The Virgin Society Collection

23. A Thank You Gift

23

A THANK YOU GIFT

Bridger

Twenty minutes later, I’m home, my mind at war with my body. Or maybe my brain’s simply fighting with itself.

My emotional mind says, run to her .

And my rational mind says, run from her .

But my heart, my stupid fucking heart, just says… her .

Over and over, as I stare at my phone, and wait.

I can’t let go of the damn device as I walk to my closet, sit on the stool, take off my shoes and neatly set them on the shoe rack. I put my phone on the cushion as I strip off socks and then slacks, folding the pants neatly, setting them in the dry-cleaning pile. I toss my T-shirt in the laundry.

I grab the phone once more, checking again.

This is me—down to boxer briefs and my phone.

Dear god, who have I fucking become?

I have to stop, and yet I’m strung out on mere hope for a photo.

Get a grip.

Leaving the phone on my nightstand, I shed my boxer briefs, step into the shower, and let the hot water sluice over me until it washes away tonight.

Soon, my business partner will be back in town.

Soon, I’ll have to look him in the eyes.

Soon, we’ll do another deal.

We’ll talk about Afternoon Delight , we’ll work on the concept, we’ll deal with Sweet Nothings .

I can’t do that if I’m fucking his daughter.

You’re not fucking her .

Yet.

“God,” I mutter, slamming a fist against the tiled wall in the shower. Like the technicality matters. I shut off the faucet, step out, grab a towel.

As I dry off, I remind myself that there’s so much more at stake than Ian.

Hundreds of employees.

The shows we own.

The productions we oversee.

All of those people around the world who depend on the two of us for paychecks. All those productions. All our plans. How the hell can I lead this company if I’m sleeping with the other guy’s daughter?

Ian would never forgive me. He’d never trust me. Andhe wouldn’t want to work with me anymore.

I can’t keep doing this with her. But when I pull on a pair of gym shorts to sleep in, then head to bed, I lunge for the phone, checking it once again.

My heart slams ruthlessly when I see her name. Taunting me.

I sink back onto the mattress, gripping the phone like it’s a precious artifact. It is. It holds the key to her. I slide it open. My mouth is dry as I click on her name, then I open the message.

There’s nothing, not a single thing, sexier in the world than this.

Harlow, in the mirror, her whole body this time.

She wears nothing but my shirt.

Her legs are bare, the cuffs are rolled up twice, and the top few buttons are undone, giving me a peek of the curve of her breasts.

Her lips are parted slightly.

I trace her outline adoringly. Then I tell myself not to look again, not to reply. But I can’t ignore this photo or the words she sent— Thank you for my gift.

I tap out a note, then hit send.

You deserve all the gifts.

A few seconds later, three dots appear. But before she can send a response, I sneer at my reply. You deserve all the gifts?

My reply is not worthy of this photo.

At the speed of sound, I write back again.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

I hit send.

Her dots stop dancing. Then start again.

You know it’s the same for me.

In the morning, I go to a breakfast meeting near Grand Central with a casting director. Then, I swing by the Chrysler Building to see a brand marketer we work with. In the late morning, I’m finally on the way to the office when my mother texts. As I head toward the revolving brass doors, I open the message.

Mom: Darling! I’ll be in New York next month. Can you believe it? I’m doing a cabaret with some friends. And we’re throwing a party at Sardi’s that night. You must come!

I have no interest in Sardi’s. No interest in a boozy night out with her pals. But I should go. She is my mom. It’s only ever been us.

Bridger : I’ll be there. Can’t wait.

That’s a lie, but it’s not the worst one I’ve told lately. When I reach the black building, I brace myself for more lies. Bigger lies. I put on my armor so I can pretend I’m not losing my mind over my partner’s daughter.

As I ride the elevator, my phone pings. It’s Harlow. My breath hitches. Annoying, my reaction. But I click open the note instantly.

Harlow: Hey! Jules sent me to the set today. I’ve been here all morning. She said they needed me over there more than at the office today.

Hmm. That’s unusual, but I suppose she should go where she’s best able to be used. I reach the fourteenth floor, then head down the hallway when another message from Harlow lights up my phone. The preview says something about a lunch she’s trying to set up with Jules.

But I don’t open it since my assistant is waiting for me in my office.

Jules stares at me, her eyes like bullets. “I know what’s going on with Harlow.”