9. Happy Birthday To Me
9
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
Harlow
They won’t say no.
I repeated that the whole way up in the elevator, at reception, then again when I walked down the hall.
They won’t say no.
Because…I won’t let them say no. I’ve practiced my pitch.
Now that I’m here, I’ll keep my request simple and direct, all business, the way they’ve taught me by example over the last few years.
I am determined as I reach into the bag and take out the small chocolate cake and then the knife I brought. Sleek and silvery. After I open the pink box, I slice the small cake, then set pieces on the plates I brought too, handing a piece of decadent, rich chocolate to Bridger, then to my father, then keeping one for me.
After all, requests go best with a gift of food.
First things first.
I square my shoulders. “So, I came for my birthday gift,” I say, then purposefully backpedal to explain, “Well, I’m excited for you two to give it to me.” I smile, a winning, practiced, Upper East Side grin.
My father tuts. “I was going to wait till we had dinner tonight, love.”
He told me he has something special for me. He’ll give it to me over sushi. But I have plans for another gift. One I’m giving myself.
“Oh, you don’t know about this one,” I say, mustering all the confidence he’s trained me in. “Because it’s something from both of you.”
My father blinks, confused. I steal a glance at Bridger. A crease digs into his forehead.
Good.
I’ve kept them on their toes and that’s important in a negotiation.
And so, I take the next step in my great heist. The prize? I glance at the man behind the imposing desk.
Him.
“I graduate in a month. With my dual degrees,” I say, making my case, simple and clear. “And I’ve been thinking more and more about what I want to do after graduation. I’d like to work in business and art. But I’m trying to figure out exactly what that looks like,” I say, and that’s somewhat true. Mostly, it’s strategic. “Since you’re launching Afternoon Delight soon, I thought wouldn’t it be perfect if you had somebody here who could help you research all things French and art for your show that takes place in Paris? And while I’m doing that, I could learn more about the business of television deal-making. Then, I can really understand if the entertainment business is going to be the right career for me,” I say, folding my hands in my lap.
There.
I’m done.
I’ve made my simple elevator pitch, the kind these two have always said they want to hear.
Instantly, my father beams. He’s such a pushover. His eyes shine. “Sweetheart,” he says, utterly delighted. “There’s always a place for you here.”
One down.
He looks to his business partner, expectantly. Well, Bridger is in charge of the business side of things, so of course he has the final say.
He’s stoic. Barely moving. He’s a statue at his desk.
“But I’m in charge of creative,” Dad adds. “Bridger would be working more closely with you. Would that be okay?” My father asks me, like it’s my choice.
Yes, Daddy. That would be so very okay. “Absolutely,” I say.
But Bridger is stony. Not moving. Just…breathing.
He’s simply inscrutable. That both scares me and thrills me.
I want to break down his walls. Chip away at them. Discover who he is. Already, I’ve seen the cracks and I want more. I long for what’s behind them. But the only way I can reveal that is if I get closer to him.
That’s my plan.
He purses his lips and swallows visibly. Then he nods, quick and decisive. “Of course. Welcome to Lucky 21,” he says.
I tamp down the fireworks bursting inside me. “Thank you. I won’t disappoint.”
I reach into the bag, take out a candle and set it in the chocolate frosting on my slice. Then I light it with the lighter I brought.
“Make a wish, darling,” my father says.
As the flame flickers, I look across the room at the man I’ve run into on the East River path many times over the last few months.
He tugs on the cuffs of his ruby-red shirt. His lips are a ruler.
But his dark eyes say he’s hiding our secret—the secret of our attraction.
I blow out the flame and make a birthday wish that I’ll seduce my father’s business partner this summer.
Later that night, over avocado rolls and edamame, my father tells me I should arrange a meeting this summer with the attorneys about my trust fund access. “It’s not much, the trust fund,” he says. “But your mother set it up for you long ago. It was her idea. She loved you so.”
“I know,” I whisper around the lump in my throat. That, I have never doubted. I have always known.
Then he gives me a beautiful velvet box. Inside it is a key to a one-bedroom apartment on Sixty-Eighth Street with a view.
Paid in full.
I’m stunned, speechless.
But he has more to say. “I used the royalties from her last Sweet Nothings title for this place. It’s gorgeous. She’d have wanted you to have it,” he says, solemnly. The shine in his eyes makes me think he still misses her in his own way.
My throat tightens. It’s like a gift from her too. “I’m overwhelmed. This is incredible.”
He covers my hand. “And thank you for always…keeping things within the family,” he says.
I don’t move for a moment. This apartment is also some kind of payoff for having kept my mouth shut? Like he used her royalties from her last book to say he appreciates my silence? The silence he told me to keep or someone might go insane?
I don’t know what to say, except an uncomfortable thank you .
Truly, I am grateful. An owned apartment is the ultimate extravagance in Manhattan.
Especially since I can put this to good use for my seduction plans.