47. My Diner Dreams
47
MY DINER DREAMS
Bridger
I need to get Ian out of the ballroom, stat. Harlow doesn’t deserve to have this happen in public. I push back in my chair right as Ian rises, like he just grew ten feet tall.
In slow motion, as if he is still processing every shocking detail, he turns first to Isla, an outrage in his eyes, before he erases that, rearranging his features expertly. Then, he laughs softly, like he needs to reassure a child. “Clearly, you’re even more creative than you were before. Because that’s quite a fable.” Then he looks to his daughter gently, calmly, like he’s a different person with her, and says, “You don’t have to cover for Isla just because Bridger turned her down.”
No, just fucking no.
I head to Harlow as Jude once more tries to clean up the mess from the stage. “How about Dominic? Have you seen his character’s library? I fantasize about libraries like that.”
Dominic laughs and says something in reply, but I don’t care.
None of that matters. Nothing matters but Harlow. Not even the too tight feeling in my own body. Not even the way my business, my world, my reputation is spinning out of control.
No, imploding.
Not even the way I can feel the press of bodies. Heavy. The weight of the room. Oppressive.
When I reach her, I take her hand. She laces her fingers through mine. My heart settles. My anxious mind quiets.
I need her more than I need anything or anyone in this room.
I lift my chin and look straight at Ian. “I was going to tell you this tomorrow, but there’s no time like the present. Tomorrow, you’re buying my shares at the price we agreed to when we started the company. I’m exercising the buyout clause in our contract. After that, Lucky 21 is all yours and we won’t be in business together.”
Silence coats the room for another few seconds, then Dominic laughs from the stage. “And they say all of the action happens on TV. I guess sometimes art imitates life,” he says, trying valiantly to detract attention away from us once again.
He’s not the only one aiming to steal control. As Harlow rises, squeezes my hand, Ian stalks over to me, getting in my face. “Where the hell is this coming from? Are you fucking delusional too?”
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him swear. He doesn’t rely on curses. He relies on charm.
But tonight, his smooth, affable persona has burned to smoke. He’s livid. And I just don’t care. He’s not my priority. I’ve said my piece. I’m done having this conversation in public.
I turn to my brave woman. “Can I take you home?”
“Yes,” she says, breathing hard, like she’s run a race.
We leave, cutting through the ballroom hand in hand, all eyes on us. I don’t tug on my cuffs. I don’t practice steadying breaths. I simply go, feeling more centered than the moment calls for. Because she is with me.
Trouble is, Ian is right behind us, stalking us beyond the French doors. “What in the bloody hell?” he asks, his eyes flickering with both fury and utter bewilderment.
Fine. We’ll have tomorrow’s talk now. Out in the hallway, away from our colleagues, where I asked him to take this conversation moments ago.
I turn around and grab the conversation before he can take over. “We planned to tell you this tomorrow. That’s why Harlow asked you to come to lunch at her place. I was going to be there to tell you?—”
“—That you’ve been fucking my daughter?”
“Watch your mouth,” I spit out.
“I won’t watch my mouth. I brought you into my world.”
I scoff at his revisionist history. “We’re equal partners. We built this together.”
“And then what did you do? You seduced my daughter—my daughter —behind my back,” he lashes out.
Harlow steps closer. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I pursued Bridger.”
“Poppet,” he says, softening. He’ll probably always have a soft spot for her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She levels him with an intense gaze. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m twenty-one. This is my choice. Bridger is my choice.”
He holds out his hands and huffs like this is all unbelievable. “How can you even know? You’re too young.”
She lifts her chin high. “Mom married you when she was twenty-two,” she says. Take that, Dad .
I want to cheer her on. My woman could be a badass attorney right now. I also want to tell Ian where he can shove his opinions, but for better or worse, he’ll always be her father. He’ll be in her life, and by extension, he’ll be in mine. So, I wait, patiently, as she continues. The floor is hers right now.
“I know what I want.” She reaches for his arm, squeezing it. With both strength and grace, she says, “I didn’t want you to find out like this. I wanted to tell you in private at my home, tomorrow. We wanted to talk to you then. Not in public like this. I never imagined Isla would storm in.”
Ian flinches at the mention of his lover, or perhaps at his own culpability in the meltdown tonight. “Nor did I,” he says, then he purses his lips like he’s holding in his own thoughts about Isla. He didn’t expect this from her either. Usually, he’s able to juggle like an expert street performer, tossing knives in the air and catching them all.
Then, he shakes his head, parts his lips like he’s hunting for more words, but nothing comes. Maybe our fortitude has thrown him completely off.
Or maybe not. He snaps his gaze to me, finding a new head of steam. “I trusted you. I relied on you. I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” he seethes. “I can’t believe you’d go behind my back while we were working on deals, refining scripts, wooing business partners and do… this .”
He says it like it’s a dirty act.
Like it’s unforgivable.
“To my daughter ,” he adds, to emphasize his point. “I can’t believe you’d go behind my back and take my daughter.”
That’s my unforgivable crime. She’s the one he adores. She’s the one true thing in his life. She’s his pure love, especially once Felicity was gone.
I crossed a line he’ll never forgive.
I saw this coming. I saw the end when Harlow and I began, and I did it anyway. Ian is who he is, and I don’t believe he will ever trust me again. We certainly won’t be friends since we were never truly close to begin with.
So, here I am, exactly where I was once terrified to be. There is no choice but the nuclear option.
But I’m not scared of the consequences.
And I don’t need his forgiveness or his permission.
I stay cool and calm and focus on the facts. “We’ve had a good run, but it’s best we move on. I hope you understand that the buyout benefits you much more than me, and I’m willing to do that. Because I love Harlow, and I plan to be with her,” I say, using her name rather than saying your daughter.
He drags a hand through his hair. “Really, Bridger? You’re really leaving the company?” he asks, like he doesn’t believe I’d ever leave. But staying isn’t an option now. That’s my other unforgivable act—the company is the next most important thing to him. It’s his connection to Felicity. It’s the way he understood the world after she left it. Sweet Nothings has become more than her successful series. It’s become his tales of sex and affairs twined on top of her love stories.
It’s his, and he can have it.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” I say.
But Ian’s still desperate, borderline begging. “We run it better together.”
Huh. He needs me. In this moment, he needs me. But he can’t have everything he wants. He’d always remind me I’m with his daughter. He’d always needle me that I took her from him. My love for her would always be between us.
Once again, I choose her. “You’ll do fine on your own,” I say.
Another groan. Another bitten-off curse. “You’re going to blow up what we’ve built for something that might not?—”
“Don’t go there,” I bite out, cutting him off. He’d never say something cruel about her, but I don’t need him to insult how he thinks I’ll treat her or how committed I am. “Whatever you were going to say next, don’t.”
He huffs through his nostrils, turns to Harlow, and pleads. “Come back. Stay for the rest of the awards, at least.”
She smiles sadly. “I appreciate the invitation for tonight, and I’m sorry I can’t stay. But it’s really time for me to go.”
He sputters, trying to say something, anything, and finally spits out, “Where in the bloody hell are you going? We have to present an award.”
Like that matters.
With Harlow’s hand in mine, I take a few steps to go, then I toss back, “Feel free to present the last award solo. I have a date. I’m taking out the woman I love.”
I let out a long, deep breath. Of relief. Of possibility. Of a future that I want. Not one that I chase to fix the past. One that I embrace for the present. “I hope your show wins. Felicity wrote some seriously great love stories, and Sweet Nothings owes everything to her.”
I turn around, and we don’t look back.
Ian doesn’t follow. It’s just Harlow and me, hand in hand, escaping from the glitter and the crowds, from the drama and the noise, from everything and everyone.
Down the escalator, through the lobby, out the revolving door we go. “It’s going to be all over the industry trades,” she says, a little amazed. A lot concerned. “You know that, right?”
I shrug, truly not caring. I’ve worked hard. I’ve made plenty. I’ve saved well. I’ll start over. “I don’t care. I love you.”
Then finally, we’re outside on Fifth Avenue and I do the thing I’ve longed for more than anything in the world. I cup her cheeks. I kiss her mouth. We come back together for all of New York to see. She ropes her arms around my neck and holds on tight.
No matter what happens tomorrow or next week or the week after, I have no regrets.
When I break the kiss, Harlow smiles at me, happier than I think I’ve ever seen her, and that’s saying something. “Want to go to a diner and get French fries?” she asks.
“More than anything in the world.”
With that, we go on our first date.