12. That Extra Inch
12
THAT EXTRA INCH
Harlow
I start wearing skirts every day.
The man likes my legs. Might as well give him what he wants.
I zip up a gunmetal gray skirt that hugs my hips and hits at my knees.
Ah, who am I kidding? This hits an inch above the knees. Sometimes, you need that extra inch.
I check my reflection in the mirror, give myself an approving nod, then take off for work. Along the way, I reread last night’s texts. I replay the last week, then the last few months.
Bridger seems to like to chat on the path, on the phone, at cafés. And while he seems okay to chat at work every now and then, he’s definitely more reserved behind his desk.
Maybe I need to get him out of the office.
“Waitress” plays in my earbuds, but I’m barely listening to the festive tune. My strategy brain is working overtime as I traverse the edge of Central Park, feeling the clip-clopping of horses more than I hear it.
I could ask him to a show.
I could invite him to take pictures with me after work.
But is that too much, too soon?
I squint, thinking, then I think harder when I spot a flash of emerald green. Tailored pants, thick, dark hair—Bridger is fifty feet ahead, walking along Central Park South, headed for the office.
As if of their own accord, my feet pick up the pace. Wait. Am I truly doing this? Power walking to catch up to him?
No, I can’t be that obsessed. I can’t be that girl. But then Fate must love me fiercely because he stops to check something on his phone. My breath catches as I walk and I hope.
I do not run, and still, I reach him. Like that, I’m no longer miles from nowhere. I’m next to Bridger.
“Morning, Bridger,” I say.
He looks up. A smirk already owns his lush lips. “You’re everywhere, Harlow.”
Does he think I’m a stalker?
But before I answer, my phone buzzes in my skirt pocket.
His grin widens, his eyes drifting to the source of the sound. “Like I said…”
As I slide open my phone, tingles rush over my shoulders. A picture pops up on the screen.
A strange one. A Tupperware container in the dark, with the lid flipped open. Inside it is a keychain with an Eiffel Tower tchotchke hanging on the silver circle. “Does this count? It’s someone’s geocaching. Well, their cache,” he says.
He took another photo for me, and this feeling in my chest—like bubbles shook up—must be what effervescent is. “Where did you find it?”
“I was walking through the park the other night. Before a dinner party thing—I usually do that—and I spotted this behind a rock,” he says, methodical, but a touch excited too.
There’s so much to unpack there. So much Bridger intel. But I start with the easiest one. “This absolutely counts,” I say. “Can I post it?”
“Be my guest,” he says as the cars and cabs and buses trundle by. But as they move, we stay still outside the park, the early June morning wrapping around us.
I was right. Bridger lets go outside of the office.
“Then thanks for the invitation,” I say, with a sexy smile. I post the picture quickly, then show him the caption: I’ll be going back soon. You?
His expression shifts. Serious, concerned. “You’re leaving?”
A line digs into his forehead. That’s…a tip-off. “Not yet…” I say, then trail off, letting the possibility of my absence hang there. To torture him.
Fear can be a good motivator, after all.
“Soon?” The concern is almost too much. I want to abate it, but I want to toy with it too.
I’m a cat playing with her catch.
Am I lying? Not really. I might go back to Paris, so I reassure him with, “Not too soon.”
He says nothing. But in the slight twitch of his lips, then how he purses them together, he’s reassured. He’s cool Bridger again, in control Bridger again.
I like all the Bridgers, but I especially like when he shows me his wishes and his wants. I like when I’m those wishes and wants. I shrug playfully, then toss out, “You should come with me.”
We’re not really going to Paris, but it’s a trial balloon.
He laughs, like that’s ridiculous, then starts walking to the office. “Should I now? Go to Paris?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I hear there are all sorts of things to find and photograph there. Chapeaus on park benches, discarded art in alleys, abandoned flowers in passages.”
“Sounds like a story,” he offers.
“A good story,” I say, but I hold back other words. I don’t say a love story, but I hope he hears it in my tone.
“You could tell that tale,” he says.
“Maybe I will,” I say.
The black skyscraper looms ahead. In a few minutes, we’ll step inside the cool, air-conditioned building where we play our roles.
Boss and intern.
But sometimes, even within those walls, I just feel like we’re a man and a woman. Like I do right now. “Or,” I say, returning to the you should come to Paris vibe, then seizing it, just taking what I want, “we could go to a show here. On Broadway.”
It comes out in a hot rush. I feel fizzy, dipped and coated in sugary hope as he stops at the corner outside the park and looks me straight in the eyes. Briefly, his tongue darts out, wetting his lips, like he’s thinking. He takes his time, then speaks quietly. “Do you think that would be obvious ?”
God. Yes. I want obvious. Badly.
But instead I tilt my head, play innocent. “What’s obvious?”
“I think you know what I mean,” he says, his voice low, perhaps a warning.
I don’t want to heed it. “Do I?”
He nods, never taking his eyes off me. “You’re a smart woman.”
“I know,” I say, the ions vibrating between us.
His brow arches. “Know that you’re smart or know what I mean by obvious?” The current between us is electric, fully charged.
“If we go to a show, I would think it would be obvious how complicated this has become,” he says.
Flames blaze up inside me. Anticipation clings to the air. This is the turning point. Keeping my gaze on his beautiful blue eyes, I don’t ask. I state, making all my intentions crystal clear. “Do you know I know all the lyrics to Ask Me Next Year ?”
He’s silent, jaw ticking, as if he’s considering what to say next or whether to say it at all. Then in a voice that almost wobbles, he says, “If they ever did a revival?—”
“Bridger,” I cut him off in a sharp whisper.
My father is staring at us, standing in front of the black building. His head is tilted, his gaze curious.
My chest hollows.
I step back, wave, and smile. “Hi, Dad.”
The look on Bridger’s face is blank. He’s erased all emotions in an instant.
But the look on my father’s face is delighted. “So it’s going great? The internship?”
I shudder out a breath. “It is,” I say, at the same time that Bridger says the same.
I’m sure we both feel the same utter relief.
I feel, too, like I’m getting away with murder.