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)
Maybe I’m just a silly girl.
Maybe I’m—
I slow my pace around the edge of the park when something gold comes into view.
Is that a birdcage over there by a bench? I walk to it. Tilt my head. It’s gilded, a home for a bougie parrot. There’s an equally fancy sign hanging from the bars in an ornate frame.
Better than TV—free to a good home.
I shake my head in amusement, then do what any good New Yorker would do. I snap a picture of it and post it on my social feed, titling it TV for hipsters?
As I cover the last few blocks, my nerves fade. Maybe I simply needed a distraction and photography did the trick.
When I reach the black building, I take the elevator up to the office I know so well on the fourteenth floor. There I give my name to the peppy receptionist—Christian—but he playfully rolls his eyes. “Hush, Harlow. I know you,” he says.
Right. Of course.
I’m the picture of nepotism. Will everyone hate me? Think that they’re here on merit, but I’m here on…well, I’m here on scheme.
Regret swirls in my gut. This was a bad decision.
Christian pops up from the desk and ushers me down the hall. “How is your morning so far, Ms. Granger? Can I get you a coffee? Tea?”
He’s trying to wait on me. This can’t be good. I can’t have the people who work here thinking they need to tend to daddy’s girl.
“I’m great, Christian. Thanks for asking,” I say, and up ahead I spot Bridger’s door. It’s wide open.
“If anything changes, let me know,” Christian says, then flashes a helpful smile, bordering on obsequious.
“You don’t ever have to get me a drink,” I assure him.
“We’ll see…” Christian says, singsong.
I may not win this battle. And as we pass Bridger’s office, I lose another battle, since I can’t resist stealing a glance. I don’t see him, though. I only hear him, saying, “I’ll be there at three. Yes. We can discuss the credits then.”
I wonder if he’ll invite me to the meeting. Discussing credits seems like part of what I’m here for.
Seconds later, Christian sweeps out his arm, indicating a group of cubicles. “The interns,” he says, then whispers, “You’re hardly one.”
But I am. I truly am. “I’m definitely one.”
He rolls his eyes again and sails back to reception as a woman with immovable brown hair rises from a chair, then sticks out a hand. “I’m Jules Marley. Bridger James’s administrative assistant. I’ll see you to your projects,” she says with robotic efficiency. “And I can definitely help you feel like an intern.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m working on a…database.
I don’t see Bridger all day.
Guess Jules was right.
When I arrive on Tuesday, Bridger’s not in his office. Jules mentions something about an off-site meeting. “You can organize the production photos in the Dropbox folder,” she says crisply.
“Great,” I say, injecting all the pep in the world into my voice. “I’m happy to do it.”
“Good,” she says, then gives me the login and leaves me to it.
I spend the day sorting.
So fun.
On Wednesday, I get to—wait for it—check links.
Woohoo.
Okay, fine. Website links break. It’s important to check them and blah, blah, blah, but this is mind-numbing work. When I’m rappelling down the rabbit hole of Sweet Nothings episodes links, my eyes turn heavy. My brain feels syrupy, and my mind drifts to other days, other places.
Then, I jerk my head. Where am I?
Shoot. I can’t fall asleep at my cube.
I push back from my chair, glancing around to make sure no one saw me snooze for even a few seconds, and make my way to the lobby to grab a tea at the coffee shop there. I order quickly, and once I have an English Breakfast in hand, I spin toward the exit. But then I stop and stifle a gasp.
Bridger is swiping his ID tag through the lobby turnstiles and reading on his phone as he strides into the building. His dusky blue suit hugs his legs, caresses his arms, and accentuates his ass.
He’s beelining for the elevator. Perfect. I’m cutting across the lobby with the same destination. I arrive ahead of him, and he looks up when he reaches me. The second his eyes land on mine, he squeezes his phone harder, as if to keep it from clattering to the floor.
“Hi,” he says, businesslike, as if we didn’t once flirt on the bike path. “How’s it going, Harlow?”
I don’t know what to make of him, but I have an idea. “It’s…good,” I say, since I don’t want to complain.
The elevator arrives. He holds out his arm. I step inside. The doors shut. “How are you?”
“Just busy. Lots of meetings. You know how it goes here.”
But that’s the problem. I don’t know how it goes here. Bridger’s supposed to show me, but he’s shutting me out, avoiding me.