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)
Everything feels weird and uncomfortable as I straighten up my apartment. Like there’s a cut in my mouth and my tongue keeps working away at it.
That feeling chases me all day—when I ride my bike along the path, soaking up the summer rays, when I go to The Frick alone later that afternoon, trying to get lost in the art, but failing. My mind is getting lost, instead, in the details of Friday, the gala, the what’s next and all the what-ifs and how-tos.
I try to shuck off this funk, but the weirdness dogs me when I head to meet Layla and Ethan for dinner in the West Village.
I do my damnedest to ignore the feeling, peppering Ethan with questions about his bandmates—including the new drummer who, in Ethan’s words, has serious rhythm. Then, I zoom in on Layla, catching up on her job and listening as she talks about office politics and the woefully out-of-touch dudes in the skyscraper where she works. Then she casually drops a mention of her sexy new silver-fox boss. “I just want to run my hands through his hair. And I might have to blackball my libido from going to the office with me.”
“Silver foxes have always been your downfall,” Ethan says.
“I’m getting that as a tattoo,” she replies.
Somewhere between the kale salad they teased me for ordering and the polenta that’s coming next, Layla clears her throat dramatically. Stares at me importantly. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”
I arch a brow curiously. “Notice what?”
Ethan sniffs, lifting his nose in the air. “The smell of sadness. It’s wafting off you.” He waggles his hands near me, like he’s inhaling the scent.
Dammit. I wanted to focus on them tonight, but I guess I’ve done a terrible job.
“’Fess up,” Layla says, wriggling her fingers like she’s telling me to serve it up.
I draw a fortifying breath, then tell them everything. Last night at the theater, the night before, the words we’ve said to each other.
They know we’ve been seeing each other. But now they know we’ve said the L-word
And the P-word, too, for let’s make plans.
They both ooh and ahh.
“And now we need to tell my dad,” I say, the weight of that sinking into me.
Layla’s smile disappears. Ethan sighs heavily.
“You’re really in love,” Layla says, kind of amazed.
“I seriously can’t believe you went from seducing him to falling in love with him,” Ethan adds.
I drop my head in my hand and groan, like that’ll help me find the answer to how to have it all. But I’m laughing too. “I kind of can’t either,” I admit softly.
Early on, I was driven by attraction, ambition, and conquest. Then, over time, those crumbled away, replaced by something deeper—this great love.
I lift my face, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Layla inhales deeply. Lifts her glass of water and takes a drink. When she sets it down, she says, “There’s no magic bullet. Sometimes we just have to get through the hard things. We can’t game them. We can’t even always plan for them. You just have to march into it and say the hard thing.”
She knows these difficult truths as well as anyone.
I suppose in some ways I do too.
Maybe I’ve been preparing for them for the last several years.
My stomach dips, but I try to ignore the fear. Anything worth having is worth fighting for.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to fight for my happy ending.
44
LOVELY LITTLE LIE
Bridger
I scan the lobby one more time, tugging on the cuffs of my shirt, peering at the elevator.
I’m still hunting for my business partner as the clock ticks well past ten. Ian, Mia, and I are showing brand partners around the Afternoon Delight locations today in Paris. Easily a half dozen Parisian ad execs cluster around us in the lobby.
But only one of the two Lucky 21 owners are present.
Tension climbs up my spine. But I do my best not to show it as I say to the VIPs, “Ian should be here any minute.”
I try to inject lightness into my tone I don’t feel.
Where the hell is Ian?
“It’s not a problem,” Philippe says. He’s with the perfume maker, and I appreciate his effort to smooth over the annoyance of waiting.
But Ian’s absence is a problem. I fiddle with the collar of my shirt, then glance at my watch. He’s fourteen minutes late.
I swallow down my annoyance and paste on a smile. “It’s probably just the time change. I’ll just go round him up,” I say, since they don’t need to wait any longer.
Mia pulls me aside and sidebars, “I’ll keep them busy.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, then I cut across the lobby, turn down the hallway, and push open the door for the stairs. I take the steps two by two up to the third floor, speed down the hall. Then I rap on his door.