Page 22 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Your Song

N ew York in early July is brutal. The sun stings my skin, the concrete simmers underfoot, and Riley has dragged me to the fourth apartment of the day, sweat beading on both our brows.

She initially moved into a cramped studio in Queens, sharing the space with two other women, both aspiring models.

But now that she’d landed a job at an art gallery, she’d finally had enough of living with two skinny bitches who were way too in love with nose candy—and had definitely stolen her Doc Martens.

Not that I blamed her. Between their manic energy and shared sleeping arrangements, I didn’t know how Riley lasted as long as she did.

And considering the way her patience had worn razor-thin by the second apartment viewing today, I doubted she’d survive another night.

I glanced at her sideways, noting the tightness around her eyes and the relentless tapping of her fingernails against her thigh.

God, please let this place not suck.

“So, what does the ad say for this place?” I ask, falling into step beside Riley as we head toward the next apartment.

“Two-bedroom, some tech guy, but at least I’ll have my own room.” She shrugs, tucking the tattered newspaper under her arm.

“I wish you’d let me help you, babe.”

I’ve had a sizeable trust fund sitting untouched since my twenty-first birthday, something I always resisted using.

The prize money from winning Starstruck and royalties from my first album—modest but enough—meant I never had to.

With me staying with Philippa and my father gifting me an apartment, offering Riley support feels only right.

She’d been there when I needed someone most. The least I can do is return her kindness and loyalty.

“Elena, I can’t do that, you know I can’t,” Riley chides, her lips pressing into a thin, stubborn line.

“Why not? It’s just money. Might as well go to someone I love—someone who needs it,” I insist, nudging her shoulder gently.

She smirks, side-eyeing me playfully. “Okay, rich bitch, you gonna be my sugar mama now?”

“Yes, absolutely. Especially if it means you can stay in New York without working three jobs just to stay afloat.”

“I did think stripping might be a lucrative gig to get into.” She cackles, tossing her hair back like she’s already picturing herself under neon lights.

“Or maybe high-end escorts,” I tease, nudging her elbow. “You’d be raking it in quick with your special talents.”

“I’ll be fine, babe. The job’s good enough—stable, at least. My boss might be uptight, but the money’s decent. And if I find the right roommate, I can swing a small art studio space to rent.”

“Can I buy, like, a thousand lap dances to cover your rent?” I grin.

“Tempting. I mean, for you, I’d do it for free, but it wouldn’t be right,” she says flatly, though her eyes flicker with amusement.

“Ugh, fine, but the offer stands, okay?” I shrug, dropping the bravado.

“I appreciate that. Really.” She sighs.

We fall into step again, the sidewalk buzz picking up around us as the city rushes by in all its usual chaos.

“So, how’s the painting going? Does New York inspire?” I ask, glancing over.

“I haven’t had much of a chance lately. Not enough room in Polly Pocket’s Dream House.

” She shrugs. Her tone’s light, but I can see the tightness in her jaw, the way she presses her lips together.

She’s trying to make it sound like a joke, but it’s not.

Her creativity is suffocating in a too-small apartment she doesn’t love.

“I feel terrible,” I blurt out.

“Why?”

“Because New York was my dream. The music thing. And I feel like I dragged you into this—and now you’re miserable.”

“Babe,” she says, pausing long enough to make sure I hear her. “I’m not miserable. And New York was our dream. You and me taking over the city. Making it our bitch. Like Carrie and Samantha.”

“You’re clearly Samantha.”

“Yeah, obviously. You already found your Mr. Big,” Riley says with a smirk.

“Oh my God.” I gasp. “Do you think Alex is my Big?”

She shrugs. “I mean…he could be.”

“That whole situation was fucked though,” I mutter. “So I hope not. Give me an Aiden, any day.”

“He makes furniture and he’s hot—yes, please.” She laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach all the way. I can tell she’s stressed. It’s in her shoulders, in the way she’s holding herself tighter than usual.

“Okay, if you won’t let me help you financially,” I coax, looping my arm through hers, “at least let me shout you lunch.”

“That I can do.” She nods.

We approach a large red-brick complex on the corner, its windows glinting in the sunlight. Riley glances at the scrap of newspaper again.

“I think this is it.”

She buzzes the apartment number and we wait, shifting restlessly on our feet. The heat slicks on our skin. I pat the sweat off my brow, and Riley fans herself with the newspaper.

“Come up,” a voice crackles through the speaker.

We climb three flights of stairs and buzz again at the door marked ‘3B.’ It swings open, revealing a lanky guy wearing thick glasses, his greasy hair hanging limp around his face, with a ferret perched comfortably on his shoulder.

“Hi, I’m Ben. You must be Riley. Come on in,” he mutters, his eyes darting everywhere but directly at us. He pauses awkwardly, scratching his head. “I thought you were a guy.”

The apartment is tidy enough, but the smell—it hits me instantly, sharp and unmistakable. Ferrets. Interesting. The furry creature scuttles from Ben’s shoulder, bouncing off the couch onto a pile of scattered toys in the living room.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Riley murmurs, her voice tight, the corners of her mouth dropping as her nose wrinkles slightly. She smells it too—the pungent scent of an animal with absolute free rein over the place.

Ben ushers us inside, guiding us toward a tiny, empty room barely large enough to fit a queen bed. Riley nods politely, though I catch the subtle flicker of doubt in her eyes.

“Are you okay living with a girl?” Riley asks cautiously.

“As long as you’re good living with Dax and Kira,” Ben replies, entirely serious.

Riley and I exchange confused glances.

Who the fuck are Dax and Kira?

Suddenly, a second ferret bounds up Ben’s arm, nestling affectionately against his neck. “Isn’t that right, Miss Kira?” he coos, gently petting the small creature.

Realization washes over Riley’s face. “Yeah…they seem awesome ,” she replies uncertainly.

“They are,” Ben agrees, kissing Kira lightly on the head.

This is getting weirder by the second.

“So, how soon can I move in?” Riley asks abruptly.

Riley, no! I silently plead. But it’s too late—she’s already talking logistics with Ben, who looks completely indifferent to the entire conversation.

We say our goodbyes and quickly make our escape. My nostrils thank me the moment we hit fresh air.

We head back into Manhattan for lunch and some well-earned drinks.

“So, you’re really going to move in with Ben and his ladies?” I ask, sipping my iced tea and trying not to laugh.

Riley takes a sip of her pink lemonade. “My own room is a luxury I can’t pass up.”

I scoff. “But the smell?—”

“I’ll learn to live with it.” She shrugs. “Maybe get some delicious candles. He seems harmless enough.”

She takes another sip, then shifts her gaze to me, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Oh, speaking of things that smell…delicious, how did it go with Alex?”

Heat floods my cheeks instantly, betraying me.

“That good, huh?” she pushes, a slow, knowing grin spreading across her lips.

“He’s just…he’s so hot.” I sigh, unable to keep the stupid smile off my face. “Tall, sexy, and intense. I don’t know, Riley. He’s nothing like the boys back home. He feels like a man.”

“At thirty-six, he better be,” she teases, nudging me gently.

I hesitate, biting my lip. “I told him I’m a virgin.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “And? How’d he take it?”

“He was…remarkably cool about it.” I shrug, warmth rising again as I recall exactly how cool he’d been—and exactly how he’d made me come apart beneath him.

Riley narrows her eyes suspiciously, leaning in close. “Okay, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing.” I giggle, ducking her stare. “Eat your damn sushi.”

“Did he eat your sushi?” she asks.

“Oh my God, Riley—no!”

You taste so fucking sweet.

His voice echoes in my ears, low and sinful. I hide my face in my hands, my cheeks burning brighter.

“Look at you.” Riley laughs, delighted. “I’ve never seen you so giddy over someone before.”

“I know,” I admit softly, lowering my hands. “He just…unravels me.”

“Good.” She winks, lifting her drink to me. “You could use some unraveling.”

We finish up our drinks, the afternoon sun dipping lower as we settle the bill and leave the restaurant. Riley loops her arm through mine, still teasing mercilessly about Alex as we head back to Philippa’s penthouse.

I’m still smiling like a fool as we reach the front entrance, when Isaac, the friendly older doorman, steps forward to meet us.

“Miss Montgomery,” he says warmly, tipping his hat. “Some flowers arrived for you this afternoon. I had them sent up.”

Riley’s eyes widen, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “Flowers, huh? Someone’s pulling out all the stops.”

My heart dances.

I’d never received flowers before.

“Thank you, Isaac,” I add, quickly dragging Riley toward the elevator before she can pry any further. But I can already feel her eyes on me, sharp and curious, as we step inside the elevator, anticipation swirling through me like champagne bubbles.

As soon as we step into the apartment, the scent of them hits me like a freight train.

There they are, in all their marvelous glory—rich, velvety red roses, arranged artfully in a glass vase.

They sit proudly atop Philippa’s pristine kitchen island, their bold crimson striking sharply against the tasteful creams and muted neutrals of her carefully decorated home.