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)
“That is true.” He takes a beat, twirls his pen once more. “And you? Where did your love come from?”
“My mom. When I was younger, she took me to everything. I barely remember her, but I remember how it felt when she took me to the theater. When the overture would play, she’d say, Do you feel that? The magic?”
“And did you? Feel it?”
“I did,” I say, breathless, my voice feathery. “I still do.”
“Magic is how I felt too,” he says, reverently, like we’re both cupping that magic in our hands.
And then, because you should always leave them wanting more, I go.
Knowing he’s wanting more.
That night, he emails me the scripts.
Bridger: Just some bedtime reading.
Harlow: Good thing I’m in bed.
Bridger: Then you’ll have company. I’m reading them too.
Harlow: In bed?
Bridger: Yes.
He sends me a photo of his tablet, on his duvet. The cover is dove-gray, and an outrageous thrill runs through me at this window into his private life. I run my thumb along the cover like I can feel the cotton. Like I can smell the fresh sheets. Like I can slide under them and then on top of him.
Like I can run my hands down his chest, along his arms, through his hair. A pulse beats between my legs, insistent. Then, I take a picture of my tablet, resting on my bedcover. I send it along.
Bridger: White. With flowers. That’s fitting, your duvet.
Harlow: Am I flowery?
Bridger: No. But those flowers are extraordinary.
I feel extraordinary with him.
14
EVERYTHING TO LOSE
Bridger
On Friday, I’m in meetings around the city, stewing on the problem in Afternoon Delight in between. I don’t bother Ian. He’s heading out of town with Vivian on Sunday, but since he punted the script my way, that’s a sign he has no fucking idea what’s wrong with the story.
But I have a hunch why it’s not working. I want to fix it. Right now. Right away. Maybe if I do, I can stop obsessing over Harlow.
If I solve this problem, maybe my mind will let go of its incessant need to talk to her.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But I want to tell her too what the trouble in the script is. I’m dying to know if she’s spotted it as well.
I shouldn’t want to share, but I do.
As I walk to my next meeting in Tribeca, I make myself a promise—I’ll only tell her if she brings it up.
There. That’s a good limit.
After I finish my meeting, I return to Columbus Circle, my limit front and center in my mind. Once I reach the fourteenth floor, I say hello to Christian at reception, then head down the hall. When I round the corner into my office, Harlow flies in. Vibrating with energy. Looking incredible in that black skirt.
“I know what’s wrong,” she announces, eyes wide with delight.
I light up with the thrill of problem-solving. “Me too.”
“There’s no backstory,” she announces. “For the hero.”
Yes. Fucking yes. She got it.
“I don’t know enough about Austin,” I add, enthused.
“No wonder the writers said it needs work,” she says, equally excited.
“And I want to care about Austin.”
“We need more insight into him,” she zings back.
We stand inches away, exchanging ideas. This is like foreplay, this back and forth. But I should be boss-like. I should be businesslike. I clear my throat. “Can you write up a report on Tuesday? Since the office is closed on Monday.”
“I’d love to. I’ll work on it over the weekend.”
“You don’t have to work over the long weekend,” I say.
“I don’t mind. I’m happy to talk more about it now too, if you want.”
I glance at the clock on the wall. “I have a few calls then I have to go to a thing,” I say, the last word tasting sour. “A cocktail party.”
“Want me to go with you?” she asks, kind and friendly.
More than you can ever know.
“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” she adds in a whisper, so no one else can hear. “I could be your wing-woman?”
Am I that obvious with my disdain for events? Perhaps I am to her. Talking to her is easier than talking to anyone else. She’s the opposite of my days, of deals, of problems, of negotiations. She feels like a solution to them, even though my feelings for her are the biggest problem of all—a conundrum tucked inside a riddle.
But I want her to solve all my riddles, so I shut the door this time. She moves to one end of the couch. I sit on a chair across from it. “Why do you think I need one?” I ask, desperate to know if she truly sees through me.
If she sees me.
“You don’t like parties,” she says plainly.
“You noticed.”
“I told you. I notice things.”
I’m a little amazed at how she lasers in on me. Or perhaps a lot amazed. And completely charmed. “You notice everything,” I say.