20. Things We Ignore
20
THINGS WE IGNORE
Bridger
I wasn’t about to let her ride the dirty subway.
Not when I have a plush town car to take her in.
Not when we’re heading to the same destination.
And not when she secured VIP tickets to an event for me .
So, yeah, I’m only being gentlemanly.
That’s all.
The partition’s up as the car pulls into traffic, heading west. It’s just Harlow and me in the backseat, the hum of the air-conditioning and the weight of last night surrounding us.
Her wavy chestnut hair shines in the fading day as she rolls up the window, sealing us into our private corner of Manhattan. With lush pink lips, she smiles at me. Her knowing eyes are an invitation.
And mine follow her lead, roaming to her ankle. “So, on this shopping trip, what kind of shoes should we get you?”
She taps her chin, in mock deep thought. “Let’s see…would you like me in slippers?”
Yes, slippers. You’d wear them in the morning, in my kitchen, when you’re all sleepy, sexy and morning soft, skin dewy and kissable from a night next to me in bed.
“Or perhaps rain boots,” I suggest as the antidote. They’re so not sexy.
“Good idea. They’d look good with,” she says, stopping to stare at the ceiling of the car, before she fixes me with a smirk, “cute little shorts.”
Check. Checkmate.
Laughing softly, I shake my head, then lean back against the headrest as the driver maneuvers us onto a congested Ninth Avenue en route to the Village. “You win,” I say softly.
This admission covers…everything.
I’m not merely being gentlemanly. I want to be near her. I want to stay in her orbit, feel its pull.
“Or maybe we both win?” Her voice pitches up with hope. A desperate, pleading kind that tugs on my heart, which is already clay in her hands.
I wish we could both win. As the car slogs downtown, the last few weeks at Lucky 21 snap into shape.
She’s been vying for me.
Maybe the whole time.
Do I like that?
Yeah. So much.
It’s heady to be the object of this woman’s attention. I want to just enjoy the shine of it.
But I can’t. Instead, I shift gears with a nod toward her right ankle, the once pink scar faded to white now. “Nice scar,” I add.
“Glad you like it, Mr. James,” she says.
I like it so much I want to kiss it. I want to kiss her calf, the back of her knee, her thighs. But before I can linger on this dangerous hunger in my chest, on the rapid pace of my pulse, and what the hell to do with it all, Harlow tilts her head, studying me quizzically.
“What is it?” I ask, a little unnerved.
“Your shirt,” she says.
I glance down at it. A deep rich orange. Not a Halloween shade, but more like orange sapphire. I pluck at it with mild concern. “Something on it?”
“No. I just like it. You look good in rich colors. Jewel tones,” she says.
Warmth spreads through me. She’s sunshine and desire all at once. “Do I now?”
“Yes, you do, Bridger.”
I tear my gaze away, the knot in my chest tightening, the ache intensifying. Do I tell her I bought it a few weeks ago? The weekend before she started at Lucky 21? That when I held it up in the men’s store in the Village, the one I go to regularly, I imagined the times when she held up shirts, snapped pictures, sent them to me?
But I just choke out a strangled thank you .
Then I run my hands through my hair. Being near her is so fucking hard. I wish…
I just wish…
“Bridger,” she says, and that’s a new tone. It’s an I have something important to say tone.
“Yes, Harlow?” I hope I’m hiding the nerves in my voice. What the fuck am I even afraid of? Except…
Losing the thing that’s kept me centered.
My business.
My whole life I’ve wanted to tell stories. I never had the talent to write them on my own, or the interest in performing them. But I always had an eye. A sharp, astute eye for spotting a diamond in the rough.
After an unsteady childhood, moving around from city to city, following Mom’s tours, whiplashing from New York to Los Angeles, from Miami to Sacramento, no one but her and me, I don’t want to lose my anchor.
My stability.
My Lucky 21.
It feels like a part of my soul.
“I would never let on about us,” she says, answering my question in a calm but impassioned voice. “I won’t say a word at work. The only ones who know about…” she stops before she says us , but I hear it, and more so, I feel it, “are Layla and Ethan.”
I startle at the mention of her friends. “They know?”
Her lips twitch in a grin, but she seems to fight it off. “I told them. They know how I feel,” she begins, and my heart skitters too fast. I barely have time to recover from those three words flung at me— how I feel —since she continues. “They love me. Unconditionally. We don’t tell each other’s secrets. We protect each other. We always have. And you have to know, Bridger, you just have to. I would never tell my…” she stops, correcting to, “Him.”
“Okay,” I say, since I’m not even sure what to say next, at the mention of that…pronoun.
She inches closer, her hand moving near mine. My fingers ache to hold hers.
But she sets her hand in her lap. “You need to know something else,” she continues.
“What is it?”
“When I was thirteen, he told me to never say a word about the things he did. And I never did,” she says, her voice trembling with hurt. “I never said a thing to Mariana, or to Joan. Through all of high school and college, I kept it quiet like he asked me to. All of it. I don’t reveal secrets. I’ll protect you.”
Oh, god. Oh, fucking hell. She shouldn’t protect me. I should protect her. I should look out for this incredible woman. Unable to resist, I reach for her, curl a hand gently around the back of her neck, and whisper, “Come here.”
In no time, she’s next to me, thigh to thigh, our bodies turned, our faces near.
“All day I couldn’t wait for tonight,” I tell her, and it hurts saying those words. Because we can go nowhere.
“I counted down the hours,” she whispers.
“And you should never have to protect me,” I tell her, emphatic, pressing my forehead to hers.
“But I want to. And I can,” she says.
My heart squeezes. She’s so young and so strong at the same damn time. It doesn’t take a genius to know why. She had to sculpt herself into this young woman with her own tools. Had to do it with no role model while her one living parent chased his narcissistic, selfish desires.
“No, Harlow. Don’t protect me,” I murmur into her hair, drawing an inhale of her shampoo and I’m lost. Just lost in the vanilla scent of her.
I inch back, look at her eyes, gleaming with passion.
Then I drop my lips to hers and kiss her once more. It’s a whisper of a kiss. We’re both holding back, perhaps acutely aware that we can’t tumble out of the car, looking kiss-drunk and bruised.
But I know in the soft press of our lips, in the hands on arms, hands in hair, hands so eager to touch, that I can’t protect myself from what’s happening either. Because this is the kind of kiss that erases everyone before it.
Soon, though, I find the will to pull away, looking at her dazed eyes as I say, “What are you doing to me?”
“I thought that was clear,” she says, that naughty smile returning.
I laugh lightly. “Fine, then what am I supposed to do with you?”
She tugs on the neck of my shirt. “I have some ideas. It might involve getting this shirt off,” she says, and she’s playful and fun.
Smart and vibrant.
Kind and bold.
She’s like Joan of Arc of Manhattan, spurred on by her vision. And I think I’m falling terribly for her.
Change of topic. I need one, stat. I glance out the tinted window. Times Square is nearby.
“Who would you cast in an Ask Me Next Year revival?” I ask.
“Oh, I have so many ideas.”
We spend the rest of the ride casting the revival, choosing the three leads. I ignore the fact that the musical doesn’t have a happy ending.
When we reach the Village, the driver pulls the car over, cuts the engine. I brush a hand down my shirt, check my reflection. No evidence.
Harlow’s reapplying lip gloss using the camera on her phone.
“Shame,” I mutter.
She cocks her head. “That I don’t look well-kissed anymore?”
“Yes. That.”
“I know,” she says.
Then we get out, walking down the block together, but apart.
The sun falls low in the sky, casting long beams of light between red-brick buildings. When I turn the corner onto Jane Street, the sign for Petra Gallery comes into view.
Focus, James.
Get Fontaine. That’s my only mission tonight.