Page 80 of Collide

She grins, totally unashamed. “So, imagine my surprise when I get to the mixer, and Andrew’s there. We started talking, I asked him out and…well, the rest is history.”

“Broderick was the bait. Best wingman ever. You totally fell for it,” Andrew exclaims.

“I thought you all went to school together?” I say, shrugging, spearing a piece of egg.

Philippa shakes her head. “Oh, no, Andrew and Broderick did—they’re both well past their prime.” She winks.

Andrew clutches his chest. “Wow. Harsh.”

Broderick shakes his head, laughing. “Damn, Phil. I’m thirty-two. I’m not set for pasture just yet.”

“We all graduated from Columbia,” Philippa adds. “But they finished long before I even started freshman year.”

I nod, like I care, working through another bite, pretending to be somewhat interested.

Broderick leans back in his chair, eyes still on me over the rim of his coffee cup.

“What getsyougoing, Elena? If not property deals…bacon and eggs?” His tone’s casual, but there’s something loaded beneath it, like he’s already imagining the answer.

The tingle that slides down my spine is completely unfair.

“If I told you,” I snap, raising an eyebrow, “I’d have to kill you.”

I swallow the last bite of bacon.

Andrew coughs through his mimosa. “Damn, bro, you’ve lost your edge.”

They chuckle at one another, and I know it’s at my expense.

Dickheads.

I zone out as Philippa launches into floral arrangements and monogrammed stationery.Yawn.

Waffles vanish off my plate as I pray—pray—this headache, both the one in my skull and the one sitting across from me, disappears.

Broderick Schwartz—international man of mystery, owner of those dimples, that smile, those forearms, best man—leans back like he owns the air around him, all long legs and lazy confidence, swirling his coffee like he invented caffeine.

And those eyes.

He catches me staring—shit.

A smug grin spreads across his face. “Tell me something, maid of honor?—”

I roll my eyes. “It’s Elena.”

He smirks. “Elena.” My name glides off his tongue like he’s savoring it.

Rude.

He chuckles. “You don’t like me?”

“What gave it away?” I reply, all mock sweetness.

“The glaring. The sighing. The way you stabbed your waffle with the precision of a trained assassin.” He chuckles, cocking his head.

I glance down.

Oh.Yeah, okay. Maybe I’m beingslightlydramatic.