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 stay cool and calm and focus on the facts. “We’ve had a good run, but it’s best we move on. I hope you understand that the buyout benefits you much more than me, and I’m willing to do that. Because I love Harlow, and I plan to be with her,” I say, using her name rather than saying your daughter.
He drags a hand through his hair. “Really, Bridger? You’re really leaving the company?” he asks, like he doesn’t believe I’d ever leave. But staying isn’t an option now. That’s my other unforgivable act—the company is the next most important thing to him. It’s his connection to Felicity. It’s the way he understood the world after she left it. Sweet Nothings has become more than her successful series. It’s become his tales of sex and affairs twined on top of her love stories.
It’s his, and he can have it.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” I say.
But Ian’s still desperate, borderline begging. “We run it better together.”
Huh. He needs me. In this moment, he needs me. But he can’t have everything he wants. He’d always remind me I’m with his daughter. He’d always needle me that I took her from him. My love for her would always be between us.
Once again, I choose her. “You’ll do fine on your own,” I say.
Another groan. Another bitten-off curse. “You’re going to blow up what we’ve built for something that might not—”
“Don’t go there,” I bite out, cutting him off. He’d never say something cruel about her, but I don’t need him to insult how he thinks I’ll treat her or how committed I am. “Whatever you were going to say next, don’t.”
He huffs through his nostrils, turns to Harlow, and pleads. “Come back. Stay for the rest of the awards, at least.”
She smiles sadly. “I appreciate the invitation for tonight, and I’m sorry I can’t stay. But it’s really time for me to go.”
He sputters, trying to say something, anything, and finally spits out, “Where in the bloody hell are you going? We have to present an award.”
Like that matters.
With Harlow’s hand in mine, I take a few steps to go, then I toss back, “Feel free to present the last award solo. I have a date. I’m taking out the woman I love.”
I let out a long, deep breath. Of relief. Of possibility. Of a future that I want. Not one that I chase to fix the past. One that I embrace for the present. “I hope your show wins. Felicity wrote some seriously great love stories, and Sweet Nothings owes everything to her.”
I turn around, and we don’t look back.
Ian doesn’t follow. It’s just Harlow and me, hand in hand, escaping from the glitter and the crowds, from the drama and the noise, from everything and everyone.
Down the escalator, through the lobby, out the revolving door we go. “It’s going to be all over the industry trades,” she says, a little amazed. A lot concerned. “You know that, right?”
I shrug, truly not caring. I’ve worked hard. I’ve made plenty. I’ve saved well. I’ll start over. “I don’t care. I love you.”
Then finally, we’re outside on Fifth Avenue and I do the thing I’ve longed for more than anything in the world. I cup her cheeks. I kiss her mouth. We come back together for all of New York to see. She ropes her arms around my neck and holds on tight.
No matter what happens tomorrow or next week or the week after, I have no regrets.
When I break the kiss, Harlow smiles at me, happier than I think I’ve ever seen her, and that’s saying something. “Want to go to a diner and get French fries?” she asks.
“More than anything in the world.”
With that, we go on our first date.
48
DEFINITELY FOUND
Harlow
The second we sit down at the booth at Neon Diner, Bridger’s phone goes wild, rattling across the Formica counter like a windup toy.
He side-eyes it.
Then my phone buzzes. It’s the group text with Layla and Ethan. They saw a video on social, and pictures from a distance of Isla’s confrontation. Layla asks if I need anything at all, and Ethan offers to come pick me up—in Layla’s car—and escort us to a private getaway in Vermont.
I write back quickly, telling them all is well, and there’ll be more to come tomorrow.
Then Bridger finishes typing a message and smiles apologetically. “Jules. She asked if I needed any help with projects this weekend.”
I laugh. “She’s the go-getter,” I say.
He waggles his phone. “And everyone else wants to know what’s up, so my answer is this.”
He makes a show of turning off his phone. I do the same with mine. Then, we order.
A few minutes later, I swipe a French fry through the ketchup, then offer it to my date.
Bridger takes it, pops it into his mouth and chews. “Best fries ever,” he declares as Sinatra croons overhead about this city.