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)
It’s been a lovely week so far.
Quiet, most of the time, since my roomies are gone so often.
Almost like I’m living in the French countryside where my mom used to take me when I was younger.
I can sleep peacefully.
Except, I’m not tired at all. I’m wide awake, looking up shirts online.
When I’m done, I email Amelie, telling her it was nice to meet her, and I enjoyed our chat. I may not subscribe to the same points of view she had, but the talk was stimulating. Besides, you should thank someone who takes the time to ask about your interests, then who offers to stay in touch. A vital business skill I learned from my father.
He’s taught me a few things about strategy, I suppose.
A few days later, I’m meeting Layla and Ethan for lunch in the Village, so I make my way there early, stealing an opportunity to return to that boutique from last summer. I’m alone with Sondheim in my ears as I hunt through the men’s shirts until I find one that speaks to me.
Ruby red.
I hold it against my chest, position it just so.
I snap another shot. Maybe there’s a little more of me in it now. Just a hint of my throat, just enough skin to see the I on my necklace.
Then, I tap out a note: Next time, try this color, and I attach the photo.
He texts back a day later. One word.
Noted.
It’s a nothing reply. It’s nearly empty. But it feels like a bookmark. Like he’s tracking my ideas, marking where we left off.
Somehow that’s enough to carry me through the next few days of the winter break.
Trouble is, there’s no chance I’ll run into Bridger here in Chelsea. I won’t bump into him in the kitchen, or the dining room, or the living room like I did during that summer break.
So when my father drops the news out of the blue that he and Joan called the wedding off, and he’s taken up charcuterie, then invites me to a dinner party—all in the same email—I think strategically and say yes.
4
MUCH TO THE CHAGRIN
Harlow
The problem with the dinner is my father thinks he’s a matchmaker.
I sweep into Dad’s home with olives and cheese—because a polite guest brings a gift, even if she’s the daughter of the host—and Dad tugs me aside and whispers, even though we’re the only ones around, “Vivian would be perfect for Bridger.”
He says it like he can’t believe how fantastic this idea is.
When it’s awful.
Why is he doing this? Is this because he left Joan last week? Or maybe Joan left him—he never clarified who was the leaver and who was the leavee. But he’s keeping busy like this?
“Vivian as in the new junior agent at Astor Agency?” I ask, hunting for a believable reason why Vivian is bad news for Bridger. Astor is Dad’s lit agent for his solo writing, like the novels he’s written in the Sweet Nothings world. None of his books have ever hit as big as the ones my mother penned—the ones Dad and Bridger launched to worldwide fame.
“Yes. Good memory,” he says.
“Is it a good idea to hook Bridger up with someone at your agency?”
“Why not?” Dad asks breezily, like he can’t conceive it wouldn’t be.
Because he can’t. Because Dad hasn’t a care in the world. He’s rich, he’s good-looking, he’s brilliant. He wants for nothing. He doesn’t even have the decency to miss his newest ex-fiancée.
But I can’t let this match happen. “Doesn’t she also rep one of the writers on your show? Isla, I think?” I ask, a little desperately. But as arguments go, conflict of interest seems pretty valid.
“Even better,” Dad says brightly. “More they have in common.”
Dammit. Foiled.
“Just seems risky,” I add, trying to mask my irritation, maybe failing.
“Harlow,” he chides gently. “Remember what I’ve always told you?”
I seethe. As if I could ever forget the instructions he gave me long ago when he said: Darling, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but it’s better you don’t get involved. Roselyn doesn’t need to know about my guests. It’ll only upset the delicate balance of an adult relationship.
I certainly won’t step on his matchmaking toes tonight.
He grabs a fresh wooden board from the counter. “This arrived today from Sur La Table. You can help set it up. You have such a good eye.”
And that’s that. The match will be made. The food will be displayed.
And I, evidently, have an eye for arranging food. That’s what my double major in French and art is all about. But I put that eye to use as I attractively arrange the olives and cheese on the wooden board, next to the grapes and crackers.
When the guests arrive a few minutes later, I deeply regret agreeing to dinner.
This is hell. I have to sit through this meal while my dad plays matchmaker with the pretty young agent.