The Virgin Society Collection

4. Lucky New York

4

LUCKY NEW YORK

Harlow

When I reach Bridger, I flash him a grin. “Want a refill?” I ask, eyeing his empty hands, taking a gamble with my offer.

“No thanks,” he says, then his gaze travels to my legs, a smile shifting his lips. “You’re walking without help again.”

A zing rushes down my back. He noticed my legs.

I gesture to my high-heeled feet. “And I have a cool scar,” I say.

His eyebrow lifts. “You do?”

“On my ankle. I’m not sure if the bike cut me up or the cab. Either way, I got marked,” I tell him, a little playfully, then I turn to the side, hoping he enjoys the profile view as I bend, pointing toward the vicinity of the inch-long jagged scar, still pink. “Right there.”

As he looks down, he swallows. Roughly, maybe. Or is that my imagination? “Yeah, that’s some scar,” he says, giving nothing away.

“Guess we’re both cool now,” I say, then tilt my head, weighing the next thing on my mind. “By the way, I didn’t think you’d accept my drink offer.”

He takes a beat. “But you made it anyway?”

“I wanted to see if I was right.”

His brow knits in curiosity. I’ve set the trap. He’s taking my bait. “I’ll bite. Right about what?”

The next words come out cool, casual. Like I’m just this observant about everything. “You don’t drink,” I say.

There’s a glint in his eyes. “You noticed?” He sounds mildly surprised, but I can’t quite tell if he’s making conversation to pass the time or because he enjoys talking to me.

But now’s my chance. I meet his blue-eyed gaze straight on. “I notice things,” I say, nervous and thrilled over the admission.

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Then he says, in that measured, even tone, “Yeah. You do.”

It’s an observation. Maybe a curiosity. Almost impossible to read.

“I do,” I say.

He scratches his jaw, then says, “So NYU, and now a semester in Paris.” Like he needs the conversational shift. “You picked well.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, a grin teasing at my lips. “I’ll be back in December. You can’t take the girl out of New York for long.”

“Lucky New York,” he says, and I want to cup those words in my palms for the rest of the night. The rest of the year.

I smile, buoyed by his response as I work out a reply to keep this going when Dad shoulders his way past me.

The buzz-killer nods at the man I’m in lust with.

“Bridger, I must steal you away. Lionel from the UK office is here,” Dad says.

Yes, of course Lionel from the UK office would attend my celebration.

I grit my teeth in annoyance but just smile like the good daughter. Even though Dad doesn’t even say a word to me. He just whisks Bridger away and that’s the end of that.

Later, I’m still feeling bold from his Lucky New York , like I’ve been shot up with a feel-good drug. Something that makes me feel bigger than the world. I slide into bed, under the covers, touching the wooden box of letters I keep on my nightstand. It’s safe. Then, I place the phone on my pillow, just inches from me. I run my finger along the necklace I wear every day, feeling the shape of the I that hangs from it.

I for the French word intrépidité .

Then, as if champagne is bubbling through me—but it’s not, not one bit—I tap open my text messages. At last, I have a reason to use that number.

I’m brave. I’m intrepid.

Harlow : I notice other things too. Like how good you looked in your shirt.

Then I hit send, a little high, a lot on top of the world.

As I get ready for bed, I check for a reply.

Nothing.

After I slip into a pair of sleep shorts, I look once more.

Silence.

I close my eyes, but sleep is so far away it might as well be in Indonesia.

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.