Page 8 of The Crush

It’s a magic age.

Then, I’ll no longer be in college.

I’ll be his contemporary.

A frisson of possibility unfurls in my chest. I hide a grin from my friend. I haven’t breathed a word about this storm of feelings to anyone. And I’ve never kept secrets from her. But this secret feels like mine. Like a private letter, locked in a box, hidden away.

* * *

Layla and I circulate dutifully downstairs, making small talk, a skill we’ve both been schooled in for years. Her since birth, me since my father became a big deal.

How is Jasmin doing in Tokyo?

Is Vikas enjoying his work in Washington?

Did you see the new sculpture at the Keller Gallery?

All the while, I graciously accept congratulations from all my father’s friends and associates.

Thank you. I’m so fortunate to be going there.

Yes, it’s going to be a wonderful challenge.

I can’t wait to settle into my flat in the Sixth.

And blah, blah, blah. Layla makes a few laps with me, snagging a champagne flute from a cute server in black tie, tossing the guy a wink.

He smiles back, showing straight white teeth. Layla is such a sucker for great teeth. She should consider snagging the city’s top orthodontist’s client list sometime.

Once he’s weaving through a pack of suits, my friend waggles a glass my way. “Want one?”

“No,” I say, but it’s too late. She grabs a second one from another passing waitperson and thrusts it into my hand.

“Layla,” I say, but I take it anyway. It’s easier.

She nods to the packed home. Easily one hundred people mingle in the living room, spill into the dining room. “Who are all these people?”

I lean closer, dip my voice. “Miss Such and Such, the VP of Sucking Up. Mister Whoever, the Director of Kissing Ass. And, finally, there’s the Manager of I Have An Idea to Pitch You,” I say, surveying the scene—smart dresses and blow-outs on the women, slicked-back hair and tailored shirts for the men.

“Ah, I was hoping to pitch an idea tohim. The idea of me,” she says, then points surreptitiously to a handsome guy easily fifteen years older than she is.

I shoot her a doubtful look. “Seriously?”

She just wiggles her brows. Then she looks around again. “Oh, the hot one’s here.”

I figure she’s spotted another thirty-something guy, but when I follow her gaze my breath catches.

It’s Bridger. He must have just arrived. He wears a royal blue shirt and charcoal slacks. He’s leaning against the wall, not drinking either. Watching the scene unfold. Part of it but separate as he studies the people while tugging on the cuffs of his shirt.

Warmth blooms in my chest, a frothy, delicious sensation. I feel floaty, a little dreamy as I watch him. A young publicist beelines for him and his gaze shifts toon.

Then, Layla bumps my shoulder. “When were you going to tell me?”

Confused, I turn my face to her. “Tell you what?”

With anI caught yousmile, she shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you didn’t say a word sooner. How long have you been hot for your dad’s business partner?”

My stomach drops. And that secret didn’t last long. “Is it obvious?” I ask. “To everyone, I mean.”