Total pages in book: 10
Estimated words: 9538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 48(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 32(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 48(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 32(@300wpm)
A few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” I shout. Bridger knows the code.
Bubbles bounce under my skin as Bridger unlocks the door. When the handsome, broody man strides into the brownstone, those bubbles speed through me. I am effervescent.
He holds a bouquet of gerbera daisies. “Hey there.”
“Those are my favorite flowers.” Did I mention that in the hospital last night? Have I ever said that at a dinner party, event, or gala where I saw him? I don’t know.
He peers around the living room, checking out vase after vase. The room is bursting with blooms. “It’s a florist shop in here.”
“I might start a side hustle peddling flowers.” I point to his arrangement as he sets it on the coffee table by the couch. “But I like yours best.”
“Thanks,” he says, evenly, like he has to be careful with me. Like he can’t reveal any emotion.
Understandable. I’ve known Bridger James since I was fifteen and his upstart production company acquired the TV rights to Sweet Nothings. He was the wunderkind new producer who spotted a hit and made it happen with my dad. They became partners, then, in growing that property to global domination, turning the book series my mom had penned and Dad had inherited into a worldwide phenom as a TV show. The risqué, racy soap opera counts legions of fans, and it started in my home when the two of them worked late on the concept, refining it and then pitching it to a network. Now, they own a renowned TV production company together called Lucky 21 that’s responsible for Sweet Nothings, its spin-offs and other top shows too.
Over the last few years, Bridger’s hung around at my house late at night working, then shown up early in the morning collecting Dad for meetings. I’ve seen him at fetes, galas, parties.
But someone else has always been around. Now it’s just the two of us, alone together for the first time.
“Want a seat?” I ask, gesturing to the other chair.
As he sits, I catalog his appearance—he’s in his work uniform. Sharp pants, fine leather shoes, and a tailored shirt. Today’s is a shade of deep, rich green.
“Nice cast,” Bridger says, gesturing to the pink cast on my foot.
“Evidently the cab door had it in for me. Have you ever broken a bone?” I ask, quickly shifting away from my ankle injury.
“Many times,” he says with a sigh, but it’s a welcoming kind of sound, like been there, done that.
I sit a little straighter, eager for this chance to get to know him. “Tell me all your broken stories.”
He laughs curiously, eyeing me like he isn’t sure I mean the request. “Really?”
I’m not backing down. I want what I want. “Yes. Really.”
Here in my home, the day after a nasty crash, with my father off doing whatever, his handsome, sexy, nearly inscrutable business partner wiggles three fingers on his right hand. “Broke these when the center stepped on my hand during football practice in junior high.”
“You were the quarterback?” It delights me to no end, learning these details.
“Of course.” There’s a smirk on his face, like he couldn’t be anything but the team leader.
“Were you good at football?”
He tilts his head, his gaze a little challenging, a touch cocky. “What do you think?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling a bit fluttery. A bit naughty too.
“Good answer,” Bridger replies, sinking deeper into his chair, looking comfortable or maybe even relaxed at last.
“How many games did you win? Touchdowns did you throw? Passing yards did you log?”
He raises an appreciative brow, whistling low. “Someone knows football.”
I bob a shoulder playfully. “I know a lot of things.”
His expression shifts, going dark for a second. Then he swallows and answers in a businesslike tone. “I did well,” he says, like he rearranged his answer at the last minute.
I ease up on the Lolita. “What else did you break?” Surely, this is a less sexy comment. I hope it’s enough for him to stay.
“I broke my kneecap a couple years later,” he says, recounting a high school injury.
“How’d you manage that?”
“Playing soccer my sophomore year. I planted my foot wrong while I was twisting around to try to score, and then it snapped. Felt like it fell down to my shin.” He shakes his head in remembered pain, wincing.
“That sounds terrible,” I say in sympathy. “Did it really fall to your shin?”
He taps the side of his calf under his black pants to show me where his kneecap had landed. “It was knocked about two inches out of the socket.” He blows out a sharp breath. “That hurt.”
“That sounds like an understatement,” I say.
“Yeah, it is.”
“That’s awful,” I say, but I’m giddy for more of his stories, more of him.
Just more.
He regales me with tales of his high school sports, from soccer games to football plays, till I say, “Is that all you did growing up? Play sports?”