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’m his prize, all right. I smile, the bright, shiny kind that charms his friends. Something else I learned from an early age. Be nice to Daddy’s associates and you can do what you want.
“Thank you,” I say to the crowd that’s smiling at me but sucking up to my father.
Except Bridger. He doesn’t need to suck up to my dad. He’s his equal. Equal shares in the company. Equal say. His dark eyes meet mine as the partygoers lift their glasses and give a collective Cheers.
“Thank you so much,” I say.
When the guests return to their networking, my father weaving back into the sea of black and white and gray, the paisley lady says goodbye to Bridger. Buoyed by Layla’s shot of confidence, I’m determined to snag a few minutes of his time before someone else corrals him. So he can see me as a woman, not my father’s daughter.
Like that, I pass my drink to a waitperson and go to him.
4
LUCKY NEW YORK
Harlow
When I reach Bridger, I flash him a grin. “Want a refill?” I ask, eyeing his empty hands, taking a gamble with my offer.
“No thanks,” he says, then his gaze travels to my legs, a smile shifting his lips. “You’re walking without help again.”
A zing rushes down my back. He noticed my legs.
I gesture to my high-heeled feet. “And I have a cool scar,” I say.
His eyebrow lifts. “You do?”
“On my ankle. I’m not sure if the bike cut me up or the cab. Either way, I got marked,” I tell him, a little playfully, then I turn to the side, hoping he enjoys the profile view as I bend, pointing toward the vicinity of the inch-long jagged scar, still pink. “Right there.”
As he looks down, he swallows. Roughly, maybe. Or is that my imagination? “Yeah, that’s some scar,” he says, giving nothing away.
“Guess we’re both cool now,” I say, then tilt my head, weighing the next thing on my mind. “By the way, I didn’t think you’d accept my drink offer.”
He takes a beat. “But you made it anyway?”
“I wanted to see if I was right.”
His brow knits in curiosity. I’ve set the trap. He’s taking my bait. “I’ll bite. Right about what?”
The next words come out cool, casual. Like I’m just this observant about everything. “You don’t drink,” I say.
There’s a glint in his eyes. “You noticed?” He sounds mildly surprised, but I can’t quite tell if he’s making conversation to pass the time or because he enjoys talking to me.
But now’s my chance. I meet his blue-eyed gaze straight on. “I notice things,” I say, nervous and thrilled over the admission.
He’s quiet for a few seconds. Then he says, in that measured, even tone, “Yeah. You do.”
It’s an observation. Maybe a curiosity. Almost impossible to read.
“I do,” I say.
He scratches his jaw, then says, “So NYU, and now a semester in Paris.” Like he needs the conversational shift. “You picked well.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, a grin teasing at my lips. “I’ll be back in December. You can’t take the girl out of New York for long.”
“Lucky New York,” he says, and I want to cup those words in my palms for the rest of the night. The rest of the year.
I smile, buoyed by his response as I work out a reply to keep this going when Dad shoulders his way past me.
The buzz-killer nods at the man I’m in lust with.
“Bridger, I must steal you away. Lionel from the UK office is here,” Dad says.
Yes, of course Lionel from the UK office would attend my celebration.
I grit my teeth in annoyance but just smile like the good daughter. Even though Dad doesn’t even say a word to me. He just whisks Bridger away and that’s the end of that.
Later, I’m still feeling bold from his Lucky New York, like I’ve been shot up with a feel-good drug. Something that makes me feel bigger than the world. I slide into bed, under the covers, touching the wooden box of letters I keep on my nightstand. It’s safe. Then, I place the phone on my pillow, just inches from me. I run my finger along the necklace I wear every day, feeling the shape of the I that hangs from it.
I for the French word intrépidité.
Then, as if champagne is bubbling through me—but it’s not, not one bit—I tap open my text messages. At last, I have a reason to use that number.
I’m brave. I’m intrepid.
Harlow: I notice other things too. Like how good you looked in your shirt.
Then I hit send, a little high, a lot on top of the world.
As I get ready for bed, I check for a reply.
Nothing.
After I slip into a pair of sleep shorts, I look once more.
Silence.
I close my eyes, but sleep is so far away it might as well be in Indonesia.