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)
“Actually—” I break off and swallow the rest because his phone rings and he lifts a finger.
“Need to take this,” he says, apologetic, but also not. Relieved, maybe?
When we exit on the fourteenth floor, all I can do is watch his back as he strides down the hall in that tight suit, deep in conversation with someone else.
That night, I pace my apartment, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Manhattan as I give Layla chapter and verse of the week so far.
“Sounds like he’s avoiding you,” she says, confirming what I suspected.
“Why would he do that?” I ask, but I fear I know the answer—he’s not into me the way I thought he was.
She scoffs. “Because, girl, he’s hot for you.”
I stop, press my hand against the glass. “What?” I whisper.
She laughs. “Did you think it was something else?”
I gulp. “Yes.”
“Oh, he is so avoiding you,” she declares.
That sounds too good to be true and too awful at the same time.
I don’t want to be avoided.
I want to be included.
Maybe I just need to be pushy. With that resolved, I settle onto my couch, fiddle absently with my necklace, and ask her to entertain me with her stories.
“Like the one where my mom’s trying to set me up on another date?”
I smile. “Yes, that one.” I lie back and listen. Layla’s relationship with her mother is complicated, but no matter how thorny it is, her tales of their chats still bring a pang of missing to my chest.
When we hang up, I get ready for bed, and I run my finger over the wooden box on my nightstand shelf. Inside are all the letters from my mother.
Every year, I miss her less.
And that hurts too.
When I reach the office on Thursday, Bridger’s walking out, breezing past reception. “Meeting with Webflix,” he says to Christian and me with barely a smile. “Gotta go.”
Wait. No. No way.
“I want to go,” I blurt out.
But the elevator door is closing on him.
“That man. He doesn’t waste time,” Christian says, admiringly, under his breath.
I grit my teeth and huff. “That’s true,” I say, trying to put on a smile.
Layla may be right, but if he’s into me, it hardly matters since I never see him.
I walk home after the day’s work, passing the bus stop by the park on Fifth Avenue. A banana lies on the bench, looking lonely. Then I squint, spying writing on the banana in ballpoint pen.
Tonight. You. Me. Black lace.
Clever. Maybe that was in someone’s lunchbox? I snap a shot and post it on my social with the caption: Sometimes you just need to spell it out.
Which is good advice.
Really good advice.
Bridger usually arrives at the office at eight-thirty. That night, I set my alarm for earlier than usual.
On Friday morning, I make it across the park and arrive by eight-ten. I head for my cube. I beat Jules to the office. Then I flip open my laptop.
And I wait.
At attention.
Listening.
Ten minutes later, I catch the echo of footsteps on the hardwood floors. Wingtips. The sound of money. That’s my cue.
I pop up, head down the hall, and meet Bridger at his door as he’s unlocking it.
I’m not letting him slip away from me today. I want what I want—an explanation.
He blinks, those deep blue eyes full of questions. “Oh. Hi.”
I don’t fuck around. “Why won’t you take me to meetings?”
He parts his lips, but for a few long seconds, no words come. I’ve caught him off-guard, and he blanches. “I didn’t think…I guess…I…” But he’s not the boss for nothing. Quickly, he recovers. “You’re right. I should. You’re here to learn. I need to be involving you,” he says, each word slow and nearly painful.
Did I misread everything? Is Layla wrong?
“I’m meeting with CTM this morning about one of their writers. Do you want to come?” he asks, smooth and in control again.
A part of me wants to ask: but do you want me there?
I don’t ask. We’re having a business relationship for now. With the confidence I’ve honed for years, I raise my chin, and answer, “Yes. I do.”
And I hope Layla’s not wrong.
“I’ll meet you at ten.”
On the dot, we’re outside the building and he’s holding open the door of a town car for me.
I slide in.
Bridger follows, shutting the door behind him. The air conditioning hums. The tinted windows seal us in. New York feels right next door and very far away.
“We’re meeting with Mason Stein,” he begins, then his gaze drifts to my leg. To my ankle. “Your scar’s faded.”
It comes out scratchy. And like a pleasant surprise.
Wait. No. A sexy surprise.
“Yes, it has,” I say, turning my whole body to him.
He licks his lips, then gestures to my ankle. “I just noticed,” he says, backpedaling. “That’s all.”
Before I can think better of it, I say, “It’s okay…to notice things.”