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)
I clap him on the shoulder. “Cruz keeps our writers busy, that’s for sure,” I say, then after a quick goodbye, I continue to the writers’ room.
Before I reach it, I hear Isla, her voice carrying to the hall.
“Oh, my god yes, that would be so brilliant,” says the young writer.
Then another voice. “Because you are brilliant, my dear.”
Ian.
I grit my teeth. He can’t call her dear. That’s not okay.
I close the distance and turn into the room as she curls a hand on his arm and points to the laptop screen with her other hand. “Like this?”
He leans in closer, patting her hand on his wrist. “Yes, that is a brilliant punchline.” He looks up and meets my gaze. “Ah, look who’s here!”
There’s zero recognition of the fact that he’s standing that close to an employee. That he just touched a writer on the show.
But who am I to judge? I stand that close to his daughter.
I swallow my “Be careful.”
“Can you meet with the EP?” I ask him, all business.
“Of course,” he says, then he smiles at Isla and waves goodbye. As we walk to the office, he glances back at the writers’ room. “She’s a clever one.”
“Glad we have such talent working on our shows,” I say, focusing on her job, not her fucking arm.
“Me too.”
But it comes out a little too salacious, so I redirect. “How’s Vivian?”
“Incredible,” he says. As we head to our meeting, he waxes on about the woman he supposedly adores.
Maybe the Isla touch was nothing.
I put it out of my mind.
Later that day, while Ian’s on set and I’m back at the Lucky 21 offices, there’s a rap on my door. Sounds like Jules from the double taps. “Hi, Jules,” I call. “Do you have the Afternoon Delight scripts?”
“No. The head writer needs to rework some scenes.”
That’s no good. “They shoot next month.”
“Hopefully it’s plenty of time.” She offers a shrug.
Sure, some shows do rewrites in a night. But Afternoon Delight is a new show. It should be spit-shined and battle ready. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“And your lunch is coming in fifteen minutes. Also, Harlow finished the database. I want to put her to work on cataloging old scripts from the show. They’re in a password-protected file, though. Okay to give the password to her?” she asks.
My neck grows hotter. “Of course.”
Give her anything she wants.
“Thanks,” she says.
As she goes, I try desperately to erase thoughts of me giving Harlow everything she needs, but then I flash back to the pitch Harlow made about working here. Art, French, research. It’s a waste to have her cataloging old scripts. That’s busy work. Harlow’s an intern—a fucking intern, and I’d do well to remember that every second of every day. She’s also a damn smart one, so we might as well use her talents for the benefit of the company.
“Actually, Jules,” I call out.
My assistant stops in the doorway, turning back. “Yes?”
“Could you send her the French translations from the show? And the artwork referenced in the scenes with the museum visits? Ask her to cross-reference them. Make sure they’re all accurate,” I say. That’s a better use of Harlow’s brain.
Jules’s lips twitch like a rabbit’s. “Of course.”
She turns on her heel and leaves.
My lunch arrives shortly, and I eat alone as I review a contract. The only company I have is Patti LuPone as Reno Sweeney, playing faintly from my computer. When I finish, I turn on my tablet, then open a paper notebook. As I review the new coverage Jules sent me on prospective shows, taking notes on the pages, there’s another rap on my door. Double again.
“Hi, Jules,” I say without looking up.
“It’s me.”
Me.
How can one word turn me electric? I set down the pen, look up. Harlow’s brown hair is loose and curling over her shoulders. Her pink lip gloss shines invitingly. She wears a pencil skirt. Black. It hugs her thighs too deliciously.
I don’t even know what to say next, but I don’t have to figure it out because she points at my desk as she closes the door. “You write in pen?” She sounds…enchanted.
“Just some notes on a script. Why?”
And why are you shutting the door? But thank you for that, because I want to talk to you for the rest of the day, and I don’t want to be careful at all.
“That’s cute.”
I growl. “Writing in a pen is cute?”
“So are those notebooks,” she says, walking over to my desk, running her fingertips along the page I was writing on.
“I’m old school,” I say. But maybe she thinks I’m old. Too old for her? Ah, hell. Why am I thinking this? Maybe because I touched her hand the other day, because I send her texts, because she shut the door, and I didn’t stop her.
And because right now, she’s smiling like she has a secret.