Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I wish it weren’t so hard to tell them about the party—to tell them how I felt and what I want and then ask what they think. To analyze it together, turn it inside out, and then somehow feel better for having shared the experience with all my good friends.
But a nagging voice asks…what if?
That’s the problem. Telling someone one thing opens the door to them learning more things—things they could use against you.
Like plenty of people have done. Like, say, Brandon. And, hey, how about my parents too? Yeah, that was real fun.
“Lots of scripts,” I add. “Then, I did some planning for the final episodes of Happy Enough.”
“Spill,” Layla demands.
With a smile, I shake my head. “Can’t give up trade secrets,” I say. That’s one of our most popular shows, based on books by the romance author Laura Paigeley, and it’s heading toward the end of its successful second season.
“Fine, fine. So, basically a typical weekend for you,” Harlow says, bumping her shoulder against mine. It’s a move she does with Layla. A friendly move.
I miss big friend group moments fiercely, so the move inadvertently does the trick, opening me up more. “And I filled in for a friend of mine who plays piano.”
Whew. That wasn’t too hard to say.
“Oh cool. Where did you play?” Harlow asks.
“It was kind of like a private party,” I say.
In tandem, Layla and Harlow both sit up straight, instantly attentive. “What kind of private party and how do I get an invite?” Layla asks.
“Well, I can’t really say,” I answer as memories rush through my mind, heating my body all over again. My cheeks warm.
“Oh!” Layla’s lips part in a gasp.
“What?” I ask, a little alarmed.
“You’re blushing,” she whispers.
So much for my poker face.
“What did you do at the party?” Harlow asks, her tone dripping with curiosity too.
“Or should I say…who?” Layla adds.
I don’t have to share all the details. But this conversational pawn? I can move it a square, and dammit, I want to move it a square. “There was this guy. He was…interesting,” I say.
They are literally on the edge of their seats, and it feels good to have an audience for a story again. It’s been a long time.
“How so?” Layla asks.
I smile, a little demurely. “He was…bold. Direct. The kind of man who knows what he wants. Know the type?”
Layla fans herself. “Um, yeah.”
“Right. You’re living with the type,” I add as Camden grabs the deck of cards. It’s her turn to deal. “And let’s just say…we slipped away during a break, and we had a very good time.”
There. That wasn’t so bad. Very ought to cover a lot of what happened in the library.
“And?” Harlow asks, staring pointedly with those big green eyes that would con a bone away from a dog.
“I’m supposed to see him again. So we’ll see how it goes.”
Camden shuffles more loudly this time, perhaps knowing I’ve reached my limit. It’s not the first time she’s saved me. “C’mon,” she says. “We have a card shark to take down, girls.”
They try, but I still win the game.
I’ve got my poker face back on. It’s safer that way with almost everyone.
One more day.
The next week, as I walk to my dad’s office on a Thursday evening, I remind myself I only have to make it through one more day till The Scene. Somehow I’ve managed to survive nearly two weeks of production coordination for Happy Enough. But I’ve also been working extra hours, reading the scripts Bridger gave me for our new dramedy, The Rendezvous, which is shooting now and slated to air on an upstart streaming service. That project came directly to him since he’s become known as a producer with a great sense for international shows. One of his first hits took place in Paris, and I wish I were working on this one too. The writing is sharp, and the inclusive cast of characters intrigues me—Black, white, queer, straight, and all shapes and sizes.
Bridger says there aren’t any open producer positions for me, but that hasn’t deterred me from staying up late and offering him tips for the upcoming location shoot in Paris, like where the heroine’s flat should be, and info on securing it for the time we need it.
I’ve spent later nights prepping for The Scene. I have my outfit picked out and my mask chosen. My tunes practiced, thanks to the keyboard at my apartment. Scarlett put me in touch directly with the organizers, who sent me the details, including arrival time and password. I had no chill when I saw their name pop up in my email. I squealed.
All I have to do is make it through dinner tonight with my dad and his wife, then a day of work tomorrow, then it’ll finally be time for my take-my-V-card-please date.