty smile returning.
I laugh lightly. “Fine, then what am I supposed to do with you?”
She tugs on the neck of my shirt. “I have some ideas. It might involve getting this shirt off,” she says, and she’s playful and fun.
Smart and vibrant.
Kind and bold.
She’s like Joan of Arc of Manhattan, spurred on by her vision. And I think I’m falling terribly for her.
Change of topic. I need one, stat. I glance out the tinted window. Times Square is nearby.
“Who would you cast in an Ask Me Next Year revival?” I ask.
“Oh, I have so many ideas.”
We spend the rest of the ride casting the revival, choosing the three leads. I ignore the fact that the musical doesn’t have a happy ending.
When we reach the Village, the driver pulls the car over, cuts the engine. I brush a hand down my shirt, check my reflection. No evidence.
Harlow’s reapplying lip gloss using the camera on her phone.
“Shame,” I mutter.
She cocks her head. “That I don’t look well-kissed anymore?”
“Yes. That.”
“I know,” she says.
Then we get out, walking down the block together, but apart.
The sun falls low in the sky, casting long beams of light between red-brick buildings. When I turn the corner onto Jane Street, the sign for Petra Gallery comes into view.
Focus, James.
Get Fontaine. That’s my only mission tonight.
21
TIGER
Harlow
A banner sprawls across the glass window of the gallery. Reread, it says. That’s the name of this exhibition of confessions of love from some of history’s greatest writers. The photographs of the correspondence are paired alongside stunning black-and-white images that capture the theme of each letter’s romance.
It’s surreal to walk up to an art gallery with the man who just kissed me in his town car.
For a few heady seconds, I play pretend, imagining this is us. This is how we do New York. We attend exhibits together. Maybe we go to the theater, check out quiet bookshops. Together, we’d imbibe art and culture, devouring stories, being dazzled by a show.
After, we’d walk around the city. We’d talk and we’d understand each other implicitly.
Right now, I have to fight the urge to look at Bridger with all these expectations in my eyes.
Because we’re not that couple.
We’re not a couple at all.
I let the daydreams die as we cross the threshold into the gallery.
Servers in black slacks and crisp, white shirts circulate with trays held high, while art lovers in plaid shirts and Converse, in motorcycle boots and Manolo Blahniks, admire the letters and the photos.
We’re here for business, but when I catch a glimpse of Bridger adjusting his cuffs, my heart squeezes.
I make a move to touch his wrist in reassurance, but then I clasp my hands together instead. I can’t do that. Here or anywhere.
He stops fidgeting, and his eyes scan the crowd with speedy efficiency. He’s a man on a mission. He’s not here to mingle.
“I don’t see him yet,” I whisper.
“I don’t either.”
“He’ll be here,” I reassure him. I hope—I really hope—I’m not wrong about Fontaine being here to support his wife.
Except…there has to be an easier way to get to the man. “Does he not take your calls?” I ask.
Bridger scratches his jaw, a little pensively. “He has in the past, but recently, no. I’ve been trying to get an intro, but he’s old school. An in-person type of guy. So…” Then Bridger leans the slightest bit closer to me, not inappropriate, not too much, but just enough for me to catch a hint of his cedar scent.