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)
“That’s important, isn’t it?” I ask, and I don’t feel like the girl who crashed into a cab six months ago. Or the one at the summer send-off party.
I feel like I was forged from Paris. Then I rose up from Chelsea. Once upon a time I was raised on Fifth Avenue, but I’m not the girl living in my father’s house any longer.
“Common interests? Yes. They are,” he says, emphatic, then glances around the open space, a little hamlet in the midst of the city. We’re surrounded by stone and marble, by money and erudition. “So this must be good for you, art history and all?” He asks the question like he doesn’t want to return to the party, like he’d rather talk to me.
Finally. I can read him.
I lean in closer, conspiratorially, stealing another hint of his cedar scent. “Can I confess something?”
He hums, a note of intrigue. “Sure,” he says.
I tip my forehead toward the tree near us. We move around it, past its branches, farther away from the hubbub of people. He doesn’t seem to mind getting some distance from the crowd. Perhaps this is a sign that the crush could be two-way.
No, that’s too wild a thought.
But wouldn’t that be something?
“What’s your confession?” he asks, tugging on his cuffs again. Is that a nervous habit, maybe? Or perhaps an orderly one?
“I don’t know what I want to do with my degree,” I admit.
And wow. Did a weight lift from my shoulders? I think it did. I let out a surprised breath. “I…”
“First time you said that out loud?”
“Yes,” I say, enthused, excited even to speak the words I was holding inside with the museum curator.
Everything feels lighter. “I don’t know if I want to work at a museum, or visit a museum, or run an art gallery, or just wander into art galleries. I don’t know at all,” I say, then I glance away, worrying at the corner of my lips. “And I’ve been studying. I should know, shouldn’t I?”
He shrugs casually. Gives an easy smile to match. “But should you?” It’s like point, counterpoint.
His question is open-ended. He’s asking. Really asking. So I really answer. “I feel that way a lot. I think I have some guilt over not knowing. Should I, Bridger?”
His dark eyes gleam, like he wants to share something. Wants to reveal. “Want to hear a secret?” That word on his tongue sends a charge through me.
I want to be his secret. “Tell me,” I say, desperate for more.
“I didn’t study business, or Econ, or even English lit like most people in my field,” he says, and I feel like he’s offering conversational appetizers on a platter.
I want to eat them all. “What did you study?”
“Psychology,” he says. “And I’m not a therapist. I’m just…a producer.”
“Just a producer. More like an entertainment industry force of nature,” I tease.
A sly smile. He won’t admit it in words, but that tilt of his lips says I’m right with my assessment. “But see, I’m not a psychologist. Sometimes you go into your field. Sometimes you don’t. The key is learning to think. That’s what I learned in college. And how to strategize. Know what I mean?”
“I think I know what you mean. Strategy applies to any field. Thinking does too, of course,” I add.
“Exactly,” he says, with a satisfied smile.
“Then I hope I’m learning both,” I say.
Maybe I can put them to use with him?
I hope, as we talk, that I’m being strategic with this crush that didn’t end, that phoenixed out of the ashes tonight.
Bridger’s eyes drift to the crowd. Something flashes in them. Reluctance? Annoyance? But mostly it looks like resignation. “I should talk to Jess Dudeck,” he says, definitely resigned. “I’m supposed to work on a deal for Romania. There’s a TV network there wanting to format the show,” he explains. “That’s when—” He shakes his head, a little embarrassed. “You don’t want to know what formatting is.”
“Actually, I know what formatting is. When they take the concept and adapt it for syndication in foreign countries,” I say.
A smile. Like he should have known better. “Of course. You’ve always paid attention,” he says, then his eyes drift down to his shirt, and since I’m pretty sure it’s best to leave anyone wanting more, I find the will to go. But first, I lift a finger, run it briefly along the edge of his shirt collar. “Teal is your color,” I say, then I walk away.
Floating.
Just absolutely floating on this crush that’s come slamming back into me. Only this time around, it feels like it could be more than a crush.
Maybe I need to put my strategy skills to use.
When I go to bed that night, it’s blissfully quiet in my bedroom. My roomies are out. Here in Chelsea, in my sixth-floor apartment, I never have to worry about overhearing my dad’s affairs.