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)
xo
B
29
YOU ARE JUST
Harlow
After Andy hangs the painting that morning, I call an impromptu meeting of the Virgin Society for late Friday afternoon in Abingdon Square, a little triangular patch of park atop the Village. It’s an oasis in Manhattan, with benches and trees and so much greenery.
Another benefit? It’s right next to Lulu’s Café, an extension of the chocolate shop.
The three of us nurse iced hot chocolates in the park while Layla preps me for tomorrow’s meeting with Amelie, and I try to stay in the moment and not jump ahead fifteen minutes to when I’ll see Bridger.
Layla issues me a stern, no-nonsense stare. “And where do you see yourself in five years?” she asks, role-playing Amelie, while Ethan snags her iced chocolate drink to take a sip.
Before I can answer and before he can drink, he mutters, “Between Bridger’s legs, sucking him off.”
I smack him. “Shut up.”
Layla simply stares at Ethan, her eyebrows saying well played. Then, she clears her throat. “As I was saying, in five years, do you see yourself giving him a humdinger under his desk, or in your living room while your firstborn naps?”
“You’re both fired!” I shout.
“From friendship? Because it seems like you’ll be firing yourself from the Virgin Society soon,” Ethan points out, then finally takes that sip.
“That was always my goal,” I say, then I look at Layla. “Stop distracting me from work talk with sex talk. This was your idea. You wanted to prep me for tomorrow.”
“And I also enjoy naughty tales. So sue me,” she says with a shrug.
She asks the five-year question again, I answer eloquently, and with that done, I declare that I’m ready for tomorrow.
Ethan pats my thigh. It’s mostly bare. Well, I am wearing a short, blue plaid skirt. “So, does your dad know you quit?”
“I haven’t told him. He hasn’t asked either. He’s probably too busy with Vivian. I’ll tell him soon, though.”
“Speaking of, what happens with you and the birthday present,” Ethan says, wagging his eyebrows, “when Daddy’s back?”
My stomach twists. I’m not sure when my father’s vacation is ending, but he can’t stay away forever. He loves work too much. That’s the problem. He’ll always work with Bridger. “Bridger and I haven’t talked about that. I don’t even want to broach it yet. Everything is so…fragile and dangerous.”
“Ooh, that sounds like lyrics to a new Ethan song,” Layla says brightly.
Ethan knits his brow and nods to a beat in his head, getting a rhythm. “Like, my heart is fragile with you…but dangerous to us,” he improvises in a beautiful tenor with a touch of gravel.
“Stop showing off your talent,” I tease.
He checks the time on his phone. “I should return to the rehearsal studio. The guys will be back.”
I perk up. “How is it going?”
Ethan’s been riffing with his new band, and he stole away to meet us while they ran errands.
“Oh, you know how it goes. You love it and hate it and beat yourself up all at once,” he says.
“So…it’s like any other type of art.”
“Exactly.”
Layla hops up too. “I should go. Mom has a charity thing for me tonight. Wish me luck.”
I say goodbye, and once they head out into the Friday rush hour, I check the time. Bridger will be here in ten minutes.
I can’t wait to see him. And to finally get the details.
I asked him earlier how he pulled off the gift, but he said he’d tell me when he picked me up on the way to the Ashanti Gallery in Brooklyn. Patience, honey, he’d written.
How can I have patience when you gave me this beauty?
Then I sent him a photo of the art hanging on my wall. Andy the Handyman worked fast.
Right on time, Bridger’s town car pulls up, and he steps out of the back, looking sinfully beautiful in dark slacks that hug his legs and a shirt the color of rich red wine. Fine stubble lines his jaw.
His eyes twinkle—he looks so damn pleased. Maybe he’s been grinning wickedly all day after pulling off his very own art heist for me.
I nearly can’t stand how good I feel right now. How fizzy my body is. I head toward him, but he’s faster. With purposeful steps, he strides across the park to meet me. When he reaches me, he looks down at the cup in my hand. “Anything good?”
“It’s an iced chocolate,” I say as if I’m floating—on the whole damn day, on the possibilities of tonight. Since my brother’s arriving later, we have little time together this evening, so I want to savor every second. I offer him the drink. “Do you want to try it?”
“Yes,” he says, watching me as he takes a sip from the same metal straw my lips touched moments ago.
It’s heady.
When he lets go, his gaze drifts to the lip gloss remnants on the straw. “I can taste chocolate and your lip gloss.”