11. And I Give In
11
AND I GIVE IN
Bridger
I give in.
I finally take up yoga.
I’ve got to do something with all these wild, dangerous thoughts of Harlow. Maybe the practice will help.
I make plans for Sunday morning with Axel Huxley. The thriller writer lives in my building, and he’s become a friend over the last few years.
A devotee of the downward-facing dog, he’s been urging me to go for some time.
“Yoga is the best. It keeps me limber so I can write literally till the day I die,” he says as we head to the yoga studio around the corner from our Gramercy Park building, following the yoginis in tight pants, rolled-up mats tipped on their shoulders, leading the way.
“Bet that’s not what you want to be limber for,” I say drily.
“Which is what I was going to say about you. So, I’m surprised at your advanced age you haven’t taken it up sooner?”
“I’m so old at thirty-one,” I say, but the sarcasm in my tone hits me all wrong. I am old when I think about the woman I’m craving. Ten years is a lifetime. But the age gap isn’t the biggest hurdle.
Still, I can’t let Axel win the battle of barbs. “Speaking of advanced age, I believe you’re still and always will be older than me?”
“And I believe I just came up with the name of my next villain,” he says, then over enunciates, “Bridger,” with a certain evil panache.
“Sounds good to me,” I say.
He laughs, then we’re quiet for a beat.
“So…who is she?” Axel asks as we cross the avenue. “The reason you’re taking up yoga after all this time.”
Shit. Am I that obvious? And if I’m that transparent to my friends, what will Ian say when he notices? Hey mate, who’s the new bird who’s got you so tightly wound?
My eye twitches.
“She’s no one,” I say.
Axel hums doubtfully. “But it sounds like she’s someone.”
She is someone. But I won’t breathe a word about her to anyone. My feelings are too dangerous. Too forbidden. Too…wrong. There are entirely too many wrongs, starting with she’s an intern and ending with Ian would never forgive me . He’d never trust me again, and you can’t run a business without trust.
The company means too much to me. My work is my compass. It’s the only steady thing I’ve ever known.
Feelings are irrelevant.
They’re kerosene, and I don’t need to fan the flames.
“Doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter,” I say once more, for emphasis.
To remind me.
With a sympathetic sigh, Axel nods thoughtfully as we weave around a young family—a mom and mom pushing a stroller. “I get it,” he says. “Some relationships just go…nowhere.”
My buddy sounds resigned, possibly even sad. That’s not like him. Axel’s usually brash and carefree. “Speaking from experience?”
“Unfortunately,” he says. “There was this woman…” Then he waves a hand, as if he’s dismissing her from his memory. “She’s not worth mentioning. Know what I mean?”
But that’s not entirely how I feel about Harlow. My captivating Harlow is completely worth mentioning. There’s a part of me that wants to tell Axel all about her. That wants to tell my mom. That wants to say something to someone, everyone.
Most of all, to her.
Instead, we turn into the yoga studio, and I try to let go of all my dangerous thoughts as I hold the warrior pose, sinking deeper into it, like I can battle all the wild ideas in my head.
On Monday, as I run along the river, I practice what to say the whole time in case I run into Harlow on the path.
If I see her, I’ll say, “What should I wear today?”
Or, maybe, “Did you see that broken record player with the sign, Doesn’t work but might be fun to fix? It’s back on Thirty-Fourth. I took a photo of it.”
And…
I groan over my pathetic lines, and my pathetic plans to talk to her.
Get it together, man.
I toggle to a new playlist on my phone and blast Rent . As I peel off miles, I don’t think of her. I think of music, and stories, and the way I felt when my mom first took me to see this show when I was thirteen.
I felt like I was where I belonged. I was seeing a story unfold on a stage.
As my sneakers slap against the concrete, I send Mom a text.
Bridger: Remember the standing O the cast of Rent received for “La Vie Boheme?” That was a fun show.
Mom: Oh my god, that one was the absolute best. I’m singing it tonight. It’s part of our set.
Bridger: I’m jealous of all the Canadians who get to hear you sing it.
Mom: I’ll make you a bootleg.
Texting my mom about the cabaret tour she’s on in Canada passes the time for the rest of my run.
That feels like a victory.
After I shower, I stand in my closet, towel slung around my waist, studying my options. The row of oranges—the sunburst, the burnt, the bright orange. The reds, from the wine to the cranberry to the ruby. Then the blues. I run my fingers along the half a dozen blue shirts, taking my time, imagining Harlow here in my home. Touching my clothes.
Picking one out.
Wear the robin’s egg. It goes with your eyes, she’d say.
Just hearing her voice in my head sends a hot shiver down my spine. I breathe out hard, then wrap a hand around the fabric of the shirt on the hanger, like I can fucking hold onto a shirt for stability.
I reach for a navy one instead. But when I hold it against my chest and peer in the mirror, it looks wrong.
It’s a boring color.
I should wear a bold shade.
I put back the navy and put on the robin’s egg. It’s not for her. Really, it’s not. I need to stop by the set of Sweet Nothings .
That’s why I’m paying so much attention to what I’m wearing. It’s the right shirt for a set visit since it’s a power shirt.
When I reach the studios on Eleventh Avenue, I make my way to the writers’ room. As I head down the familiar hallway lined with framed shots from the show—Cruz kissing Anna in his library in one season, Sam and Josie arguing in the wine cellar in another season, Cruz kissing Anna’s twin the next season—one of the actors rounds the corner and lights up when he sees me. It’s Dominic Rivera, who plays the wealthy, library-loving playboy. “Bridger! When are we going to give Cruz his own series?”
I smile at the star. “Maybe someday,” I say. You never know. If the research shows Cruz can sustain his own show, he’ll get his own show. That’s when.
The actor’s gaze drifts heavenward. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” he says, then flashes me his winning grin. “Then to the network’s ears. Then to a green light.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Cruz keeps our writers busy, that’s for sure,” I say, then after a quick goodbye, I continue to the writers’ room.
Before I reach it, I hear Isla, her voice carrying to the hall.
“Oh, my god yes, that would be so brilliant,” says the young writer.
Then another voice. “Because you are brilliant, my dear.”
Ian.
I grit my teeth. He can’t call her dear. That’s not okay.
I close the distance and turn into the room as she curls a hand on his arm and points to the laptop screen with her other hand. “Like this?”
He leans in closer, patting her hand on his wrist. “Yes, that is a brilliant punchline.” He looks up and meets my gaze. “Ah, look who’s here!”
There’s zero recognition of the fact that he’s standing that close to an employee. That he just touched a writer on the show.
But who am I to judge? I stand that close to his daughter.
I swallow my “ Be careful .”
“Can you meet with the EP?” I ask him, all business.
“Of course,” he says, then he smiles at Isla and waves goodbye. As we walk to the office, he glances back at the writers’ room. “She’s a clever one.”
“Glad we have such talent working on our shows,” I say, focusing on her job, not her fucking arm.
“Me too.”
But it comes out a little too salacious, so I redirect. “How’s Vivian?”
“Incredible,” he says. As we head to our meeting, he waxes on about the woman he supposedly adores.
Maybe the Isla touch was nothing.
I put it out of my mind.
Later that day, while Ian’s on set and I’m back at the Lucky 21 offices, there’s a rap on my door. Sounds like Jules from the double taps. “Hi, Jules,” I call. “Do you have the Afternoon Delight scripts?”
“No. The head writer needs to rework some scenes.”
That’s no good. “They shoot next month.”
“Hopefully it’s plenty of time.” She offers a shrug.
Sure, some shows do rewrites in a night. But Afternoon Delight is a new show. It should be spit-shined and battle ready. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“And your lunch is coming in fifteen minutes. Also, Harlow finished the database. I want to put her to work on cataloging old scripts from the show. They’re in a password-protected file, though. Okay to give the password to her?” she asks.
My neck grows hotter. “Of course.”
Give her anything she wants.
“Thanks,” she says.
As she goes, I try desperately to erase thoughts of me giving Harlow everything she needs, but then I flash back to the pitch Harlow made about working here. Art, French, research. It’s a waste to have her cataloging old scripts. That’s busy work. Harlow’s an intern—a fucking intern, and I’d do well to remember that every second of every day. She’s also a damn smart one, so we might as well use her talents for the benefit of the company.
“Actually, Jules,” I call out.
My assistant stops in the doorway, turning back. “Yes?”
“Could you send her the French translations from the show? And the artwork referenced in the scenes with the museum visits? Ask her to cross-reference them. Make sure they’re all accurate,” I say. That’s a better use of Harlow’s brain.
Jules’s lips twitch like a rabbit’s. “Of course.”
She turns on her heel and leaves.
My lunch arrives shortly, and I eat alone as I review a contract. The only company I have is Patti LuPone as Reno Sweeney, playing faintly from my computer. When I finish, I turn on my tablet, then open a paper notebook. As I review the new coverage Jules sent me on prospective shows, taking notes on the pages, there’s another rap on my door. Double again.
“Hi, Jules,” I say without looking up.
“It’s me.”
Me.
How can one word turn me electric? I set down the pen, look up. Harlow’s brown hair is loose and curling over her shoulders. Her pink lip gloss shines invitingly. She wears a pencil skirt. Black. It hugs her thighs too deliciously.
I don’t even know what to say next, but I don’t have to figure it out because she points at my desk as she closes the door. “You write in pen?” She sounds…enchanted.
“Just some notes on a script. Why?”
And why are you shutting the door? But thank you for that, because I want to talk to you for the rest of the day, and I don’t want to be careful at all.
“That’s cute.”
I growl. “Writing in a pen is cute?”
“So are those notebooks,” she says, walking over to my desk, running her fingertips along the page I was writing on.
“I’m old school,” I say. But maybe she thinks I’m old. Too old for her? Ah, hell. Why am I thinking this? Maybe because I touched her hand the other day, because I send her texts, because she shut the door, and I didn’t stop her.
And because right now, she’s smiling like she has a secret.
I’m a negotiator for a living. A goddamn dealmaker, yet I’m on edge with her and her fearless grin as she stares me down. She’d be terrifying in a boardroom. I’d lose every battle to her.
“What is it?” I ask, breaking the cardinal rule of negotiations by going first.
“I like your shirt,” she says.
“Thanks,” I manage to say through the desert in my throat.
She sits on the couch, crosses her legs.
The view. The gorgeous fucking view of her.
So help me god.
But I can’t look away, especially as she glances at the emptied bag from lunch, spotting the name of a sushi restaurant on it. “What kind of sushi do you like?”
I laugh at the randomness of her question. Maybe she needs a tension breaker too. “All kinds.”
“But you have to have a favorite, Bridger. Nigiri, roll, or sashimi?”
“Combo platter, as a matter of fact,” I say, and tap my pen on the edge of the desk, trying to figure her out. This is new for Harlow, this brand of office chitchat. She’s never engaged in it before.
I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to stop a thing. “You like sushi?”
She gives a light shrug. “As long as it didn’t swim beforehand.”
“Vegetarian joke. Good one.”
She gestures to my computer, to the music coming from the speakers. The soundtrack to the musical Card Game plays now.
“I’m not into the game…” she says, starting the opening line to the show-stopping title tune, the tiniest touch of sultry to her voice.
There it is.
A callback to the night in her dad’s home, to our exchange of lyrics. To our first-ever flirtation.
And I’m not careful at all as I volley back, tossing a line about how games don’t thrill me at all.
Her eyes meet mine—those beautiful green eyes that make my stomach flip. “So then why do I want…”
The next line in the song lingers on the tip of my tongue. I desperately want to serve it up, but it’s risky.
I do it anyway. “To play games with you,” I say, then the world blurs away.
There’s nothing beyond those windows. Nothing outside the door of my office.
Everything I want is in this room.
Her eyes never leave mine. “It’s a good question,” she says, but that’s not the next line. That’s her commentary, and yeah, it’s a damn good question for sure. Especiallysince her voice feels like a caress.
But if I stay here, I’ll never leave this hazy cocoon of lust. I’ll lock the door, push her against it, and kiss the breath out of her. I’ll hike up her skirt, set her on my desk, and devour her. I’ll never be able to keep my hands off her if we keep talking like this.
I clear my throat. “Do you listen to anything besides show tunes?” I ask, hoping that’s innocuous enough.
“I do, but I keep coming back to them. And you?”
“I would have to say it’d be a rare day if I listened to something that wasn’t meant to be belted from a Broadway stage.” This is safer, so much safer.
“What do you like besides Ask Me Next Year and Card Game ?”
“ Les Mis , and definitely Rent, and of course Sweeney Todd . But my favorite ever is 42 nd Street . My mom was one of the understudies for Peggy Sawyer for one of the revivals some years back,” I say, and this is curing my lust. Talking about my mom is not sexy at all.
“Did she ever get to play?”
“Many times. The lead always had vocal problems.”
“Not the kind of thing you want to have when your name’s in lights. Did you see your mom’s performances?”
“Yes. She’s a talent all right.”
She also drinks too much. Lives too large. I keep that to myself, though.
“Do you have a favorite song from 42 nd Street ?”
“The title track.”
“Can you put it on?” she asks, but before I can move, she’s standing, crossing the distance, stretching across my desk. She’s inches away, and I want to grab her waist, haul her across the desk, and pull her into my lap.
I want to run my hands through her hair and kiss her neck until she’s gasping.
Begging.
Panting.
She clicks over to the new tune. The familiar opening notes play, but she doesn’t leave. She scoots up on the desk and perches on the edge, legs crossed, looking like sin and my downfall as we listen to the song in silence.
The three minutes end far too soon, and when they do, she hops off my desk and heads for the door. But before she opens it, she stops, then walks back to me, taking a deep breath. “I lied.”
I blink, trying to reconnect to reality. “About what?” I rasp.
“I don’t like your shirt.” She tilts her head. “I love it.”
She touches the cuff, fingering the material.
My breath hitches. This close, I can smell her. Vanilla and temptation.I fight back the urge to say I wore it for you.
Instead I say, as emotionless as I can, “I should get back to work.”
Her eyes flash with a touch of disappointment, then she says, professionally, “Me too.”
That night, I send her a photo of the record player.
Bridger: I took this photo for you.
That feels like a small victory too. I resisted telling her the depth of my obsession. Then, she replies.
Harlow: I took this one for you.
It’s a shot of her crossed ankles, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. And I give in even more.
Bridger: I’m keeping it.