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)
She hums low in her throat. “Those should be illegal,” she says with a whistle. “They go perfectly with the LBD.”
Fine, fine.
Perhaps, I don’t entirely hate the idea of the party.
Bridger will be there. And maybe, dressed like this, I’ll look closer to twenty-one.
It’s less than a year away.
It’s a magic age.
Then, I’ll no longer be in college.
I’ll be his contemporary.
A frisson of possibility unfurls in my chest. I hide a grin from my friend. I haven’t breathed a word about this storm of feelings to anyone. And I’ve never kept secrets from her. But this secret feels like mine. Like a private letter, locked in a box, hidden away.
Layla and I circulate dutifully downstairs, making small talk, a skill we’ve both been schooled in for years. Her since birth, me since my father became a big deal.
How is Jasmin doing in Tokyo?
Is Vikas enjoying his work in Washington?
Did you see the new sculpture at the Keller Gallery?
All the while, I graciously accept congratulations from all my father’s friends and associates.
Thank you. I’m so fortunate to be going there.
Yes, it’s going to be a wonderful challenge.
I can’t wait to settle into my flat in the Sixth.
And blah, blah, blah. Layla makes a few laps with me, snagging a champagne flute from a cute server in black tie, tossing the guy a wink.
He smiles back, showing straight white teeth. Layla is such a sucker for great teeth. She should consider snagging the city’s top orthodontist’s client list sometime.
Once he’s weaving through a pack of suits, my friend waggles a glass my way. “Want one?”
“No,” I say, but it’s too late. She grabs a second one from another passing waitperson and thrusts it into my hand.
“Layla,” I say, but I take it anyway. It’s easier.
She nods to the packed home. Easily one hundred people mingle in the living room, spill into the dining room. “Who are all these people?”
I lean closer, dip my voice. “Miss Such and Such, the VP of Sucking Up. Mister Whoever, the Director of Kissing Ass. And, finally, there’s the Manager of I Have An Idea to Pitch You,” I say, surveying the scene—smart dresses and blow-outs on the women, slicked-back hair and tailored shirts for the men.
“Ah, I was hoping to pitch an idea to him. The idea of me,” she says, then points surreptitiously to a handsome guy easily fifteen years older than she is.
I shoot her a doubtful look. “Seriously?”
She just wiggles her brows. Then she looks around again. “Oh, the hot one’s here.”
I figure she’s spotted another thirty-something guy, but when I follow her gaze my breath catches.
It’s Bridger. He must have just arrived. He wears a royal blue shirt and charcoal slacks. He’s leaning against the wall, not drinking either. Watching the scene unfold. Part of it but separate as he studies the people while tugging on the cuffs of his shirt.
Warmth blooms in my chest, a frothy, delicious sensation. I feel floaty, a little dreamy as I watch him. A young publicist beelines for him and his gaze shifts to on.
Then, Layla bumps my shoulder. “When were you going to tell me?”
Confused, I turn my face to her. “Tell you what?”
With an I caught you smile, she shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you didn’t say a word sooner. How long have you been hot for your dad’s business partner?”
My stomach drops. And that secret didn’t last long. “Is it obvious?” I ask. “To everyone, I mean.”
Her smile is gleeful, a little wicked. “No. But to me it is because I know you. And damn, he’s pretty.” She nudges me again. “Go shoot your shot.”
The idea is too much. Too tempting. Too dangerous. But I appreciate her efforts. “Thanks, but I don’t think it’ll work out,” I say, since isn’t that the truth. He’s just not interested in me. Not to mention the big hurdle—I could never be with my dad’s business partner.
Layla shrugs, then drops a kiss to my cheek. “I should vanish. Don’t miss me too much.” Then, low, under her breath, she urges, “Shoot, Harlow, shoot.”
“Get out of here,” I say, rolling my eyes.
But her command has gotten a hold of me. When she’s gone, I spin around, hunting for him again, but he’s chatting with a woman in a paisley blouse.
Bridger doesn’t have a drink in his hand, and an idea takes hold. An opening line, if you will.
As I head to a group of network execs to put in more time, my father strides over, intercepting me. Joan is with him. She looks regal, her chestnut mane swept up in a chignon.
She smiles affectionately at me. “Let’s raise a glass in a toast to our star,” she says.
“Of course,” Dad seconds.
He doesn’t even have to clear his throat. He commands a room by his mere presence, playing the part he’s mastered. A modern-day Gatsby, complete with the slicked-back hair and semi-permanent grin. His eyes gleam with fatherly pride. “To my daughter. I’ve never been prouder,” he says to the crowd, then he wraps an arm around me. “Paris will be lucky to have you this fall.”