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)
He hums again. “Right. Right. Got it now. And so?”
Does he truly not remember? I try again. “The concept we came up with was to frame a backstory around—”
He drags his feet off the desk, pops up from his chair. “Let me just cut you off right here. Isla and I took care of it.”
I nearly lunge out of the chair to make sure I’ve heard him right. “You and Isla?” I ask, standing.
He paces around his desk, heads to his bookshelves. “Yes. She’ll come to Paris too. When we go there the week after next before shooting begins. It’ll be good to have the head writer there.”
I grit my teeth. I want to believe that’s why he’s bringing Isla on a business trip to visit our next big production site. But I don’t.
I stay silent as he keeps going, saying, “We’ve been working on it since I’ve returned. I suppose I should have told you. But we were actually working on it when I was on the Cape too.”
Is he for real? “I thought you and Vivian were busy planning the wedding?”
Ian just chuckles. “Well, there wasn’t that much planning going on, if you must know.”
No. I must not know. How about you don’t discuss your sex life, and I won’t discuss mine?
I ignore his comment. “So, what’s the idea, then?”
He stops in front of his bookshelves, his eyes bright, but just shy of sad. Rapping his knuckles on the wood, he says, “I think backstory is the answer too. Austin lost the great love of his life. That’s why nobody else compares,” he says, emphatic, certain. “That’s his wound.”
Wow. Can we hit the nail on the head even more? But he’s the creative lead, not me. I was merely pitching in when he needed it. “That’s the direction that you want to go with Austin?”
A crisp nod. “That’s the direction we are going,” he says as if issuing a royal decree. “We spent a lot of time reframing some of his scenes. This is what drives him. I have no doubt. He will find someone. Goddammit, he will bloody find someone.” He stops pacing, huffs. “Finally, once and for all, he will.”
My heart lurches in sympathy. I’ve never heard this kind of intensity from him, but I’ve suspected this is his pain. This is his wound. This is why he spins like a top from woman to woman to woman.
“I hope he does,” I say. I do want my business partner to be happy. To be whole.
And, I suppose, I want the father of the woman I adore to find some stitch of happiness again.
Ian’s jaw tics. “He will. He absolutely will.”
He takes a long breath. Seems like he’s finished, so I close out the conversation with a “Sounds good. It’s your department.”
He checks his watch then blinks, like he’s just realized I said something. “But do keep your idea handy, Bridger. We can use it on the next show we work on. The one we’re trying to acquire from David Fontaine, for instance. You’re talking to him?” he asks.
Without even saying so, Ian has made one thing crystal clear. He’s the creative producer. I’m the business producer. We don’t cross those lines.
Perhaps because of that, I don’t feel like telling him about David Fontaine yet. Or that I’m still chasing him. That I’m brimming with ideas for the elusive writer.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t tell Ian I have a plan. “He’s a long shot. I don’t think it’ll happen,” I say, then shrug. “Win some, lose some.”
I head to the door. Before I exit though, Ian’s eyes light up with a familiar glimmer.
An almost salacious one.
He’s turned his gaze past me, and he’s looking down the hallway, then he’s bent over his phone, muttering, “Good chat, mate.”
As I leave, I find Isla walking toward me, a smile on her face, tapping away on her phone.
Are you fucking kidding me? This is dangerous. This is so damn risky. I should know.
I clear my throat. “Good afternoon, Isla,” I say, perhaps pointedly.
Startled, she snaps her gaze away from the screen. Wipes that smile right the hell off her face. “Oh, hello Bridger. How are you?”
“I’m great. How are you?”
Her lips twitch in a smile she tries to banish. “Good. Very good.”
She keeps going. I slow my pace, backing up against the wall, out of sight of the doorway.
As she nears it, I double back, walking along the wall like a spy. I’m twenty feet away when she heads into his office, closes the door. I lean in just in time to hear the distinctive click of the lock.
Part of me says I have no room to judge him. But another part of me—a stronger part of me—says we are not the same.
We are not the same. At all.