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)
But my father taught me better than to stand and gawk, so I weave through the crowds, scanning for Table Twelve in the center of the room. I move past the A-list of the television industry and spot my father there, his arm curved around Vivian’s waist, grandly entertaining some agents from Astor Agency, I presume.
Vivian chimes in, it seems, laughing, then saying something I can’t make out. She seems…happy.
Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.
Dominic from the show is with them, with his red-carpet grin.
I keep my focus on my father as I walk, but my stomach churns. My chest aches too with a new pain, a new fear.
I’m going to be the instrument of his hurt.
Even if he doesn’t disown me, he’s going to be so disappointed in me.
Maybe even angry.
But I do my best to shove those emotions to a far corner in the back of my mind as I near the table.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of red hair a few tables away. Isla’s here. Sweet Nothings was nominated for an award, and she’s the head writer.
Weird that she’s not hanging around Table Twelve. She’s talking to a man at another table. No idea what that means—if it means anything at all. But I have enough trouble of my own; I don’t need to borrow it from others.
When I reach my father, he turns to me, beaming. “Harlow! At long last, my princess,” he says.
I wither inside. He has no idea. Of course he has no idea that tomorrow I’m going to blindside him.
Maybe I’m the selfish asshole.
Words well up inside me, and I’m dying to spit out the truth right now.
But for one last night, I’ll play the role I’ve played my whole entire life. The good daughter.
“Hi, Dad,” I say and give a kiss to his cheek.
“I’m so glad you could be here. Tell me everything about the new job,” he says, playing the part of the doting papa. Only, neither one of us is acting. My father does adore me. And I am a good girl.
But he is also a liar and an addict.
As for me? I’m not a princess. I’m just a flawed young woman.
We are all good and bad in our own ways. But the difference is who we hurt with our shades of gray.
I’m faithful. He’s not.
“It’s going great.” We make small talk for the next few minutes, and it’s the most surreal moment of my life. All I want to do is blurt out the truth.
“And the installation will be done on Monday,” I finish. Then my skin tingles, and I just know.
Bridger’s here.
I spin around. My heart thunders at the sight of him moving through the crowd, his tux hugging his strong frame, his jawline shaven, his eyes locked on me.
I’m sure he can’t help the way he can’t stop looking at me. My smile grows dangerously wide as he nears us.
It takes all my willpower not to run to him, to fling myself into his arms. I’ve missed him so much. I want our future so badly. But I’ve spent a year being patient. I’ll spend another few hours doing the same.
When he arrives, he tears his gaze from me like it pains him.
“Hello, Ian,” he says.
But it’s different from any greeting I’ve heard him give my father before. It’s tight. Clipped.
Did something happen in Paris between them?
If so, my father doesn’t let on. He simply claps Bridger on the shoulder and says, “Let’s hope we win Best Show for the fifth year in a row. It’ll make it even sweeter when we present the final award of the night.”
Bridger doesn’t answer. He simply says hello to Vivian, the guests from Astor, to Dominic and then me.
Here we are, at the gala I longed to attend when I was younger. I’m in the center of all the festivities. Everyone is lovely, but I’m not a part of this world. I belong in SoHo, or Tribeca. I’m at home in The Frick, or the Ashanti Gallery. My heart lies in the St. James Theatre, and the rest of the theaters on the Great White Way where I can get lost in a musical.
With that man.
The one across from me. The one I’m pretending I’m not with all throughout dinner, all throughout dessert, all throughout these conversations.
Even though Bridger keeps stealing glances at me.
Finally, there’s a break before the awards start, so I grab my purse and head for the ladies’ room.
Inside, I touch up my lip gloss and check the time. I half wish we were at a diner, Bridger and me, eating French fries, gabbing about his trip.
Maybe tomorrow.
Once I leave and turn down the hall, Bridger’s walking toward me.
With purpose. With intensity.
With desire in his eyes.
My stomach swoops.
He’s where I belong too.
I turn around, head back down the hall, scan the area. There’s an alcove off to the left—a quiet nook with a chair just past the ladies’ room. I nod to it then turn in. He’s there seconds later, and I’m vibrating. He balls his hands into fists so he doesn’t touch me, and I do the same.