Like he can handle any crisis.

  Including finding my father while he’s finagling.

  And, evidently, getting into my room in the ER. I don’t ask how he pulled it off. But that’s what Dad’s told me Bridger does. Pulls things off. Gets things done.

  “Why do people open doors into traffic?” I ask, my voice trembling more than I want it to. I don’t want him to think I’m weak.

  A gentle smile moves his lips. “People are terrible. But you’re going to be fine, Harlow. Ian is on his way.”

  I don’t care about Ian, though, or how Bridger tore him away from Marie or Cassie or Lianne. “Thank you for being there.”

  “I’m glad I was,” he says.

  I feel hazy. Warm all over. Whatever they put in this IV for my broken ankle is good.

  “Come see me tomorrow?” I ask. Maybe it’s a plea. Hard to tell.

  The stuff in the IV is really good.

  Bridger doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tics. He’s wavering. His blue eyes are chased with conflict, his brow knitting.

  I’m not above a little begging when I can blame it on the drugs. “Please,” I say with a frown. “It would make me feel better.”

  He nods, resigned perhaps. “You’re a good negotiator,” he says, giving in.

  I tuck the compliment into my pocket as he gives me his number. “If you need anything and can’t reach your dad.”

  “Thanks,” I say, even though I’ve had Bridger’s number for some time. Dad gave it to me long ago—here’s Joan’s number, here’s Bridger’s number, here’s the studio number.

  I’ve never used it, but now I have permission.

  When a nurse comes in to tell me it’s time to cast my ankle, he wishes me well and leaves.

  My head CT scan is clear, so they send me home that night. My foot screams the next day, but painkillers shut that down quickly, and soon I’m feeling pretty good.

  I entertain visitors nonstop in my living room. Layla appears in the morning, bearing lip gloss and nail polish. She’s an angel. Ethan brings tulips and gossip about our Carlisle Academy alum—the former senior class president of the most elite prep school in Manhattan was just thrown out of Yale after three years. Joan sends bouquets of dahlias, then calls, too, asking how I’m doing.

  “I’ve been better,” I tell her, appreciating the motherly check-in.

  After I get reacquainted with the joys of naptime, my brother FaceTimes from London, offering to catch a flight to New York to be with me. I decline but ask Hunter to tell me stories of life in England.

  All day long, Dad swings in and out of his home office down the hall to check on me. After he orders a late lunch from my favorite Mediterranean restaurant, he tells me about the new storyline in Sweet Nothings, probably to distract me.

  Or maybe to distract himself till he sees whoever again.

  “And then Josie and Sam get all caught up in this whirlwind fling,” he says. “We see them sneak off to the wine cellar and the library.”

  I have no interest in learning where his characters canoodle, but I feel too good to cut him off. “Great, Dad. Tell me more.”

  He unspools the next few episodes then checks his Victoire watch and pushes up from his chair. “I have to nip off. I have a thing.” He shrugs, sheepish, and nods to the front door. “I’ll be back later, but Bridger’s going to stop by too.”

  “Oh?” I try to sound blasé.

  I pulled off the nonchalant look, judging from Dad’s no big deal grin. “Yes, he wants to make sure you’re okay. Good thing he was there to call 911.”

  Dad leaves for his thing. The door has barely closed behind him when I grab my brush from the coffee table, run it through my hair again, then slick on lip gloss. I glance at my shirt—a cute slouchy top that goes with my shorts. Perfect.

  A few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” I shout. Bridger knows the code.

  Bubbles bounce under my skin as Bridger unlocks the door. When the handsome, broody man strides into the brownstone, those bubbles speed through me. I am effervescent.

  He holds a bouquet of gerbera daisies. “Hey there.”

  “Those are my favorite flowers.” Did I mention that in the hospital last night? Have I ever said that at a dinner party, event, or gala where I saw him? I don’t know.

  He peers around the living room, checking out vase after vase. The room is bursting with blooms. “It’s a florist shop in here.”

  “I might start a side hustle peddling flowers.” I point to his arrangement as he sets it on the coffee table by the couch. “But I like yours best.”

  “Thanks,” he says, evenly, like he has to be careful with me. Like he can’t reveal any emotion.

  Understandable. I’ve known Bridger James since I was fifteen and his upstart production company acquired the TV rights to Sweet Nothings. He was the wunderkind new producer who spotted a hit and made it happen with my dad. They became partners, then, in growing that property to global domination, turning the book series my mom had penned and Dad had inherited into a worldwide phenom as a TV show. The risqué, racy soap opera counts legions of fans, and it started in my home when the two of them worked late on the concept, refining it and then pitching it to a network. Now, they own a renowned TV production company together called Lucky 21 that’s responsible for Sweet Nothings, its spin-offs and other top shows too.

  Over the last few years, Bridger’s hung around at my house late at night working, then shown up early in the morning collecting Dad for meetings. I’ve seen him at fetes, galas, parties.

  But someone else has always been around. Now it’s just the two of us, alone together for the first time.

  “Want a seat?” I ask, gesturing to the other chair.

  As he sits, I catalog his appearance—he’s in his work uniform. Sharp pants, fine leather shoes, and a tailored shirt. Today’s is a shade of deep, rich green.

  “Nice cast,” Bridger says, gesturing to the pink cast on my foot.

  “Evidently the cab door had it in for me. Have you ever broken a bone?” I ask, quickly shifting away from my ankle injury.

  “Many times,” he says with a sigh, but it’s a welcoming kind of sound, like been there, done that.

  I sit a little straighter, eager for this chance to get to know him. “Tell me all your broken stories.”

  He laughs curiously, eyeing me like he isn’t sure I mean the request. “Really?”

  I’m not backing down. I want what I want. “Yes. Really.”

  Here in my home, the day after a nasty crash, with my father off doing whatever, his handsome, sexy, nearly inscrutable business partner wiggles three fingers on his right hand. “Broke these when the center stepped on my hand during football practice in junior high.”

  “You were the quarterback?” It delights me to no end, learning these details.

  “Of course.” There’s a smirk on his face, like he couldn’t be anything but the team leader.

  “Were you good at football?”

  He tilts his head, his gaze a little challenging, a touch cocky. “What do you think?”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling a bit fluttery. A bit naughty too.

  “Good answer,” Bridger replies, sinking deeper into his chair, looking comfortable or maybe even relaxed at last.

  “How many games did you win? Touchdowns did you throw? Passing yards did you log?”

  He raises an appreciative brow, whistling low. “Someone knows football.”

  I bob a shoulder playfully. “I know a lot of things.”

  His expression shifts, going dark for a second. Then he swallows and answers in a businesslike tone. “I did well,” he says, like he rearranged his answer at the last minute.

  I ease up on the Lolita. “What else did you break?” Surely, this is a less sexy comment. I hope it’s enough for him to stay.

  “I broke my kneecap a couple years later,” he says, recounting a high school injury.

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Playing soccer my sophomore year. I planted my foot wrong while I was twisting around to try to score, and then it snapped. Felt like it fell down to my shin.” He shakes his head in remembered pain, wincing.

  “That sounds terrible,” I say in sympathy. “Did it really fall to your shin?”

  He taps the side of his calf under his black pants to show me where his kneecap had landed. “It was knocked about two inches out of the socket.” He blows out a sharp breath. “That hurt.”

  “That sounds like an understatement,” I say.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “That’s awful,” I say, but I’m giddy for more of his stories, more of him.

  Just more.

  He regales me with tales of his high school sports, from soccer games to football plays, till I say, “Is that all you did growing up? Play sports?”

  With a laugh, he shakes his head. “It wasn’t all I did, but I was good at sports for a while there. Until I stopped playing,” he says, and I file that detail away as I keep listening. “Plus, I think my mom just wanted to balance out all the show tunes and cabaret I’d grown up with. You know, just to give me a full sense of the world.”

  Is he for real? I nearly bolt out of the chair with excitement. “I love cabaret,” I say, breathless.

  He shoots me a doubtful look. “You do?”

  “Cabaret, show tunes, Broadway, you name it,” I say, enthused by this bond I didn’t know we had.

  “Yeah?” His tone pitches up, maybe with excitement too.

  “I do. I could spend all night in the theater,” I say, and that flirty purr returns to my voice, unbidden.

  Dammit. I didn’t mean to go there.

  And I shouldn’t have, because Bridger glances around nervously, checks the ornate and ominous clock on the living room wall—my dad had it shipped from his favorite shop in Knightsbridge—then sighs. “I have a meeting,” he says. “I should go.”

  Please don’t go.

  But I know better than to sound desperate. “Of course. But you wouldn’t leave without signing my cast, would you?”

  There’s tension in his shoulders still as he reaches for the Sharpie on the table, then checks out my cast. Layla and Ethan already commandeered most of the fiberglass real estate.

  “Hmm. Not much room left,” he says, analytically, checking out the options.

  But I saved a spot for him. Kept it virginal. “Right by the toes,” I say, pointing to the land he can claim on me. “There’s a little space.”

  I wiggle them, showing off my bright red and purple toenail polish. “My friend Layla painted them this morning. She calls them Skittles toes.”

  When Bridger meets my gaze, his blue eyes darken to the color of a midnight sky. “I’ll just sign right here by those Skittles toes then.”

  As he scratches out his signature near my candy-colored nails, his fingers skim against my toes.

  A whoosh rushes through my body.

  This is the first time he’s touched me.

  I don’t intend for it to be the last.

  3

  Is It Obvious?

  Harlow

  * * *

  Three months later my cast is gone, and it’s time to wear heels again.

  It’s a New York party night after all, and I’m not about to show up among the glitterati of Manhattan in flats.

  “I still can’t believe you’re leaving me to fend for myself tonight,” I whine to Layla after we bound up the steps in Dad’s brownstone and turn into my old bedroom suite. She’s only staying for thirty minutes at the party, and I feel betrayed already.

  “I’m the worst. But trust me, I tried to get out of the charity board dinner that Mom is making me go to,” she says, huffing.

  “Too bad bailing isn’t an option,” I say, heading for the closet. But it would be poor form to ghost my—cough, cough—own party. But it’s really Dad’s party. His why-doesn’t-everyone-congratulate-me-for-having-a-daughter-land-a-prestigious-semester-abroad-program party. All his friends and business associates will be here to kiss his ring.

  Why else would they come? Because they care that I’m one of ten college students in the country accepted into this French program? Or maybe how studying in Paris for a few months will help with my dual degrees?

  They care as much as they cared when Dad threw a party for his little valedictorian when I graduated from Carlisle Academy three years ago.

  In my walk-in closet, I flick through the options and pick a little black dress. I slip it on, then peruse the shoes, running my fingers over a few shelves. I hold up a pair of red-bottomed black heels. “The ones Dad bought for me last month after he bought us orchestra seats for the opening of Adventures of the Last Single Guy in New York, and then finally turned up at intermission. But hey, he was, ahem, late from a meeting?” I grab a pair of silvery crisscross high-heeled sandals. “Or the ones Joan bought as an aspirational gift after I broke my ankle?”

  Layla rolls her sky-blue eyes with a particular kind of carelessness, the kind reserved for parental BS. Then, she points a French-manicured nail authoritatively at the silvery pair. Layla makes fast decisions. “Those will make your legs look extra hot. Not that that’s hard.”

  I bob a shoulder, glowing a little from the compliment. “Thanks, friend,” I say, then I perch on the edge of the bed and slide into the shoes, methodically crossing the straps till they climb high enough to hug my calves. I rise, then jut out a hip, showing off the outfit.

  She hums low in her throat. “Those should be illegal,” she says with a whistle. “They go perfectly with the LBD.”

  Fine, fine.

  Perhaps, I don’t entirely hate the idea of the party.

  Bridger will be there. And maybe, dressed like this, I’ll look closer to twenty-one.

  It’s less than a year away.

  It’s a magic age.

  Then, I’ll no longer be in college.

  I’ll be his contemporary.

  A frisson of possibility unfurls in my chest. I hide a grin from my friend. I haven’t breathed a word about this storm of feelings to anyone. And I’ve never kept secrets from her. But this secret feels like mine. Like a private letter, locked in a box, hidden away.

  Layla and I circulate dutifully downstairs, making small talk, a skill we’ve both been schooled in for years. Her since birth, me since my father became a big deal.

  How is Jasmin doing in Tokyo?

  Is Vikas enjoying his work in Washington?

  Did you see the new sculpture at the Keller Gallery?

  All the while, I graciously accept congratulations from all my father’s friends and associates.

  Thank you. I’m so fortunate to be going there.

  Yes, it’s going to be a wonderful challenge.

  I can’t wait to settle into my flat in the Sixth.

  And blah, blah, blah. Layla makes a few laps with me, snagging a champagne flute from a cute server in black tie, tossing the guy a wink.

  He smiles back, showing straight white teeth. Layla is such a sucker for great teeth. She should consider snagging the city’s top orthodontist’s client list sometime.

  Once he’s weaving through a pack of suits, my friend waggles a glass my way. “Want one?”

  “No,” I say, but it’s too late. She grabs a second one from another passing waitperson and thrusts it into my hand.

  “Layla,” I say, but I take it anyway. It’s easier.

  She nods to the packed home. Easily one hundred people mingle in the living room, spill into the dining room. “Who are all these people?”

  I lean closer, dip my voice. “Miss Such and Such, the VP of Sucking Up. Mister Whoever, the Director of Kissing Ass. And, finally, there’s the Manager of I Have An Idea to Pitch You,” I say, surveying the scene—smart dresses and blow-outs on the women, slicked-back hair and tailored shirts for the men.

  “Ah, I was hoping to pitch an idea to him. The idea of me,” she says, then points surreptitiously to a handsome guy easily fifteen years older than she is.

  I shoot her a doubtful look. “Seriously?”

  She just wiggles her brows. Then she looks around again. “Oh, the hot one’s here.”

  I figure she’s spotted another thirty-something guy, but when I follow her gaze my breath catches.

  It’s Bridger. He must have just arrived. He wears a royal blue shirt and charcoal slacks. He’s leaning against the wall, not drinking either. Watching the scene unfold. Part of it but separate as he studies the people while tugging on the cuffs of his shirt.

  Warmth blooms in my chest, a frothy, delicious sensation. I feel floaty, a little dreamy as I watch him. A young publicist beelines for him and his gaze shifts to on.

  Then, Layla bumps my shoulder. “When were you going to tell me?”

  Confused, I turn my face to her. “Tell you what?”

  With an I caught you smile, she shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you didn’t say a word sooner. How long have you been hot for your dad’s business partner?”

  My stomach drops. And that secret didn’t last long. “Is it obvious?” I ask. “To everyone, I mean.”

  Her smile is gleeful, a little wicked. “No. But to me it is because I know you. And damn, he’s pretty.” She nudges me again. “Go shoot your shot.”

  The idea is too much. Too tempting. Too dangerous. But I appreciate her efforts. “Thanks, but I don’t think it’ll work out,” I say, since isn’t that the truth. He’s just not interested in me. Not to mention the big hurdle—I could never be with my dad’s business partner.

  Layla shrugs, then drops a kiss to my cheek. “I should vanish. Don’t miss me too much.” Then, low, under her breath, she urges, “Shoot, Harlow, shoot.”

  “Get out of here,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  But her command has gotten a hold of me. When she’s gone, I spin around, hunting for him again, but he’s chatting with a woman in a paisley blouse.

  Bridger doesn’t have a drink in his hand, and an idea takes hold. An opening line, if you will.