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)
Allison Tanaka-Fontaine is the way to his business heart, and I know Allison. I know too where she’ll be this week. I show the screen on my tablet to my friends, a spark of nerves lighting up in me. I hope this strategy pans out. “What do you think?” I ask.
With a decisive nod, Layla declares, “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”
I laugh. “Is it, though?”
She slides closer, rests her chin on my warm shoulder. “It’s honestly brilliant.”
Ethan whistles in appreciation. “You are a steely-eyed seductress.”
“I don’t know if it’ll work.” But I’m giddy with hope.
“Won’t know till you try,” he says.
“So try, Harlow. Try,” Layla urges but I’m already there.
I’ve been looking for an opening, and I’ve found it. I send an email to the wife of the TV writer Bridger wants badly, since I met her at MoMA last year, and I make a request.
That night, Ethan, Layla and I go out dancing, arms high, hips bumping, music thrumming. I’m having the best night, but still I can’t wait for this glorious summer weekend to end.
On the way to work on Tuesday, I spot a black rotary phone on the stoop of a brownstone. Odd. Is it headed for someone’s vintage collection or destined for the trash? I snap a picture, then post it with the caption: Coming or going?
Even though I’ve already finished my report, I want to read it over again and then send it at just the right time.
I wait till the end of the day, then email it to Bridger. As closing time nears, Jules packs up. “Time to go,” she says.
“I’ve got a little more to do.”
She arches a brow. “Suit yourself.”
I will, Jules. I fucking will.
Once everyone leaves, including Jules—especially Jules—I head to Bridger’s office and rap twice.
“Come in,” he says, and I stride inside and then shut the door with finality—a loud, declarative click.
“What did you think?” I ask.
He laughs. “You think I read it already?”
“I think you read it as soon as it landed twenty minutes ago,” I say, feeling confident and powerful.
“I think your report is brilliant. And I think the phone is going.” There’s a sparkle in those blue eyes as he confesses he’s looked up my photos—a confession that makes me feel bubbly.
“I think it’s coming. Or staying, I should say,” I add.
“I can see that too,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine.
Now I feel more than bubbly. I feel…bold. I move closer, jutting out a hip against the side of his desk.
His eyes travel up and down my legs like he’s fighting not to but can’t resist. Good thing I like wearing skirts as much as he likes looking at my legs. “Did Carlos get you that intro to Fontaine?” I ask, prompting him.
“He’s still working on it.”
I smile, but it’s a small one so I don’t let on how thrilled I am that Carlos hasn’t quite come through. “Then, what are you doing tomorrow night?” I ask.
For a second, he startles. I’ve surprised him. Good. He’s most pliable when he’s off-kilter. “I’m working,” he answers.
I shake my head, then pop up onto his desk, perching my butt on the edge. “No, we’re going to the Petra Gallery. There’s an exhibit. Allison Tanaka-Fontaine is a silent partner in the business.”
It’s like watching a sunrise, the way his smile spreads, slow and unstoppable. “You’re indispensable,” he says as if amazed by me.
Good. I want to amaze him.
“I got us on the VIP list,” I add.
“You did?”
“I sure did.” I go for the kill, crossing my legs and leaning a little closer. “I wanted to do this for you.”
“Harlow,” he says, a low warning.
“We can go together,” I say, pushing more. I’m not letting this chance pass me by.
“Together?” he asks, like he’s never heard the word, never uttered it.
I slide my palm farther across his desk. I’m at a sharper angle now. The kind that shows off hips, and curves, and breasts. All the places he wants to touch me. “Yes, like a date,” I say, and I should be nervous. But I’m not. I’ve been working up to this moment for the last year. I’m simply ready for my gift.
“This is a bad idea,” he warns.
He’s wrong. It’s not a bad idea at all. “Are you sure about that?”
Another harsh breath. His eyes close. The man is at war. Well, some men need to chase. I sit up, hop off the desk, head to the door.
The wheels of his chair squeak.
In no time he’s up too, grabbing my wrist, yanking me around, and jerking me against him.
My wrist tingles. My body sings.
He glares at me, fire in his eyes. “You have done nothing but tempt me for the last few weeks,” he hisses.
An accusation. And also the truth.
“Good,” I whisper in a taunt.
“Why the fuck are you tempting me?” He bites it out, but it’s not a question for me. It’s for the universe. It’s rhetorical.