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)
“Bridger,” I say, swept up in the magnitude of his gift.
“It worked out for everyone. He’s an investor. He made a terrific ROI in less than twenty-four hours. You have the work of art you want.” He cups my chin and strokes my face. “And I was able to give you the thing you wanted most.”
I have chills everywhere—sexy, gorgeous chills. My heart is caught in my throat. “Thank you,” I manage to say past the tightness.
“I just wanted you to have it,” he says, then he dusts a kiss onto my lips. “Especially after what you did for…”
He’s this close to saying us.
I can hear it on the tip of his tongue.
I don’t know if there will ever be an us, but right now, tonight, it feels like we can’t be anything else but an us. Especially when he lays kisses on my neck like he adores me. Then when he nibbles on my earlobe, like I belong to him.
Intimacy feels inevitable, whether tonight or another time, so I slide a hand between us, press it to his chest. “I’ve never had sex. I want you to be my first.”
He stops, blinks, then asks carefully, “You do?” It’s full of wonder, naked excitement, and not an ounce of judgment.
“I do.”
He shudders out a breath. Licks his lips. Then just nods. “Yes.”
That’s it. It’s done. A promise that some time, we will.
Right now all I want is to get closer to him, so I lie down on the seat, stretch across it, and pull him on top of me.
He covers me with his strong body, and I wrap my legs around him.
“You are just…” His words fall to pieces as his lips find mine.
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence.
I feel the same.
He is just…
Like that we kiss, with our whole bodies, the entire way across the city.
30
DON’T FALL
Harlow
I float through the last love letter exhibit barely aware of anything but the prospect of more time with Bridger.
Somehow, in this haze of wishes and hunger, we manage to plot a solid concept for the hero’s backstory for Afternoon Delight.
When we’re done, he says, “That feels strong enough to share with the writing staff next week.”
Next week looms.
What will we be doing next week? I won’t see him at the office, of course. We won’t have a show concept to play around with. I want to ask him what the future holds for us but now hardly seems the time.
It doesn’t seem the time either when we leave the gallery, and Bridger scans the block, spotting a sign for the Brooklyn Botanic Garden nearby.
He checks his watch, a hopeful look in his gaze. “Summer hours. They’re still open?”
It’s a question that says will you go out with me tonight?
Quickly, I check the flight alert. Hunter’s plane is on time, but he won’t arrive till a little later, so I can steal more of the night. “My brother won’t be here till nine-thirty.”
We walk to the garden and head inside, with Bridger buying tickets to enjoy the last fading light of the day. It’s like last night, when he asked to grab a meal and I seized the chance.
We wander through the lush gardens, checking out the orchids blooming by the lily pool terrace. Surrounded by blankets of flowers in succulent reds and delicate pinks and blinding oranges, I’m tempted to pull him into a secluded section.
But that’s too risky. Instead, we stroll through the Shakespeare Garden, bathed in green, with its lush bushes, trees, and shrubbery. “It would be funny if Shakespeare really wrote here,” I say.
“The Bard in Brooklyn,” Bridger says, as if musing on the words.
“That sounds like the name of a musical,” I say. “You should produce The Bard in Brooklyn. That could be your next career move. Backing musicals.”
He laughs. “That’s not risky at all.”
“TV’s risky and you do that,” I point out.
“Fair point.”
“And then you could have a kick-ass one-line bio in Playbill, like the one Davis Milo has,” I say, referring to the award-winning director. “You know what his Playbill bio says?”
“Of course. Davis Milo directs,” he says.
We say the next line in unison: “Bridger James produces.”
“See? How much better does it get than that?” I ask.
“It doesn’t.” But he shakes his head. “Except I think I just want to see shows. Know what I mean?”
“I understand. I never wanted to work in theater. But I do want to gobble it up.”
“Me too. I would love to take you to see The Un-Gentleman,” he says.
I light up at the mention of the musical opening in a few weeks. “I can’t wait to see that.”
“Same here,” he says wistfully, then he shifts gears. “My mom is coming to town next month.”
Or maybe it’s not such a shift. His love of theater comes from her. But his unease with crowds comes from her too. “You don’t want to see her?”