Page 103 of Collide

Broderick is quiet for a moment, then his voice softens. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Next topic,” I deadpan.

He chuckles.

“Don’t let him get to you, gorgeous.” His voice is deep, sincere.

Gorgeous?

I smile to myself, warmth blooming in my chest, though I push it down, not ready for this.

“Thanks, Brody,” I murmur, genuinely.

We drift into safer ground, tossing around ideas and assigning tasks for Andrew and Philippa’s weekend.

Before I know it, it’s midnight. We’ve been on the phone for hours, laughing, teasing, and somewhere in the middle of all the banter, that heavy ache over Alex starts to ease.

Still, when I finally hang up, I stare at the ceiling, knowing one thing for sure—Broderick Schwartz is devastatingly good at getting under my skin.

And I’m not sure if I want him to stop.

I’mjolted awake by my phone vibrating loudly on the bedside table. Squinting at the screen, dread fills me when I see multiple missed calls and texts from Alex. It’s two a.m. I sit up, anxiety gripping me tightly as I read through his incoherent messages. He’s downstairs, drunk and barely able to string sentences together.

Throwing on my sweater, I rush down to the lobby, where I find him slumped in a plush chair, his head resting heavilyagainst his palm. As I approach, he looks up, his eyes glazed and unfocused, and he smiles—a goofy, playful grin.

He stinks of liquor, not his usual fresh, ocean scent. The sharp tang of whiskey mixed with something else—regret?—lingers around him, a stark contrast to the clean, crisp presence I’m used to.

“Elena,” he slurs softly, reaching clumsily toward me. “I’m so sorry.”

My heart aches seeing him like this. I should turn around. I should let someone else deal with him. But as he lifts his head, looking at me like I’m the only thing steady in his world, I can’t walk away.

I gently wrap an arm around him, supporting his weight. “Come on, Alex. Let’s get you upstairs.”

Back in my room, I guide him to sit on the edge of the bed. His weight is heavier than I expect, his body sagging against mine as I help him up. The scent of whiskey clings to his clothes, layered beneath the remnants of his cologne, now dulled by the night’s excess.

Kneeling in front of him, I carefully remove his shoes and jacket, my fingers trembling slightly.

“Now we’re talking,” he slurs as he sways back and forth. I steady him with both my hands, his skin warm beneath my touch, a reminder of just how close we were.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers, his voice thick with regret. “I messed up everything.”

“It’s okay,” I say softly, trying to reassure him—and myself—as I gently wipe his face with a cool, damp cloth, erasing the traces of his night.

As I stand, he pulls me in, resting his head on my chest. He breathes in the scent of me and lets out a low moan, and instinctively, I run my hands through his hair, earning me yetanother moan. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he mumbles into my chest in earnest.

I press my eyes shut, fighting back tears. My throat tightens as I hold him in this embrace. He feels small like this in my arms, a vulnerability I’m not used to seeing with him.

“Sleep it off, Alex. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He nods slowly, eyes flickering shut as I help him lie down. I should be angry. I should walk away and let him figure this out on his own. But as he grips my hand, his fingers trembling slightly, something inside me can’t let go.

He looks so lost, so unlike the confident, untouchable man I first met. Maybe that’s why I stay, because I know what it’s like to feel alone.

I lay beside him, unsure if I can even get back to sleep, watching this beautiful man as his chest rises and falls. Occasionally, he murmurs ‘sorry’ in his sleep or speaks in Swedish, his words slurred but full of emotion. I clench my jaw against the feelings clawing their way to the surface. I should be angry. I should feel nothing. But emotions don’t work that way, and Alex—drunk and vulnerable—feels like something too fragile to break apart right now.

Staring up at the ceiling, I reflect on the events of the past few weeks—how he cared for me in the hospital after I hit my head, his small, thoughtful gestures, the perfect dates he planned. These don’t seem like the actions of a man who was intentionally trying to deceive me.

Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he really did want me to get to know him as him, without all the trappings that come along with his fame. What if the shoe had been on the other foot? I haven’t reached the level of success he has, so I couldn’t possibly understand how isolating that life can be. But in some ways, I could. I know what it means to be lonely, to self-isolate toprotect yourself. I did it when my mother got sick. I did it when she died.