The Virgin Society Collection

10. The Double Text

10

THE DOUBLE TEXT

Harlow

Technically, this is my first job.

Babysitting the Bancroft twins down the block when I was thirteen doesn’t entirely count. Everyone babysits after all.

Then, I read up on babysitting, took a CPR class, and learned the basics.

I don’t know what to study before I start at Lucky 21. I suppose I’ve been studying the ins and outs of TV production for years, absorbing it from the air around me, in the conversations.

But I don’t like to make mistakes. I don’t want to mess this up.

As I head to the door of my apartment on a Monday in late May for my first day on the job, I reach for the knob when my phone buzzes.

I nearly jump. What if that’s Jules? I report to her. What if she wants me to show up early? If she does, I’d have to run.

I grab my phone, slide it open.

Dad : Are you sure you don’t want a ride? I can send Jasper over right now. I don’t need the car for another hour.

That’s so very him. But no.

Harlow : Thanks, Dad. But I’ll walk.

Dad : If you insist! I’m on set all week. Let me know if you need anything.

I tell him that I will, but I don’t plan to need anything from him.

I take off, wishing I didn’t feel so…unsettled.

Maybe the walk through the park will settle my first-day jitters. As I head across Sixty-Eighth Street— my street , something I’m still not quite used to—I talk back to my worries.

This is a summer internship. You’ve got this. You’re smart. You’re diligent.

But as I peer over the canopy of green trees in the distance, my gaze landing on the black skyscraper that houses Lucky 21, the nerves start up again, like little birds flapping their wings in me.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

These aren’t job nerves. They’re man nerves.

And I know why. Since I strutted into Bridger’s office more than a month ago and made my wish, a few things have happened.

I’ve graduated from college.

I’ve moved into my own apartment.

I’ve visited my cousin, Rachel, in San Francisco too. She’s my mom’s sister’s daughter, so it was good to catch up with another Dumont woman.

But I’ve only seen Bridger twice in the last month or so. The first time on the path, he barely slowed, but I still asked him how Afternoon Delight was going. “No complaints,” he’d said. Then he glanced at his watch and said he had to go. He smiled convivially and ran off.

The second time I saw him on the path, he was on the phone. He pointed to his earbuds and mouthed call .

That’s why my stomach is bouncing.

What was I thinking, engineering this internship? Maybe I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Maybe I’m just a silly girl.

Maybe I’m?—

I slow my pace around the edge of the park when something gold comes into view.

Is that a birdcage over there by a bench? I walk to it. Tilt my head. It’s gilded, a home for a bougie parrot. There’s an equally fancy sign hanging from the bars in an ornate frame.

Better than TV—free to a good home.

I shake my head in amusement, then do what any good New Yorker would do. I snap a picture of it and post it on my social feed, titling it TV for hipsters?

As I cover the last few blocks, my nerves fade. Maybe I simply needed a distraction and photography did the trick.

When I reach the black building, I take the elevator up to the office I know so well on the fourteenth floor. There I give my name to the peppy receptionist—Christian—but he playfully rolls his eyes. “Hush, Harlow. I know you,” he says.

Right. Of course.

I’m the picture of nepotism. Will everyone hate me? Think that they’re here on merit, but I’m here on…well, I’m here on scheme .

Regret swirls in my gut. This was a bad decision.

Christian pops up from the desk and ushers me down the hall. “How is your morning so far, Ms. Granger? Can I get you a coffee? Tea?”

He’s trying to wait on me. This can’t be good. I can’t have the people who work here thinking they need to tend to daddy’s girl.

“I’m great, Christian. Thanks for asking,” I say, and up ahead I spot Bridger’s door. It’s wide open.

“If anything changes, let me know,” Christian says, then flashes a helpful smile, bordering on obsequious.

“You don’t ever have to get me a drink,” I assure him.

“We’ll see…” Christian says, singsong.

I may not win this battle. And as we pass Bridger’s office, I lose another battle, since I can’t resist stealing a glance. I don’t see him, though. I only hear him, saying, “I’ll be there at three. Yes. We can discuss the credits then.”

I wonder if he’ll invite me to the meeting. Discussing credits seems like part of what I’m here for.

Seconds later, Christian sweeps out his arm, indicating a group of cubicles. “The interns,” he says, then whispers, “You’re hardly one.”

But I am. I truly am. “I’m definitely one.”

He rolls his eyes again and sails back to reception as a woman with immovable brown hair rises from a chair, then sticks out a hand. “I’m Jules Marley. Bridger James’s administrative assistant. I’ll see you to your projects,” she says with robotic efficiency. “And I can definitely help you feel like an intern.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m working on a…database.

I don’t see Bridger all day.

Guess Jules was right.

When I arrive on Tuesday, Bridger’s not in his office. Jules mentions something about an off-site meeting. “You can organize the production photos in the Dropbox folder,” she says crisply.

“Great,” I say, injecting all the pep in the world into my voice. “I’m happy to do it.”

“Good,” she says, then gives me the login and leaves me to it.

I spend the day sorting.

So fun.

On Wednesday, I get to—wait for it—check links.

Woohoo.

Okay, fine. Website links break. It’s important to check them and blah, blah, blah, but this is mind-numbing work. When I’m rappelling down the rabbit hole of Sweet Nothings episodes links, my eyes turn heavy. My brain feels syrupy, and my mind drifts to other days, other places.

Then, I jerk my head. Where am I?

Shoot. I can’t fall asleep at my cube.

I push back from my chair, glancing around to make sure no one saw me snooze for even a few seconds, and make my way to the lobby to grab a tea at the coffee shop there. I order quickly, and once I have an English Breakfast in hand, I spin toward the exit. But then I stop and stifle a gasp.

Bridger is swiping his ID tag through the lobby turnstiles and reading on his phone as he strides into the building. His dusky blue suit hugs his legs, caresses his arms, and accentuates his ass.

He’s beelining for the elevator. Perfect. I’m cutting across the lobby with the same destination. I arrive ahead of him, and he looks up when he reaches me. The second his eyes land on mine, he squeezes his phone harder, as if to keep it from clattering to the floor.

“Hi,” he says, businesslike, as if we didn’t once flirt on the bike path. “How’s it going, Harlow?”

I don’t know what to make of him, but I have an idea. “It’s…good,” I say, since I don’t want to complain.

The elevator arrives. He holds out his arm. I step inside. The doors shut. “How are you?”

“Just busy. Lots of meetings. You know how it goes here.”

But that’s the problem. I don’t know how it goes here. Bridger’s supposed to show me, but he’s shutting me out, avoiding me.

“Actually—” I break off and swallow the rest because his phone rings and he lifts a finger.

“Need to take this,” he says, apologetic, but also not. Relieved, maybe?

When we exit on the fourteenth floor, all I can do is watch his back as he strides down the hall in that tight suit, deep in conversation with someone else.

That night, I pace my apartment, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Manhattan as I give Layla chapter and verse of the week so far.

“Sounds like he’s avoiding you,” she says, confirming what I suspected.

“Why would he do that?” I ask, but I fear I know the answer—he’s not into me the way I thought he was.

She scoffs. “Because, girl, he’s hot for you.”

I stop, press my hand against the glass. “What?” I whisper.

She laughs. “Did you think it was something else?”

I gulp. “Yes.”

“Oh, he is so avoiding you,” she declares.

That sounds too good to be true and too awful at the same time.

I don’t want to be avoided.

I want to be included.

Maybe I just need to be pushy. With that resolved, I settle onto my couch, fiddle absently with my necklace, and ask her to entertain me with her stories.

“Like the one where my mom’s trying to set me up on another date?”

I smile. “Yes, that one.” I lie back and listen. Layla’s relationship with her mother is complicated, but no matter how thorny it is, her tales of their chats still bring a pang of missing to my chest.

When we hang up, I get ready for bed, and I run my finger over the wooden box on my nightstand shelf. Inside are all the letters from my mother.

Every year, I miss her less.

And that hurts too.

When I reach the office on Thursday, Bridger’s walking out, breezing past reception. “Meeting with Webflix,” he says to Christian and me with barely a smile. “Gotta go.”

Wait. No. No way.

“I want to go,” I blurt out.

But the elevator door is closing on him.

“That man. He doesn’t waste time,” Christian says, admiringly, under his breath.

I grit my teeth and huff. “That’s true,” I say, trying to put on a smile.

Layla may be right, but if he’s into me, it hardly matters since I never see him.

I walk home after the day’s work, passing the bus stop by the park on Fifth Avenue. A banana lies on the bench, looking lonely. Then I squint, spying writing on the banana in ballpoint pen.

Tonight. You. Me. Black lace.

Clever. Maybe that was in someone’s lunchbox? I snap a shot and post it on my social with the caption: Sometimes you just need to spell it out.

Which is good advice.

Really good advice.

Bridger usually arrives at the office at eight-thirty. That night, I set my alarm for earlier than usual.

On Friday morning, I make it across the park and arrive by eight-ten. I head for my cube. I beat Jules to the office. Then I flip open my laptop.

And I wait.

At attention.

Listening.

Ten minutes later, I catch the echo of footsteps on the hardwood floors. Wingtips. The sound of money. That’s my cue.

I pop up, head down the hall, and meet Bridger at his door as he’s unlocking it.

I’m not letting him slip away from me today. I want what I want— an explanation .

He blinks, those deep blue eyes full of questions. “Oh. Hi.”

I don’t fuck around. “Why won’t you take me to meetings?”

He parts his lips, but for a few long seconds, no words come. I’ve caught him off-guard, and he blanches. “I didn’t think…I guess…I…” But he’s not the boss for nothing. Quickly, he recovers. “You’re right. I should. You’re here to learn. I need to be involving you,” he says, each word slow and nearly painful.

Did I misread everything? Is Layla wrong?

“I’m meeting with CTM this morning about one of their writers. Do you want to come?” he asks, smooth and in control again.

A part of me wants to ask: but do you want me there?

I don’t ask. We’re having a business relationship for now. With the confidence I’ve honed for years, I raise my chin, and answer, “Yes. I do.”

And I hope Layla’s not wrong.

“I’ll meet you at ten.”

On the dot, we’re outside the building and he’s holding open the door of a town car for me.

I slide in.

Bridger follows, shutting the door behind him. The air conditioning hums. The tinted windows seal us in. New York feels right next door and very far away.

“We’re meeting with Mason Stein,” he begins, then his gaze drifts to my leg. To my ankle. “Your scar’s faded.”

It comes out scratchy. And like a pleasant surprise.

Wait. No. A sexy surprise.

“Yes, it has,” I say, turning my whole body to him.

He licks his lips, then gestures to my ankle. “I just noticed,” he says, backpedaling. “That’s all.”

Before I can think better of it, I say, “It’s okay… to notice things .”

His breath seems to come out in a harsh pant, then he drags a hand over his hair and seems to shake off the fog. “We’ll be meeting with Mason Stein, the agent for TJ Hardman,” he says, regrouping as he mentions the romance novelist. “His agent is interested in striking a development deal for his books. I’d like him to land at Lucky 21.”

That’s genius. “I’ve read all his novels,” I offer, feeling a little like I just discovered an ace up my sleeve.

Bridger’s eyes widen. “All of them?”

“Every single one,” I say, proudly.

“Which one lends itself most to a TV show? Besides Top-Notch Boyfriend ,” he says, since that book was made into a movie.

“ Look Me Up, ” I say confidently. “The fake boyfriend relationship is told almost in little episodes. And it lets you get into queer content, which is a growing market.”

“It is. Good thinking,” he says.

When we reach CTM, he exits the town car first then offers me a hand. Like a gentleman.

Or perhaps an opportunist?

I take his hand. He curls his fingers around my palm. A whoosh rushes through me. This is only the second time we’ve touched. Really touched . My hand tingles first, then my whole body.

There’s a taut moment when I swear his fingertips brush across my skin before he lets go.

“Thank you, Bridger,” I say, then softly I add, “And thanks for having me.”

He swallows after those last words.

Having me .

Maybe that was a Freudian slip. But maybe not.

He gestures for me to go first. I head into the lobby ahead of him, letting him look. Letting him watch me.

When we’re in the elevator, he steals a glance at me then tears himself away instantly.

I rein in a grin.

In the CTM conference room, Bridger introduces me simply as “Harlow at Lucky 21.” Maybe he doesn’t want to draw attention to my newbie status as an intern. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to use my last name and let on that nepotism is at play.

I’m not terribly bothered. But I am curious.

I say hello, then Bridger is all business with the agent, batting around possibilities. Then he turns to me and says, “Harlow has some thoughts on Look Me Up .”

Whoa. Talk about trial by fire.

“I love thoughts,” Mason says drily, then waits for me.

I’ve been raised on pitches—selling is second nature. “The first episode would be true to the book, and you could cliff it when the guys see each other again,” I begin, then sketch out the rest of what could stay and what could go from the enemies-to-lovers-to-pretend-boyfriends storyline.

Mason nods approvingly. “Interesting.” He taps his chin for a few seconds. “We have lots of interest in development deals for TJ. But we’ll be in touch.” He takes a beat. “And soon.”

Once we leave the offices and we’re safely in the elevator, Bridger shoots me an approving smile. “He never says soon . That’s good, Harlow.”

“I’ll drink to soon,” I say, feeling a little giddy over it.

As we head to Amsterdam Avenue, Bridger reaches for his phone, but then his gaze drifts longingly to a sidewalk café with white tables and green chairs, somehow both homey and trendy. He raises a brow in a question. “I was going to call the driver, but any chance you’re hungry? I skipped breakfast.”

I’m not hungry at all. “Yes,” I say instantly.

We grab a table in the parklet. I order a salad, and he chooses a risotto. After the server leaves, Bridger undoes the cuffs on his shirt, rolls them up once, then twice. I glimpse the faint black lines of his ink, something like leaves.

Someday, I want to ask about the art on his arm. But when he catches me looking, his expression turns unreadable.

Now’s not the time for something so personal, not when I’ve just started making headway with him again.

Instead, I glance around so I don’t seem so… obvious.

My attention snags on a woman in a leopard-print dress several feet away. She’s chatting on the phone, like any New Yorker, all while walking a peacock on a leash.

In a flash, I grab my phone and snap a shot of the woman and her pet.

Bridger studies me quizzically. “You just took a picture of a peacock.”

“What else does one do when someone walks a peacock?” I counter, feeling like I’m getting my Bridger rhythm back.

“Take pictures I suppose,” he says, with a glint in his eyes. Maybe he’s getting his groove back too.

“Then why didn’t you snap a photo?” I ask. Maybe I’m a little saucy.

“That’s a damn good question. I suppose I should have captured the moment.”

“Do you wish you had a peacock picture? Maybe I could share mine,” I say, teasingly.

A faint flush spreads on his cheeks. “Yes, please do that, Harlow.”

With a smirk, I send it to him with the words, Ask me why I took it .

After he reads the message, he looks up, curious. “I thought we established why you took it. Because it’s there.”

“Yes. But I might have a collection too,” I say.

That’s met with an arched brow. An inquisitive grin. This is so much better than his avoidance. Maybe Layla was right.

“All right. I’ll ask. Do you have a peacock collection, Harlow?”

“No. But I’ve been taking pictures this week of found things in New York. I post them on my socials,” I say.

“Show me,” he says. It’s a demand. A hungry one. I can hear him saying it in other ways.

With enthusiasm, I click on my feed, turn my phone around, and watch as he scrolls through the images I took this week. The birdcage and its TV for hipsters caption. A book I spotted on a stoop of a building: The Gentleman’s Guide to Good Dressing . Then, the banana.

“Black lace on a banana,” he says, clearly amused. “Someone’s having fun tonight.”

“Yes, I bet they are,” I say, then slide my teeth over the corner of my lip.

He watches my every move. “Yeah, I bet they are,” he repeats, a little hot, a little husky. “How long have you been doing this?”

“I started this week.”

“Any reason?”

To settle my nerves over working with you. To have something to do. A project, a focus, a story.

I keep that to myself. “They’re like a puzzle. I’m trying to solve it,” I say.

I’m trying to solve you.

The food comes, and we dig in. As Bridger lifts his fork, he says, “I wonder when you’ll find the next one.”

It’s as if he’s merely musing on the topic.

“Me too.”

Then, after we eat, I return to the question of his introduction. “Why did you call me by my name rather than introducing me as an intern?”

His jaw tics almost imperceptibly.

I continue, asking, “Or as Harlow Granger?”

His eyes lock on mine, intensely, importantly. “Because that’s how I see you. As Harlow.”

Not as an intern. Or a Granger.

He leaves that there with all its implications. And I take those implications home with me, tucking them close, keeping them near.

That night, I’m lounging on my couch reading, when my phone pings and Bridger’s name appears. Immediately, I click over to his text, breathless with anticipation.

Then there’s an image of a Post-it note on a street sign. Someone wrote Get supplies on it.

It’s just supplies. But it’s also not .

I reply.

Harlow: I hope someone got their supplies.

Bridger: I hope so too.

Then when I’m about to return to my book, another note pops up. A double text.

Holy shit. A double text.

Bridger: You never want to miss supplies.

Harlow: Never. It’s a rule.

Bridger: One you shouldn’t ever break.

Harlow: I wouldn’t.

Bridger: I didn’t think you would.

We’re not talking about supplies. And I’m no longer wondering if he was avoiding me. I know he was. And now he’s not.

Especially when he double-texts once more.

Bridger: You don’t seem like a rule breaker.

I’m all kinds of turned on as I write back, But maybe I am .