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)
“Ah, Ian’s daughter,” she says, knowingly.
That’s me. I used to be Felicity Dumont’s daughter, but no one thinks of my mother anymore, of the worlds she built, the romance she captured in her tales of Sweet Nothings. “Yes, I’m that Granger,” I say as brightly as I can, briefly touching the I on my necklace.
“I’m Allison Tanaka-Fontaine,” she says, and instantly I recognize her last name—her husband’s a sought-after TV writer. “I do some consulting for the museum. They wanted me here tonight,” she says, apologetically, like she has to explain her presence here. She gestures to the man with her like she’s about to introduce him, but he’s peering toward the door. “For what it’s worth, I sometimes just like to look at art too.”
I smile, feeling a strange kinship with her. “I’m the same,” I say. “I like to look and to feel.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Yes. I get that.”
Then, they weave out of the party like spies, evading capture.
A few seconds later, Bridger walks into the gardens, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt.
He always does that at parties. Like his buttons could come undone.
Oh.
Oh my god.
That shirt. He’s wearing teal. He’s wearing the color I told him to buy. My breath catches, surely from the surprise of the shirt.
Not from anything else.
But my pulse spikes too. My mouth goes dry. I should have practiced what to say to him, but then Marxism happened, and now he’s happening.
Chin up, heels on, I head to him, my stomach annoyingly cartwheeling with every click of my shoes on the concrete. Maybe it was foolish to think I could archive those feelings while I was a continent away. I kind of wish I could file them in a cabinet of the past. Because what the hell am I supposed to do with them now? But I don’t turn around. I don’t walk away. I go to him, needing the proximity to know for certain that this is happening all over again.
When I close in on him near the Picasso sculpture, he’s scanning the place like a sniper, his gaze acquiring targets. There’s an intensity to his blue eyes that’s disarming. “Hi,” I say to his side, and it comes out too breathy. Nearly inaudible.
“Hi Bridger,” I say, trying again.
He startles, then shifts, his eyes landing on me. “Oh.” There’s a tinge of surprise in his tone. His gaze travels quickly, too quickly, along my body. “It’s been a while,” he says, recovering, arranging his voice to that even, professional tone I’ve known for five years.
“Yeah, it has been,” I say, taking a breath to steady myself when I catch a whiff of his scent. Soap, something expensive, something organic, I bet. Something that touched his body an hour ago.
Something delicious.
The scent floats through my nose, awakening…everything.
So much for time. So much for distance. So much for trying.
I’m not over him. Not at all.
“A long while,” he adds.
Does he sound wistful, or do I just want him to sound wistful? “How are you?” I ask.
“How are you?” he counters, like he’s avoiding the question. Or maybe like he’s legit interested in how I am. A girl can hope.
“I’m good. I graduate in May. Six more months,” I say, since what’s more important than that? I’m almost out of here. Can I write it in the sky any clearer?
Bridger nods like he knew this already. “Ian did mention that,” he says.
I wince, wishing he hadn’t interjected my dad into the conversation. But I’ll just eject back out. “Paris was amazing. You’ve been, I presume?”
He nods. “I have. What made it amazing for you?”
Oh, that’s nice. A question to keep the conversation going. “It was everything I’d hoped it would be,” I say. “I had my own flat by the river. I sat in cafés drinking espresso and being broody as I read dark poetry.”
That earns me a wry smile.
“And I lived at the museums and galleries.”
“Sounds incredible. Those are terrific opportunities, dark poetry aside,” Bridger says, like a man talking to someone who’s almost his contemporary.
At least, I hope so. Or maybe I’m just reading things I want to hear into his words. Only, I don’t want to talk about me any longer. My gaze drifts to the cuffs of his shirt. “I see you have silver cufflinks,” I say. “Very subtle nod to the theme.”
His eyes dart to my necklace then back to my face. “And gold for you.”
A ribbon of warmth unfurls in me. He noticed. It’s time to cut to the chase. “I heard you’re not seeing Emma anymore,” I say.
Bridger breathes out hard, a sigh, but it’s nearly emotionless. “You heard right,” he says, and he doesn’t sound like a man who needs cheering up whatsoever. He sounds just fine.
“You seem content,” I observe.
Bridger shrugs, one strong shoulder rising up. “We didn’t have that much in common it turns out,” he says, like it’s just one of those things, no big deal.