Page 16 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Crazy for You

O nce the threat of Philippa discovering us had passed and we had the place all to ourselves again, Alex and I settled back into the living room, sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, gazing out at the green canopy of Central Park dulled by the gray sky and rain.

“It’s quite the view from up here,” he remarks.

“The perfect cage.” I sigh, my eyes dropping to my lap.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, voice softer now, curious.

I shrug. “Long story.”

“We’ve got time.”

“Do we?” I quip back, arching my brow at him.

His expression shifts, sharpening slightly. “Well, no. I’m out of town next week, so I want to make the most of the short time we have.”

My breath catches. “By going on a date?”

He leans in a fraction, the warmth of his voice curling between us. “Yes, Elena. No more texts. No more coy flirting. Just you and me. An actual date.”

“But…I don’t really know you,” I blurt out, harsher than I mean to.

“You won’t know if you don’t ask.” He shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Fair point.

That’s what dates are for , Riley’s voice echoes in my mind, teasing.

“So,” he adds, tilting his head, “what do you want to know about me?”

I think for a second. He waits, patient, expectant, like he already knows I’ll give in.

“What’s your family like?”

“Swedish. Big, loud, scattered,” he admits, smiling. “My parents divorced when my sister and I were young. Then they both remarried, had more kids. Six of us in total, but we’re all over the globe.”

“You’re not close with them?”

“My sister, yes. The rest…not really. We get together when we can, but it’s rare.” He chuckles under his breath. “My parents live two doors down from each other. They’re the best of friends now. Weird, right?”

I glance away. “That’s funny. My parents put an ocean between them.”

His voice drops. “That must have been hard. It wasn’t always easy for us either, but time…it softens things.”

For a moment, I envy him. That time healed his family instead of shattering it. Bitter is all I know.

“My best friend, Riley, comes from a big family too,” I say, trying to shake the heaviness off.

“That’s interesting,” he retorts, smiling a little. “But I’m not here to get to know your best friend, Elena. I’m here to get to know you .”

“Oh.” My gaze lingers, heat rising in my cheeks. “Okay.”

“Why singing?” His brow arches.

No one’s ever asked me that before.

When I told my mother, she smiled like she’d already known.

She watched me sing into hairbrushes, scribble lyrics on napkins, and dance barefoot across the living room floor.

But when I told my father, he barely looked up.

He said it was a childish dream. A waste of time. Translation: I was a waste of time.

“I love music,” I admit, twisting the edge of the pillow in my lap.

“It was something my mom and I shared. She was Miss Universe, sang for the talent portion, but I was never into all the pageant stuff. I loved the singing part, though. I used to mimic her performances.” I blush a little. “Music became ours.”

I draw a slow breath. “And when I sing, people listen. I hope…they can hear what’s in my heart.”

He’s staring at me like I’ve knocked the air out of him.

“Elena”—his voice is low—“that’s really special .”

I shift uncomfortably, unsure of what to do with the way he’s looking at me. “I wish everyone felt that way.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Alex asks, eyes narrowing slightly.

My mouth goes dry. “My father doesn’t…He’s not supportive.”

“You don’t get along with him?” he presses gently.

“No. Not really.”

“Why?” he asks, watching me carefully.

“Because…” I drop my gaze. “I’m a disappointment to him.” I shake my head quickly, like I can erase the words. “Sorry, that’s stupid, I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. That’s not stupid.” He shifts closer, so close our knees brush, a spark leaping from the contact straight up my spine.

“ He’s stupid for making you feel that way.”

Heat blooms low in my belly from where our bodies touch. My skin prickles with awareness, like every nerve is reaching for him.

“And you grew up in Australia?” he asks.

“Yes. After the divorce, it was ugly,” I say quietly. “My mom ran to the furthest place she could.”

Alex’s voice softens. “Where is she now?”

“She died a few years ago,” I reply, the words catching. “Cancer.”

I try not to let the ache bloom in my chest. I breathe, focusing on the here and now.

His expression softens. “I’m sorry, Elena. You’ve had quite the journey.” He rests his hand on my leg.

The touch is cool, soothing.

“You could say that.”

He leans back, hand still resting on my thigh, his eyes studying me. “Pardon me for being forward…”

I lift an eyebrow. “Alex, you invited yourself over. I think we’re past worrying about being forward.”

He laughs low in his throat. “Fair enough. You must know how beautiful you are, but your eyes. When you were lying in the hospital, I thought they’d be brown. Then you opened them, and damn”—he shakes his head, smiling almost to himself—“you took my breath away. They’re… beguiling .”

My throat tightens. My eyes have always felt like a curse, a mirror of my father’s, a reminder of him even when he wasn’t around. But to Alex, they’re something that enamors him.

For a second, I want to let myself believe him.

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” I murmur, trying to sound flippant.

“Only the ones I knock out.” He smirks. He’s so handsome, it’s disarming.

A laugh bubbles out of me, slipping past the lump in my throat.

“What about you?” I ask, nudging his knee with mine. “What do you do?”

For a split second, something flashes across his face, a flicker of hesitation, before he raises a brow, a private thought passing behind his eyes. I catch the way his mouth tugs into a crooked smile, too quick, too easy.

“Talking about work is boring,” he brushes off lightly, the corners of his mouth curving higher. “Unless, of course, it’s your passion. Like singing is for you.”

“It is.” I nod. “Especially writing songs.”

He’s still such a mystery, giving me just enough to make me want more.

“Okay, tell me about your sister?” I question.

“She’s a writer. Divorced, though who isn’t these days?” He shrugs lightly. “I was actually buying her a book she wanted that day at the vintage store.”

“Oh, I hope she got it,” I tease, nudging him again.

“She did,” he adds, voice softening. “It was for her birthday.”

He shifts even closer, the side of his body brushing mine, his thigh warm where it presses against me.

The contact sends a flicker of heat straight through my chest.

“So,” he murmurs, his voice dropping slightly, “what do you write about?”

I’ve only ever talked about that with my mom. The fact that he even asks warms something in me.

“My life, mostly. Love,” I mutter, biting my lip. “Not that I really know anything about it. More about…wanting it.”

“You’ve never been in love?” he asks, voice gentle.

“No. Have you?”

“You could say that. But I think there are different kinds of love. Different people, different ways.”

I nod, my pulse quickening. “I’ll take your word for it.”

His smile curves, slow and sure. “Will you write about me?”

He doesn’t know that I already have. The words are buried in notebooks. Melodies strummed into a song that he unknowingly inspired the second we collided.

“Maybe.” My voice catches. “I’ll think about it.”

“I hope to hear it one day.” He winks.

His fingers shift, drifting across the space between us, brushing against the inside of my thigh—light, tentative, electric.

Slowly, he starts to trace small circles on my leg, just above my knee, the barest pressure against my skin.

My breath catches, but I don’t move.

I can’t.

“So what’s your passion?” My voice is thinner than I mean it to be, breathless from the way his fingers trace slow, dizzying circles.

He smiles—handsome, cocky, knowing —like he can feel exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Photography. Travel. Good food.” He shrugs, then pauses, his eyes never leaving mine. “And beautiful women,” he adds, voice dropping lower.

My heart thrums like a trapped hummingbird against my ribs. And wetness pools at my center, just for him. Fuck.

The world outside the window blurs into green and gray, but all I can feel is the way his fingertips dance across my skin, like a secret written in a language only we understand.

We spend the rest of the afternoon lazing on the sofa, lost in easy conversation. He mentions that his birthday is coming up. August 3rd, exactly a month before mine.

The way he talks about past birthdays, the places he’s traveled, the people he’s met, makes me realize how much life he’s lived compared to my sheltered existence.

There’s a charm in the way he recounts stories, a quiet confidence that makes me want to listen forever. His goofy sense of humor only adds to his appeal, grounding him in a way that feels both playful and steady.

There’s an irresistible pull between us, one I never expected to feel with a man his age. Maybe it’s because of everything I’ve been through—my grief, the pressure, the growing pains.

Maybe that’s why boys my age never resonated with me.

Alex reignites a flame I thought I’d snuffed out. He makes me feel like I can let go and fall into whatever this is.

Before he leaves, he lingers by the door, leaning up against it. His gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

“You and me, tomorrow?” he asks, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

I arch a brow, playing along. “Yup, you and me—one date.” My voice is teasing, but my heart pounds in anticipation. His eyes gleam with mischief, like he already knows how this is going to end.

“I’ll have you begging for more,” he murmurs, the confidence in his tone sending a direct jolt through me. It’s a new feeling—one no one has ever made me experience before.

A slow smile spreads across my lips. “Is that so?” I bite my lip, testing him, inviting him to make his next move.