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 tingle from his confidence. I love that he went for it. That he put himself out there for Fontaine.
I glance around at the press of people, the noise and the buzz, the chatter and the music. Bridger doesn’t like this many people. They make him uncomfortable. They bring him back to a place that hurt him when he was younger. “Do you need to go?”
“I bet you’d like to look at the exhibit,” he says, letting me know he’ll stay for me, he wants me to enjoy myself.
I love the gesture and so, I take it. “I would.”
He lifts a hand, as if to put it on the small of my back. Then he must think the better of it, since he lowers his arm. I miss that hand terribly, but I file away the impulse, tucking it into a folder of moves he’s made toward me.
We circulate, wandering past other letters, stopping at the original of one Zelda Fitzgerald wrote to her husband, F. Scott Fitzgerald, tell him there’s nothing in all the world she wants but him and she’ll do anything to keep his heart for her own.
When I finish the letter, my chest twinges for the sender, then I say, “It’s a beautiful letter, don’t you think?”
“It is, even though they had a complicated relationship.”
I want to ask: But do we? But now’s not the time nor place—not when I’m still cultivating an us. Instead, I ask, “Do you think these letters are all lies?”
“No. I just think we see what we want to see. People show what they want to show. But every letter has some other story behind it.”
Story.
That word reverberates.
It echoes in my bones.
Maybe in Bridger’s, too, since he adds, almost reverently, “And backstory.”
Then, I swear I can see ideas flicker in his blue eyes. A puzzle solved. “Harlow,” he says, like he’s found buried treasure. “That’s what we were saying is missing from Afternoon Delight.”
“Right, yes.” Where is he going with this?
He glances around. We’re surrounded by people. Too many ears. Then he tips his forehead to the door.
I follow him, spilling out into the New York night, away from the crowded gallery, then he calls his driver, motions for me to join him—like I’d go anywhere else. I’m breathless with anticipation. When the car pulls over, he asks the driver to head all the way up to Central Park.
Oh, yes.
That gives us plenty of time alone together.
22
A CHAMPAGNE KISS
Harlow
The second the driver closes the door, Bridger blurts out, “What if every episode of Afternoon Delight starts with a letter. It’s framed around a letter, a love letter that reveals some of the protagonist’s past?”
The hair on my arms stands on end. “That’s brilliant!”
“You like it?”
“I love it,” I say, and as the car weaves through the Village, we trade ideas for the Afternoon Delight story. Then, when I explain the pub crawl style of the love letters exhibit, he says confidently, with not a shred of concern, “We should go together tomorrow night. To the next exhibit. And to the last one.”
Together.
He’s made a move.
Toward me.
A huge one.
“Yes. Yes,” I say again, giddy on ideas, on us, on this night.
Bridger looks the same. Lit up, a little high.
“Is this how it feels to drink champagne?” I ask in a whisper.
He’s quiet, his brow knitting, his eyes darkening. Then he says, “I think you’re what it feels like to drink champagne.”
My heart stutters.
His jaw clenches. Then he takes a sharp breath through his nostrils. Closes his eyes. He’s working through the problem of me again.
Let him. Let him solve the problem. The only solution he’ll find for me is, well, me.
When he opens his eyes, they’re wild and fiery.
He beckons. One finger. That’s all. I’m so there. I move in seconds, climb on top of him, hiking up my skirt, straddling his lap.
His hands curl around my hips in no time.
God, this feels so good. Me on him. His hands on me. Us touching. Everywhere.
“Harlow,” he says, like my name is his breath.
“Have some champagne,” I say.
Then, he wraps his hands around my waist. I rope mine around his neck. There’s a pause, heated, fragrant. I can smell both of us wanting.
Needing.
My stomach whooshes. I ache as I wait for him to kiss me. But no kiss comes. Instead, he lifts his hand from my hip, then traces my bottom lip with it.
Then my top lip.
Next, he brushes his finger along my chin, my jawline, over the shell of my ear.
Somehow, it’s both more tender and more thrilling than a kiss. It’s like he’s memorizing me with his hands. Drawing me, remembering me.
For when he can’t do this.
But I ignore that voice of doom as best I can.
Here and now, in this car, cruising through the Manhattan night on some avenue, some street, in some time, I’m his to have.