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)
In the morning, I wake to a blinking icon. I catch my breath.
Bridger: Thanks. Bespoke makes great shirts.
Hmm. Well, it’s not what I wanted but it’s something. It’s more than a thanks. Maybe it’s even an opening.
Once I’m up and out of bed, I find my dad in the kitchen, brewing a cup of tea and nuzzling Joan’s neck.
“Morning, love,” he says to me when he pulls away from his fiancée.
“Hello, Harlow,” Joan says with a slightly embarrassed grin, like they were caught doing more than neck kissing.
I’ve seen so much worse, honey.
“Hi Joan. Hi Dad,” I say breezily, then head for the fruit basket to grab a peach. When I finish it, I say, “I’m going for a bike ride.”
It’s my first time in the saddle since I broke my ankle, and my scar makes me feel intrepid as I ride.
5
THIS COLOR WOULD LOOK GOOD ON YOU
Harlow
A week later, I’m shopping in the Village with Layla and Ethan at a trendy boutique. He needs a sexy shirt for our last weekend in the Hamptons. Layla needs a barely there top. I need nothing—I’m not trying to impress anyone at our final party before we fan out to universities around the world next week for our senior years.
When they head to the dressing room, I wander around the men’s clothing section, running my fingers over the shirts.
Then, my gaze catches on the brand name on one tag.
Bespoke.
I glance around, furtive.
This would be risky. A little wild.
But the risk fuels me. I hold up the teal button-down shirt in front of me. It’s too big, of course. It’s a men’s large.
Grabbing my phone, I angle the camera just so.
I don’t show my face. Instead, I snap a pic of the shirt fabric laying against me.
That’s all. Before I can think better of it, I send it with the caption: This color would look good on you.
I tuck the phone away, resisting its insistent pull for the next hour. But when I’m nibbling on a chickpea dish at a sidewalk café Ethan picks for lunch, my phone buzzes.
Immediately, my chest zings.
It has to be him.
When I grab it in less than a second, Ethan smirks. “Hot new date?”
I scoff, but then I sizzle when I read Bridger’s note. Thanks for the fashion tip.
It’s just a chaste note. It’s just a thanks.
But it’s also a response.
I feel elated and defeated at the same time in equal measure. “Just a friend,” I say, then set the phone facedown.
Layla arches a perfectly groomed brow. She’s not taking this one lying down. “Just a friend?”
“Just a friend,” I repeat, since I’m not sure that he’s anything more.
“Are you sure?” she asks, staring at me, like she can extract the truth with her eyes.
“Is there a reason Harlow would be unsure?” Ethan asks curiously, jumping in.
“I’m positive,” I say firmly, then flip my hair off my shoulder. “So, what do we want to do first when we hit East Hampton on our final weekend?”
Layla’s blue eyes say she knows what I’m doing but her mouth says, “The beach, of course.”
Ethan shakes his head. “No, the pool. Your pool is unfairly obscene,” he says, emphatically.
“But is something obscene truly unfair?” she counters, like they’re having a philosophical argument.
Thoughtfully, Ethan taps his regal chin, the perfect match to his classical nose. He’s a looker all right, all blue-blood, Upper East Side, matinee-idol pretty. He’s attracted all the guys and gals in college.
As they debate the semantics of obscenity, I hide a smile rising inside me.
Maybe this text is just the start of something.
On Sunday night, we cruise home from the Hamptons in Layla’s sweet sports car, exhausted from the sun, the water, and our last time together for a while.
“I’ll miss you all,” I say after she pulls up in front of my brownstone and gets out.
“I’ll miss you more,” she chimes in, throwing her arms around me.
“I’ll miss you the most,” Ethan says, not to be outdone.
“Group hug,” I declare, and we smoosh each other until tears are rolling, since the end of summer is always sweet and bittersweet.
Finally, I tear myself away from my friends and say goodbye.
Later that week, I’m in my room packing my suitcase for my semester abroad—clothing, a few books, a couple keepsakes. My father ordered his limo driver to take me to the airport tomorrow. Dad’s so extra, but I can’t complain.
I FaceTime Hunter, even though it’s late in London. “You better come see me,” he says. Hunter has an English mom and mostly grew up in London. But his accent is less posh than Dad’s.
“Same to you,” I say. “You’ll only be a Chunnel train ride away.”
We chat some more then I say goodbye, and after I zip my last bag, I flop back on my bed, checking the time on my phone. Eleven.