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)
“I don’t think so,” he says sadly. “What with the whole continent plus an ocean thing and all. But maybe I’ll see him next year if I go there again,” he says, with the hope that only intoxication can bring.
“Sounds like you already miss him.”
Nodding, he winces, like it hurts to acknowledge. “Weirdly, I do. It was one day, one afternoon. But we got on so well. He was sort of sexy but vulnerable, know what I mean?”
An image of Bridger from last night flashes before my eyes.
The clench in his jaw. The heat in his eyes. The restraint in his voice.
But the giving in too.
The way he wanted me with reckless abandon. Sparks rush through me as the memory turns more visceral.
Bridger is sexy but vulnerable.
“I do know,” I say as evenly as I can, hoping the heat doesn’t leak through in my voice.
Hunter arches a curious brow. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t have to say anyone in particular?
It’s an unspoken question, but it makes me queasy.
I can’t let on about Bridger. Not even a hint.
Hunter knows Bridger. Bridger signed his paychecks for two years when Hunter worked as a junior producer on Sweet Nothings, before he joined Webflix earlier this year. But I promised Bridger I’d keep us a secret. And even though I knew I’d have to swallow the truth, it still hurts as the lie slides down my throat.
“I mean, I imagine what you mean,” I correct, saying it as breezily as I can, channeling my inner actress, the one Daddy coached for years with his lies. Then I grab the steering wheel and yank the conversation back to him. “So this guy. Are you sure you can’t see him again? Lots of love affairs have started as long-distance ones. Maybe it’s not insurmountable.”
He chuckles a resigned laugh, rather than a happy one. “Not really. I live within my means. I don’t live on Daddy’s dime.”
I straighten my spine, saying sharply, “I don’t either.”
Hunter blanches. “Oh shit. Lo, I didn’t mean anything about you,” he says, apologetic. “I know you don’t.”
“My apartment is from my mom,” I add, hurt in my voice.
“Lo, I know.”
“And I’m going to find a job,” I add, more defensive than I should be. “Maybe even today.”
He pulls me into a conciliatory hug. “I’m on your side. I understand. I wasn’t saying you’re a daddy’s girl. I’m just saying I have to live like I don’t come from Sweet Nothings.”
Reality is, I have it easier. The apartment, after all, is a game changer. I sniffle, then pull away. “Sorry, I’m just nervous. About the interview later today,” I say.
“You’re going to do great. And I’m glad you quit Lucky 21. It wasn’t you. And I don’t want you to be so tied up with Dad. He was toxic when I worked with him.”
My stomach churns. Hunter had hinted at that, but hearing it tugs painfully on my heart. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
“He was always putting me down, belittling me for not being as good as him, and at the same time trying to entice me to work in his world. It was like a hug, then a slap in the face, then another slap, then another hug. I’m happier now that I’m doing my own thing,” Hunter says, clearly relieved to be free. “That’s why you quit, right? To do your own thing?”
Once again, I wish I could be fully honest with him. I wish I could say I quit for me. I quit to follow my passion, but my passion also is our father’s business partner.
“Of course,” I say and that’s very, very close to the truth.
Back at my place, I shower and change into something business-y, but still Saturday-ish. I choose a red summery dress with the tiniest white polka dots and pair it with a short-sleeve white cardigan. It’s festive and fresh, and the dots on the dress are small enough to give a pointillism vibe. Always a plus to put on an outfit with an art reference.
Hunter and I leave together. Out on the street, I give him a kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight? We’ll do dinner?”
“We damn well better,” he says, then heads off to meet a friend for an afternoon beer while I go to a coffee shop in Gramercy Park.
It’s a little odd that we’re not meeting at or near MoMA, but then it’s a Saturday, so I suppose that makes sense.
The Lyft whisks me down to Twenty-Seventh Street, and I find the café quickly, then spot the stylish curator at a table by the window inside. After quick hellos, I sit across from her.
“Coffee, tea, LaCroix, or some shake with some mix in it that makes you feel something?” she asks archly.
I laugh at Amelie’s dry humor. “Tea is great. No shakes with things in it for me.”