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)
There, I see Bridger, his evening stubble lining his chiseled jaw, his forest-green shirt hugging his biceps. He’s giving a bouquet of purple gerbera daisies to the happy couple. Vivian takes them, hugs them to her chest, then smiles magnificently at her fiancé’s business partner.
My father claps Bridger on the back affectionately, then shifts his focus to another set of guests as Vivian sets down the flowers on a table.
Bridger spins around, searching, and—I hope—finding what he wants when his gaze lands on me.
For a few breath-held seconds, there’s delight in his dark blue eyes. Like he’s glad I’m here. Like I’m that person you glom onto when you don’t want to talk to anyone else.
He’s that person for me.
I take a step closer, caught up in him. He nods toward the flowers. His eyes darken. “Your favorite,” he says, a tease of a smile on his lips.
My heart slams against my ribs.
He got them for them. But really, they’re for me.
Could this be what I’ve been looking for? The sign I’ve been hoping to find on this flirtation road?
The man remembered my favorite flowers from months ago. “They are,” I whisper, my voice feathery as I corroborate his observation. “Maybe I’ll take them home tonight.”
“Maybe you should.”
Maybe we are accomplices. Maybe we both need this complicit escape from the madhouse of my father’s engagement. Maybe it’s not just me.
I don’t look elsewhere. I don’t care if I’m giving away what’s happening inside me when I look at him, when I’m near him.
I tingle all over, then one more time when he makes the next move, asking, “How was your day?”
“It was good,” I say. “How was yours?”
“Not bad. I went for a run,” he says, with a wink in his tone.
I light up. “I went for a ride,” I say.
I don’t say the next thing—I didn’t see you.
But I know what he’s not saying.
I didn’t see you either, Harlow. I looked for you. My days are better when I run into you.
My vague daydreams about him don’t feel so vague any longer. They feel possible. And I know, in this second, it’s time to make a plan.
7
DEBRIEFING THE CREW
Harlow
The benefit of Layla attending school in New York City too comes a few days later when she, Ethan and I are able to meet at a trendy new falafel shop on the upper edge of Manhattan.
I count down the hours all day until I can see them. Until I can tell them. I’m giddy to share with my best friends the plan I’ve concocted.
When I arrive at seven, I could burst with the details, but I’ve held in this secret for so long already. I can wait till I find just the right opening in the evening.
Once I’m inside, I spot Ethan. He’s corralled a high-top table by the window, and he’s as sharp as ever in jeans, a red Henley, and deliberately messy brown hair. “This is the best people-watching spot in the neighborhood,” he says as I join him, kissing his cheek.
“Good. And nice beard,” I say approvingly, patting his new scruff.
“Thanks. It works,” he says, with a casual shrug.
“On everyone, I bet,” I say.
He answers with you know it eyes.
Seconds later, Layla sails in, looking like a pinup, even in jeans and a polka-dot high-neck blouse.
Once she’s seated, the server swings by, and I order a bubbly water, while Ethan asks for a martini and Layla a mojito. The server checks their IDs, then, satisfied, says he’ll be back soon.
“The cocktails here are fantastic,” Ethan adds as the server walks away.
“And yet you ordered the most boring drink,” Layla says drily, chiding him.
“Please. Who ever said martinis were boring?” he asks with an eye roll.
“I say it,” Layla retorts, and I half want to tell them to stop ping-ponging because I have news, but I also love to watch their verbal games. I always have. So I let myself enjoy the show as a spectator. There will be time to share soon enough.
“Because mojitos are un-dull?” he asks, with an arch of his brow.
“Mojitos are sexy,” she declares, then licks her red lips, because of course Layla wears red lipstick.
Ethan shoots her a doubtful stare. “So let me get this straight. You think some gorgeous guy is going to pick you up because you ordered a mojito?”
Layla shrugs playfully. “Studies have shown mojitos attract older men.”
He cracks up. “Well, then. Bring on the silver foxes,” he says, then turns to me, an expectant look in his hazel eyes. He drums his hands on the table, like he’s playing my walk-up song. “So, what do you want for your big day?”
“Let me guess. What every Upper East Sider wants,” Layla says. “Access to the first level of her trust fund.”
“But of course,” I laugh, since they know how mine is set up—some of it I can access this year, but most of it when I’m twenty-five. Hunter’s is the same way, though his payout on his twenty-first birthday was modest, so I’m not banking on these funds. Besides, I want to be my own woman. Make my own money. “Anyway, you know I just want to hang out with my favorite people on Saturday night,” I tell them.