Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“The other fearless leader.” Jill laughs and squeezes him back with her free arm. “But hello, Bancroft.”
“He’s downstairs in the theater with Monk.” He turns to me. “Verity, good to see you again. Canon was looking for you earlier.”
I tense, but make a conscious decision to relax and not give a fuck.
“Cool.” I set my plate down.
“No, go on and eat,” Evan insists. “I don’t think it’s urgent. He was just telling someone about all the cool historical context you added to the script.”
For another ten minutes or so, I nibble from my plate and meet more of the team. Evan introduces me to the production director, the set designer, the art director, and others.
“Let’s head down to the theater,” Evan suggests to the group. “Canon has some film he wants us to watch before he talks about the movie.”
My breath stutters and I breathe in and out a few times to settle my nerves. When I saw Monk in Harlem, I wasn’t prepared. Didn’t expect to be close to him at all. Knowing is worse. I take the last few steps down and brace myself for my first sight of him in years.
He looks much the same. Age seems to only be improving him. Always handsome, his face is harder with sharper lines. When I’ve seen him in interviews and in public appearances, his smile has come easily, more relaxed than when we were in college. The Monk I knew was intense with undercurrents you could get caught in, drown in. The ease with which he navigates fame feels deliberate to me; a piece of glass he’s placed between his most authentic self and the rest of the world. I probably detect it more than most because I knew him before the hit albums, the Grammy and Emmy Awards, all the acclaim.
My perusal stutters at his chest. Finley College, Est. 1901 is emblazoned on the sweatshirt he wears with dark jeans. I know he wore this on purpose, probably intended to disconcert me. I hate that it’s working; that even though I was determined to ignore our past and treat him like everyone else I’m meeting for the first time, the sweatshirt immediately transports me back to the quad, to the yard, to the arboretum, where we shared our first kiss. To his apartment, where I gave him pieces of my soul that I thought I’d never want back.
Damn him.
Monk hasn’t spotted me yet, and I take a moment to lock my inscrutable expression in place before I have to face him. I would love to slink down unnoticed in one of the overstuffed seats in Canon’s home theater, but no such luck.
“Verity!” Canon calls. “Over here.”
Over here is with him, a woman I don’t recognize, and Monk.
Of course it is.
I paste on a smile and approach.
“Hey.” I split a glance between Canon and the woman, not acknowledging Monk.
“This is Linh.” Canon nods to the petite woman standing with them. “She’s our costume designer.”
“Oh, you’re gonna have a good time with this one,” I tell her, smiling. “This period’s fashion is some of my favorite.”
“Yes,” she agrees in a voice deeper than I would have expected from such a tiny woman, slim and no taller than five-two. “It’ll be like a playground.”
She’s the kind of beautiful that makes people run into things because they can’t stop looking at her. The lines of her face are delicate, molded in amber-glazed porcelain, eyes tilted and long-lashed, but her nose is so bold it should overpower the rest of her face. It doesn’t and all her features seem to have reached an agreement that none of them would detract from her loveliness. The dark hair falls in gently textured waves to her elbows.
“And I think you know Monk,” Canon says, a dry smile touching his lips as he looks between Monk and me like he just rang the bell for a boxing match.
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
“We actually dated in college.”
We speak at the same time, and my jaw falls when he just casually drops that we dated in front of Linh. My eyes slit into a glare, and the crease of a smile he flashes tells me the comment was as intentional as his attire.
How fucking dare he?
Linh, who carries an air so placid she could probably serve high tea in a hurricane, studies us with piqued interest.
“We should get started,” Canon says, the slightest bit of amusement threading his voice. He turns to the team scattered in the theater. “Everybody, find a seat.”
The air between Monk and me vibrates with animosity. I want to crack that amicable mask he has donned for the world over the last decade, let him know he doesn’t fool me. He’s still the same broody son of a bitch I used to have to tease and lure away from his piano. It’s not worth it. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how his comment about our shared past rattled me.