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)
She’s Harlow.
A…woman who likes the same obscure musical I do. A woman who chose her major for the same reason I did. A woman who isn’t fooled by bullshit at parties.
I shouldn’t say another thing to her.
I really shouldn’t.
But the words take shape in my mouth as curiosity fills all my cells, and I do it anyway.
I toss back the next line in the Ask Me Next Year song, a question. “Wasn’t it time?”
What are they even asking about in the song? What’s the it? I don’t know. I don’t actually care. All I know is that the song makes me feel. Makes my chest ache.
Harlow looks up from her book, her lips parted. Her eyes are full of intrigue.
Then, like we’re tangoing, she takes the next step, speaking the next line in the song. “Isn’t it now?”
I heat up.
Stop. Just stop.
Instead, I ask, “What if it’s all a dream?”
She exhales, a long, lovely note of excitement. Her cheeks flush pink. In a whisper, she utters, “But he can’t be mine.”
Words to live by.
I tear myself away from these forbidden thoughts. I swallow down my desire. “Yeah, so that’s a good musical,” I say roughly, then I make my excuses, saying I have an early run along the East River.
What the hell? Am I actually explaining my schedule?
“Have a good one,” she says, and I bolt.
I walk home, counting the steps until thoughts of her are buried so deep you’d need an archaeological dig to excavate them.
I hope.
I fucking hope.
A few days later, I’m running along the East River Greenway. My nose is ice, and my hair is as cold as a tundra.
But it’s a habit. So I go, and I run, and I refuse to think of things I shouldn’t think of.
Of people I shouldn’t picture.
Instead, I review the day ahead. I have a meeting with Ian at the office at nine-thirty. We need to discuss the plans for our newest Sweet Nothings spin-off—Afternoon Delight. Then, I have a conference call with our London office. After that, I’ll dive into scripts, maybe make some more progress on the Fontaine situation.
Somewhere around Eighteenth Street, a voice calls out from behind me, mingling with the sound of pedals pumping and wheels whooshing. “Good morning.”
And just like that, the ice age ends. Heat zaps down my spine.
I turn my gaze, slow my running pace. She slows her bike too, then stops near me. I pull up short.
Harlow smiles my way, sensual and indulgent. “Who would have thought you owned something besides pants and perfect business shirts?” she says, her breath imprinting on the morning air.
I try to keep the tone light. Keep it safe. “Can’t burn off all those olives wearing a dress shirt,” I joke. Joking has to help.
“Maybe don’t burn them off,” she says, then shudders as she tugs her sleeves down lower. Thank god it’s too cold to talk for long. “I can bring you some more sometime.”
Olives. She’s talking about olives. But she’s also talking about more. Momentarily, I let myself forget who she is. I let the ties that bind us fade away.
“Castelvetrano, please,” I say.
“Noted,” she says with a devilish smirk that turns into a smile.
I can’t linger on it. I have to run. “Bye, Harlow,” I say, then I resume my jog.
She pumps the pedals then pulls ahead of me. “Bye, Bridger,” she calls out as she rides well past me, and my name on her lips sounds too good in the cold New York morning.
Too good to mention to her dad, in fact.
A few hours later, when I see Ian, I don’t mention my encounter with his daughter.
My pulse isn’t surging anymore, so why bring it up?
I don’t say a word when it happens again a few weeks later.
I’m cruising by the United Nations headquarters, listening to Cole Porter, when a flash of silver blurs past me.
Then she slows, whips around, doubling back. She finishes her three-sixty by my side, wheeling along. “Hi, morning runner,” she says from her perch on her silver Trek.
Is she here on purpose? For me?
The possibility thrums enticingly through me. But that makes no sense. Harlow couldn’t be interested in me. Harlow’s younger than me, the world at her feet. It’s foolish to think she’s intentionally riding at the same time as me on a path that runs up and down the city. Bumping into her is simply a New York coincidence. A city of eight million breeds coincidence. That is all.
“Good morning…rider,” I say.
She turns the wheels slowly, keeping pace with me as I go. “You don’t miss a run, do you?”
“I don’t know, Harlow. Maybe I missed the last few weeks,” I say, almost, almost suggestively.
Ah, fuck.
That was a flirting 101 mistake. Now she’ll know I’m aware that I haven’t seen her. She’ll know I’ve noticed when she’s here, and I’ve noticed, too, when she’s not.