Page 9 of The Crush
Her smile is gleeful, a little wicked. “No. But to me it is because I know you. And damn, he’s pretty.” She nudges me again. “Go shoot your shot.”
The idea is too much. Too tempting. Too dangerous. But I appreciate her efforts. “Thanks, but I don’t think it’ll work out,” I say, since isn’t that the truth. He’s just not interested in me. Not to mention thebighurdle—I could never be with my dad’s business partner.
Layla shrugs, then drops a kiss to my cheek. “I should vanish. Don’t miss me too much.” Then, low, under her breath, she urges, “Shoot, Harlow, shoot.”
“Get out of here,” I say, rolling my eyes.
But her command has gotten a hold of me. When she’s gone, I spin around, hunting for him again, but he’s chatting with a woman in a paisley blouse.
Bridger doesn’t have a drink in his hand, and an idea takes hold. An opening line, if you will.
As I head to a group of network execs to put in more time, my father strides over, intercepting me. Joan is with him. She looks regal, her chestnut mane swept up in a chignon.
She smiles affectionately at me. “Let’s raise a glass in a toast to our star,” she says.
“Of course,” Dad seconds.
He doesn’t even have to clear his throat. He commands a room by his mere presence, playing the part he’s mastered. A modern-day Gatsby, complete with the slicked-back hair and semi-permanent grin. His eyes gleam with fatherly pride. “To my daughter. I’ve never been prouder,” he says to the crowd, then he wraps an arm around me. “Paris will be lucky to have you this fall.”
I’m his prize, all right. I smile, the bright, shiny kind that charms his friends. Something else I learned from an early age.Be nice to Daddy’s associates and you can do what you want.
“Thank you,” I say to the crowd that’s smiling at me but sucking up to my father.
Except Bridger. He doesn’t need to suck up to my dad. He’s his equal. Equal shares in the company. Equal say. His dark eyes meet mine as the partygoers lift their glasses and give a collectiveCheers.
“Thank you so much,” I say.
When the guests return to their networking, my father weaving back into the sea of black and white and gray, the paisley lady says goodbye to Bridger. Buoyed by Layla’s shot of confidence, I’m determined to snag a few minutes of his time before someone else corrals him. So he can see me as a woman, not my father’s daughter.
Like that, I pass my drink to a waitperson and go to him.
4
LUCKY NEW YORK
Harlow
When I reach Bridger, I flash him a grin. “Want a refill?” I ask, eyeing his empty hands, taking a gamble with my offer.
“No thanks,” he says, then his gaze travels to my legs, a smile shifting his lips. “You’re walking without help again.”
A zing rushes down my back. He noticed my legs.
I gesture to my high-heeled feet. “And I have a cool scar,” I say.
His eyebrow lifts. “You do?”
“On my ankle. I’m not sure if the bike cut me up or the cab. Either way, I got marked,” I tell him, a little playfully, then I turn to the side, hoping he enjoys the profile view as I bend, pointing toward the vicinity of the inch-long jagged scar, still pink. “Right there.”
As he looks down, he swallows. Roughly, maybe. Or is that my imagination? “Yeah, that’s some scar,” he says, giving nothing away.
“Guess we’re both cool now,” I say, then tilt my head, weighing the next thing on my mind. “By the way, I didn’t think you’d accept my drink offer.”
He takes a beat. “But you made it anyway?”
“I wanted to see if I was right.”
His brow knits in curiosity. I’ve set the trap. He’s taking my bait. “I’ll bite. Right about what?”