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)
My reply is not worthy of this photo.
At the speed of sound, I write back again.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
I hit send.
Her dots stop dancing. Then start again.
You know it’s the same for me.
In the morning, I go to a breakfast meeting near Grand Central with a casting director. Then, I swing by the Chrysler Building to see a brand marketer we work with. In the late morning, I’m finally on the way to the office when my mother texts. As I head toward the revolving brass doors, I open the message.
Mom: Darling! I’ll be in New York next month. Can you believe it? I’m doing a cabaret with some friends. And we’re throwing a party at Sardi’s that night. You must come!
I have no interest in Sardi’s. No interest in a boozy night out with her pals. But I should go. She is my mom. It’s only ever been us.
Bridger: I’ll be there. Can’t wait.
That’s a lie, but it’s not the worst one I’ve told lately. When I reach the black building, I brace myself for more lies. Bigger lies. I put on my armor so I can pretend I’m not losing my mind over my partner’s daughter.
As I ride the elevator, my phone pings. It’s Harlow. My breath hitches. Annoying, my reaction. But I click open the note instantly.
Harlow: Hey! Jules sent me to the set today. I’ve been here all morning. She said they needed me over there more than at the office today.
Hmm. That’s unusual, but I suppose she should go where she’s best able to be used. I reach the fourteenth floor, then head down the hallway when another message from Harlow lights up my phone. The preview says something about a lunch she’s trying to set up with Jules.
But I don’t open it since my assistant is waiting for me in my office.
Jules stares at me, her eyes like bullets. “I know what’s going on with Harlow.”
24
JUST SOME BOOK
Harlow
My dad called me from Cape Cod a few minutes ago, asking for my help. Now, phone pressed to my ear as I talk to him, I’m hunting through the books in a library on the set. A ladder rests against tall shelves of tomes, spines sticking out, inviting hands to touch.
And many hands have touched the books here.
Backs have too.
And let’s not forget butts.
Since my father and his writing staff have written countless make-out sessions that take place in this studio.
This is the library in Cruz’s penthouse on Sweet Nothings. The rich playboy who can’t be tied down. He’s a fan favorite on the show, so he has a new romantic arc every season.
I don’t want to think too hard on whether my father imagines he’s Cruz or not. I don’t want to think too hard on my father at all.
Especially after last night.
I simply want to help Dad so I can get off the phone with him stat and connect with Jules about some things that have been on my mind. I sent her a text seconds ago to see if she could meet me for lunch shortly, but then my dad called so I haven’t been able to check if Jules has responded.
I’m antsy to see if she wrote back. Antsier to talk to her.
At the moment though, my father desperately needs me to find a certain book in the library. But he can’t remember which book he wants. It’s on the shelf closest to some paintings, Dad says. So I’m his ears and his eyes while he’s out of town.
Alone here, I scan the shelves nearest the character’s collection of modern art, reading off the names to Dad on the phone. “Anna Karenina. The Pelican Brief. Carrie. This is an odd collection.”
“Cruz has wide and varied tastes.”
“Or he likes to show off,” I say, then read the next one. “Romeo and Juliet.”
“That’s not the one. That’s tragic,” Dad says with a laugh. I can hear birds chirping off in the distance, then the faint sound of ocean waves. Bet he rented a fantastic beach house for his getaway with Vivian.
“I know it’s tragic. I did read it,” I point out, then continue on, reading more names of more books. With each, I’m met with a no, or a not that one, or definitely not that one.
Dad’s so focused on finding a book whose name he can’t remember that now seems as good a time as any to drop in a question. Being with Bridger is just easier with Dad out of town.
“How long will you be on Cape Cod?” I ask him, as blasé as I can muster, as run-of-the-mill as I’d normally inquire about his whereabouts. He’s been on the Cape for a few days now—last weekend and into this week.
“Oh, you know. As long as I need to,” he says, airily, and if that’s not evasive I don’t know what it is.