The Virgin Society Collection

13. Big Desk

13

BIG DESK

Harlow

The message blinks up at me the next morning as I grab my phone on the way to work. The hair on my arms stands on end.

Dad: Can you swing by the set on your way to work?

Did he hear us yesterday after all? Does he know? Another message lands with a sharp buzz.

Dad: My car will be waiting outside your building.

Dread crawls up my spine. I leave, the door shutting with an ominous clang.

My pulse spikes as I head down the hall, then it shoots out of control as I step into the tiny elevator car, surrounded by men in suits, women in sharp trousers.

They are the other denizens of this building. This fancy twelve-story building I could never afford on my own. I shirk to the back of the elevator, completely out of place.

The twenty-one-year-old interloper. The fake, the fraud. They live here for real. My gorgeous one-bedroom is entirely unearned.

My stomach nosedives as the elevator plummets. The rightful residents, those who probably earned their homes, shift their stances, scroll on phones, check watches.

I stare at the brass doors, throat tight. The elevator arrives at the lobby.

Ashamed, I hang behind, then head for the exit.

“Good morning, Ms. Granger,” the doorman says.

“Good morning, Henry,” I say, smiling, wishing I didn’t feel like I live with a silver spoon in my mouth.

But I like my silver spoon too much to spit it out.

On the street, a gleaming black car waits for me. My dad’s driver stands by the door, swings it open, gives me a good morning.

I say hello, with my stomach churning. Once inside, I check that the partition’s up, then, I FaceTime my brother in London, where it’s early afternoon.

He answers right away, his dimpled face appearing on the screen, his brown eyes curious but concerned. He’s in the office, a bank of TV monitors behind him. He’s a producer at Webflix in London. “Hey, what’s up, Lo?”

“Hi,” I say, breath stuttering.

Instantly, he gets me. “Shit, what’s wrong?”

I shake my head, a lump forming in my throat. “Hunter,” I say, my voice low as the car pulls into morning traffic. “Dad called me to the set today. I have no idea why, but it feels foreboding.”

He frowns sympathetically. “Look, working for Dad is brutal. It was for me. But he’s always been different with you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, like it was all my doing, Dad being harder on his son. “For how he was.”

“It’s not your fault. He just…he adores you.”

That’s the problem. I’m his princess. His good daughter. “I know, but he texted me to come in this morning, and now I’m freaking out.”

“Why? I mean, besides the fact that he’s a total wanker,” he says, and I smile, agreeing, I suppose.

But I shouldn’t involve another person in my terribly messy affairs. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, breezy, trying to let it go.

“Harlow,” he chides. “Why are you so worried?”

I need an answer. I need to cover up the terrible truth of my intentions. “I just don’t want to mess up the internship,” I say, and that’s mostly true. I don’t want to ruin the internship since it’s my chance with Bridger. My only chance, and these feelings are no longer a crush. The more I know him, the more I care for him, the more I think Bridger needs me too. There’s something tense in him. He’s a tight coil of a man. He seems to need…unwinding.

I want to unwind him.

But what if Dad has figured me out?

I blink away the horrid possibility and ask Hunter how he’s doing. “Have you met anyone who’s excited you?”

Hunter came out as bisexual earlier this year.

“No, but I remain very committed to the cause,” he says with a laugh. “Even though I’ve only managed a few snogs.”

I laugh harder, feeling better after talking to him, as I always do. “Well, I hope you get more than snogs. When will I see you again? Are you ever coming to New York?” I ask in my little sister pleading voice.

He laughs. “Maybe. My boss, Bernard, has been saying he wants me to do some work with the Webflix team in New York. He hasn’t said when, though. But I am heading to San Francisco next week to connect with some production companies there.”

“Well, come here after,” I suggest, since I’m helpful like that. “I’m sure Bernard will understand your sister wants to see you.”

“I’m sure he will too. You know I want to see you,” he says, with warmth in his brown eyes.

“I know.” I pause, then ask, “Who are you meeting with in San Francisco?”

“A handful of sports and documentary producers. One of them does sports adventure shows, and I’m totally chuffed to meet them. Maybe try to land one of their reality docs.”

“I can’t wait to hear about it,” I say, but as the town car nears Eleventh, I feel like I’ve inhaled black smoke. I’m lying to Hunter by omission, and I feel like my dad. I can’t be a little liar, like he is.

I practice the words in my head— Hunter, I’m wild for Bridger James.

Then, it’s time to say them out loud. “I want to tell you—” I begin, but he’s turned around, his attention caught elsewhere at work.

My brother swings his gaze back to me.

“I have to go. Chat later, Lo,” he says, then blows me a kiss.

“Bye,” I say, but he’s already gone, and I’m here.

Summoned.

My father’s rarely at Lucky 21, because he’s either at home, writing and overseeing scripts, or here on-set.

Or here. In his throne room for his empire as the creative director, surrounded by his many Emmys for writing, and his shelves full of my mother’s love stories. The spines grow larger, like billboards, as I head down the hall, my shoes clicking along the cavernous corridor.

I touch the I on my pendant, wishing I could remember her more.

But then, I’ve remembered enough, haven’t I? Be intrepid. Be brave.

That’s what she left me with.

And Dad?

His biggest life lesson is this one—best to leave adult affairs to themselves.

I’m an adult…ergo.

I turn my emotions around, tying them up in a neat satin bow. I march in, chin up, unafraid.

“Love!” he calls out, standing, coming around his desk, embracing me. “I brought you coffee. And I need your help picking chocolate for the wedding,” he says, then points to a display of chocolate truffles on his desk, box after box of Lulu’s Chocolates next to a cup of coffee, steam rising from the blue mug.

That’s all he wanted? My input on his wedding favors?

“Of course,” I say, thrilled to taste chocolate, rather than be reamed.

After I sample the wares, I pick a dark, raspberry chocolate, then Dad walks me to the door. “I’m so glad the internship is going well, especially since I’m going away on Sunday for a few days,” he says.

“Oh. You are?” I ask, trying to hide my excitement that he’ll be MIA but probably failing. “Where are you going?”

“Cape Cod. A little getaway for Viv,” he says. “Maybe you can figure out the problem with Afternoon Delight .”

“What’s the problem?”

“That’s the question. The script needs some work,” he says, then drops a kiss on my cheek.

And I’m dismissed.

I got away with this flirtation, and the theft of his awareness feels wicked and wonderful.

Especially since I plan to keep getting away with it.

I spend the day doing a final check of the French translations for Afternoon Delight and double-checking the art references. Finally, I’m using my schooling here.

The day flies by, but I still want the end of it, when others start to leave, to come even faster.

Around six, I knock twice on Bridger’s door. He’s at his desk, bent over his tablet, a pen in hand, music playing softly.

“Come in,” he says.

I don’t want to come on too strong, though, even as I push on the door, closing it. But lightly, almost like it’s closing of its own volition. Not mine. Once I take a seat on his couch, I start with something easy. “I keep meaning to ask…what kind of cabaret tour is your mom doing?”

His gaze swings to the shut door, then to me. “Her favorites. A mix of showstoppers and torch songs,” he says, then lifts a brow. “That’s an odd question.”

“I was starting with a softball. Were you expecting me to come in and brainstorm a solution to Afternoon Delight ?”

He sighs heavily. “Would you please?”

“Want me to read the scripts?” I offer. I’m not sure he’ll let me. My dad would. But I don’t want permission from my father. I want permission from Bridger.

“Do you want to?”

I shoot him a look that asks, Don’t you know me? Because I think he does know me. I think he should by now. “Of course I do,” I say.

“I’ll send them to you,” he says, then leans back in his chair, that sapphire-blue shirt making him look like a king, his stubble making him look…virile. “Soon, you’ll be taking my job.”

I laugh. “Watch out, Bridger. I’m angling for the big desk,” I say, letting my gaze drift to his very big desk.

Big desk. Big desk . I swear those words flash in his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s a good size,” he says, deadpan and deliciously dry.

“Maybe I should read the scripts at your desk,” I say, feeling all kinds of bold. Who knew a meeting with Daddy would wind me up like this? I feel a little topped off, amped up even. Like I can ski a black diamond, the wind whipping past my hair, snow flying in my wake.

“Feel free to set up camp. Stay all night,” he says, and yes, hell yes. Everything is complicated all right, but he’s not shying away from our office flirtation.

Give in, Bridger. Give in to me.

“Well, that’s quite an invitation,” I say.

“I’ve noticed you’re good at invitations,” he says.

“And how are you at RSVPing?” I counter.

Laughing, he shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe I’m here. “I could be better,” he says.

“You’re telling me,” I say.

Another laugh. Another I can’t believe what you’re doing to me sigh. Then, a look. It leaves me heady…this close to woozy.

But Bridger glances toward the shut door, wincing. We’re not truly alone. Too many others bustle beyond that wood.

Music plays from his computer. Company , the Raúl Esparza production. “Do you go to Broadway still?” I ask, since I sense he needs a shift from invitations and complications. Otherwise, I’ll be the one winding him too tightly, and I can’t have that.

“I do.”

“Do you have a Broadway crew? Theater friends?”

He shakes his head. “I mostly go alone,” he says, then twirls his pen. Nervous habit? Maybe. “Not everyone shares my musical taste. But that’s okay. I don’t mind going solo. I’m used to it.”

“Why?”

“You want to know?” He sounds doubtful but intrigued. I have the sense he doesn’t talk freely about himself. Or maybe people don’t ask. Perhaps he’s so used to pitches, to I have an idea for a show.

Maybe he needs someone who wants to know him, truly know him, and also to listen. I’m that person. “I do want to know. Very much so,” I say, backing off the flirt, playing up the earnest.

Because this is truly how I feel.

Normally, he’s on guard. But the edge in his eyes seems to burn off. There’s more vulnerability than I’m used to seeing. This isn’t Bridger the dealmaker. This is the man. “I grew up backstage. I learned stage left and stage right before actual left and right. I did my homework in theater dressing rooms,” he says.

That image lodges in my head and heart. A young Bridger, sprawled out on his stomach, pencil in hand, doing algebraic equations amongst feather boas and pancake makeup.

“I can see that,” I say, delighted, and I lean forward on the couch, even though there’s still a room between us. “That’s so you.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. It’s who you are. Your love of stories came from there. Your passion for entertainment.”

“That is true.” He takes a beat, twirls his pen once more. “And you? Where did your love come from?”

“My mom. When I was younger, she took me to everything. I barely remember her, but I remember how it felt when she took me to the theater. When the overture would play, she’d say, Do you feel that ? The magic? ”

“And did you? Feel it?”

“I did,” I say, breathless, my voice feathery. “I still do.”

“Magic is how I felt too,” he says, reverently, like we’re both cupping that magic in our hands.

And then, because you should always leave them wanting more, I go.

Knowing he’s wanting more.

That night, he emails me the scripts.

Bridger: Just some bedtime reading.

Harlow: Good thing I’m in bed.

Bridger: Then you’ll have company. I’m reading them too.

Harlow: In bed?

Bridger: Yes.

He sends me a photo of his tablet, on his duvet. The cover is dove-gray, and an outrageous thrill runs through me at this window into his private life. I run my thumb along the cover like I can feel the cotton. Like I can smell the fresh sheets. Like I can slide under them and then on top of him.

Like I can run my hands down his chest, along his arms, through his hair. A pulse beats between my legs, insistent. Then, I take a picture of my tablet, resting on my bedcover. I send it along.

Bridger: White. With flowers. That’s fitting, your duvet.

Harlow: Am I flowery?

Bridger: No. But those flowers are extraordinary.

I feel extraordinary with him.