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)
“You should take that and discuss the marketing plans for Afternoon Delight,” Jules says, like a damn good assistant.
Or maybe like a junior producer.
“I will.”
I pick up the phone and chat with Mia, relieved, utterly relieved the entire time. It might even be the best call of my life.
When we’re done, I’m about to text Harlow when Jules raps twice, then pops back in.
“Did you want to chat more about the possible job?” I ask. I could chat all day about it.
“I’d love to,” she says, then breathes out deeply and smiles for the first time in, well, ever. “By the way, Harlow just quit.”
26
CAN I TELL YOU?
Bridger
At ten minutes till seven, I’m pacing outside the Bettencourt Gallery as the sun streaks lower, playing peekaboo behind skyscrapers on the Upper East Side.
I haven’t been able to reach Harlow all afternoon. Meetings and phone calls ate up my day. Text is entirely unsatisfying for the conversation we need to have.
When I wrote to ask What happened? her only reply was It’s all good and I’ll explain tonight.
Then, she’d added, I’ll walk to the gallery. It’s only four blocks from my home.
I’m hoping—make that fucking praying—that she’s early. I need a minute alone with her. No, more than a minute.
And I need to not see a soul I know here.
Good thing not many of the agents, producers, casting directors and writers I court are likely to be at an art gallery event.
I’m not trying to avoid them because of Harlow. I want to avoid them because our idea for the show’s backstory excites me. The love letters as a way to frame the hero is like a whole new level of market research I’m conducting with her. Only her. Story research. Clandestine research.
I don’t need a Mia type, or an analyst, or anyone else showing up.
I check my watch. Two minutes till seven. Harlow’s never late. The gallery is at the end of this ritzy stretch of Madison Avenue, populated by shoe stores with four-figure price tags, and boutiques peddling maybe eight items apiece surrounded by so much empty space it’s a real estate sin. On the corner is a chichi bar named Opal. I pass it, then stop, turn around, peering this way and that, staring at my phone, waiting.
Still waiting for her.
Then, the back of my neck tingles. Somehow, I sense her before I see her.
Is it the sound of her shoes? The memory of her scent? Can I even smell that vanilla perfume or bodywash in the midst of Manhattan rush hour with buses trundling by and garbage cans on corners, needing attention?
I don’t know the answer. But I feel her somehow, and it’s entirely disarming.
I turn around, both gratified I’m not losing my mind and gobsmacked at the sight of her walking toward me on Madison.
Her chestnut hair is clipped on one side with some kind of shiny, silver barrette. Tendrils fall from it. That’s a new look. A little boho, almost. I drink in the rest of her. She wears short ankle boots, a black leather skirt—vegan, I bet—and a silver top that slopes off one shoulder.
My mouth goes dry.
This is not office Harlow.
This is some other version of her.
And I am here for it. Which is a problem. I am here for all the versions of Harlow.
I shove aside all the reasons she’s a bad idea for me. Immediately, I go to her, since I am caught up.
But the second I reach her, a cab pulls to the curb. A quick glance inside tells me all I need to know. It’s full of art types. I don’t need anyone to hear us discussing her job.
Correction—her former job.
“Grab a drink with me?” I ask quickly before anyone spills out of the taxi.
“Of course.”
I tip my forehead to Opal. Two minutes later, we’re in a corner booth in the quiet bar, nursing iced teas.
“What happened? Why the hell did you quit?” I ask in a hush.
I don’t want to say did you quit for me. That’s presumptuous. But I’m thinking it. I’m absolutely thinking it.
“Bridger,” she says, then glances around, taking the temperature. Hardly anyone is near us. “What you said last night on the way home, about how risky this is, it stuck with me. I was foolish not to think of those things before. What this might mean especially for you. How this could hurt you and your career.”
I grit my teeth. Then grumble, “I told you not to protect me.” Though maybe it’s a hiss.
“I know,” she says, her shoulders squared like she owns what she did today, like it’s her choice only, and really, it is. “And still, I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to have to start over.”
“And I don’t want you to lose a job you love,” I say sternly since she can’t, she just can’t, give up things for me.