Page 25 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

“Of course I know,” she admits gently. “But you don’t have to say that.”

“I want to say it.” My heart’s pounding—too fast, too loud, like it already knows what I’m about to do. “And I want to ask you something.”

She raises an eyebrow, as she tries to read me. “Okay…are we getting married? Because the answer is yes.”

I scoff, shaking my head. God, she makes it easier to breathe.

I push off the counter and step closer.

“Move in with me.”

The words land between us, heavier than I expect.

Riley’s eyes widen. Her mouth parting slightly. “Wait… what ?”

“Move in. Here. With me.”

She glances around the apartment, brows furrowed. “Elena, you can’t be serious. I can’t afford this place. I mean—look at it. This is like, millionaire level shit. You’d be subsidizing my whole life.”

I shrug, trying to act like my heart isn’t about to break free from my chest. “So? I’m not asking for your rent, Riley.

I’m asking for you. To be here. You need a place, right?

That apartment in Queens fell through again.

I don’t want you living with weird roommates and someone’s emotional support lizard. ”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head, but there’s something glassy in her eyes. “They were ferrets, actually. And unfortunately, they did unionize. They weren’t keen on sharing the space with another lady.”

“Even worse.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment. The humor fades. She realizes I’m serious.

“Babe…” she says softly. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

I reach for the blender before she can finish pouring, grabbing it gently from her hands, and start filling the glasses she set out.

“You wouldn’t be.” My voice comes out quieter now, but steady. “You’ve been my rock, Riley.” My heart swells. “You’re the one person who’s been through everything with me. You’re more than just my best friend—you’re my beloved, my family. I don’t want to do this alone. I can’t do this alone.”

Her face crumples just a little—that look she gets when she’s fighting back tears.

“You’d really want me here? Like…every day?” she whispers, like she doesn’t quite trust the words. “I mean, I sing in the shower. Badly. ”

I smile, something in me lifting as I watch the resolve fade from her face.

“You think I don’t already know that? Please.”

She laughs, wiping quickly at her eyes, and I nudge her shoulder.

“Please say yes.” I look at her, willing her to see how much this means to me. “It’ll make this feel less like…a gilded cage my father threw me into.”

Riley lets out a long breath and leans back against the counter, staring down at the margaritas like they might have the answer.

“Okay,” she says finally, nodding. “Yeah. Let’s do it. Roomies.”

Relief hits so hard, I feel dizzy, though it’s also likely from the booze.

“Roomies,” I breathe, grinning like an idiot as I lift my glass in a toast.

Riley raises hers, her smile wide now, eyes shining.

“To margaritas and questionable life choices,” she announces, voice thick but teasing.

I clink my glass against hers. “To making this place feel like home.”

She gasps—and then, without warning, pulls me into one of those crushing hugs that squeeze the air right out of my lungs.

“I love you, babe,” she whispers into my hair.

“I love you most.”

And for the first time since my father handed me those keys, I feel something I haven’t let myself hope for.

Home.

Later that night, I flop onto my bed, the fabric cool against my skin, my head pleasantly spinning. My limbs buzz with warmth. I let out a breath, stare up at the ceiling, then roll onto my side, already reaching for my phone. I don’t even think—I tap his name.

It rings. My heart aches with want.

“This is a pleasant surprise.” Alex’s voice slides through the line, low and amused, rough with sleep.

My lips curve without meaning to. “That’s me, full of surprises,” I murmur, curling my fingers into the sheets. “Did I wake you?”

There’s a pause, then a soft, lazy chuckle. “No. But I wouldn’t have minded if you did.”

I exhale slowly, letting the sound of his voice wrap around me. “I was thinking about you.”

“Oh?” His tone dips, silk laced with heat. “And what exactly were you thinking about?”

I hesitate, only to drag it out. I want to hear the shift in his breath when I say it.

“About how good your hands felt on me.”

A sharp inhale cracks through the line. That sound—tight, caught—hits me right between the ribs.

“Elena…” He says it like a warning. Or maybe a plea.

I wriggle under the covers, my skin too hot. My fingers trail over my ribs.

“I can still feel you,” I whisper. “The way you touched me. The way you pressed your hand right?—”

I feign a moan before biting my lip to stifle a giggle.

“Tell me,” he cuts in, rougher now. “What are you doing right now?”

I shift. “Lying in bed.”

“Are you wearing anything?” His voice drops, low and menacing.

“A tank top…No panties.”

He makes a sound—half curse, half groan. “You’re making this distance hard, aren’t you?”

I smile, my heart thudding against my ribs. “Do I make you hard, Alex?”

“Yes.” His voice is tense, like he’s saying it through gritted teeth.

“What would you do to me?” I tease, my voice sweet.

“What do you think I’d do?”

“I think you’d take your time.” I press my thighs together. “I think you’d make me beg for it.”

Another groan, longer this time. “Do you want me to make you beg for it?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“And what do you want?” His voice is low and breathy. I hear him shift, and wonder if he’s touching himself. The thought makes me ache.

My hand slips lower. My breath catches as my finger brushes along my entrance.

“I want your mouth.” I gasp as my finger grazes over my clit. “I want to feel you everywhere. I want you to ruin me.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. His voice shifts—darker now, hungrier. “Touch yourself, Darling. Imagine it’s me.”

“I already am.” I press harder, spreading my wetness in slow, gentle strokes.

“Fuck, Elena,” he groans. “That virgin pussy will feel so tight around my cock.”

I nearly come from just his words, his breath ragged as we pleasure ourselves—matching each other, word for word, moan for moan—until the night blurs, the room spins, and we finally let go.

Sleep finds me with his name still on my lips.

The room is too bright—blindingly so. My head pounds like a relentless drumbeat, every throb a cruel reminder of last night’s indulgence. My mouth is dry, my limbs heavy.

Where am I?

Oh. My apartment.

I groan, throwing an arm over my eyes, but the damage is already done. Sunlight streams through the half-drawn curtains, stabbing at my retinas without mercy.

My body aches—not from exertion, but from the telltale signs of too many drinks.

What time is it?

I squint at my phone, lifting it with sluggish fingers.

Nine thirty a.m.

“Fuck.” My voice is hoarse, raspy, like I slept with my mouth wide open all night.

Brunch is at ten thirty.

Which means I have exactly thirty minutes to go from this to something passably presentable, and be back at Philippa’s.

Panic jolts through me like a shot of espresso. The thought of coffee makes me ache. I need it bad.

I throw off the covers and instantly regret it. The room spins.

Too fast.

I suck in a breath. One foot on the floor. Then the other. Okay. I can do this.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror confirms my worst fear: I look like hell. Champagne, two bottles of tequila, and an entire pitcher of frozen margaritas swirl in my stomach like a warning.

Thanks, Riley.

Great. Just great.

My insides lurch. Focus. Don’t throw up . You don’t have time.

I stagger to the bathroom, twist the faucet, and splash cold water on my face. It helps—barely. Another glance in the mirror. My hair’s a wreck, last night’s mascara is smudged halfway down my cheek, and one camisole strap is clinging to my shoulder for dear life.

There’s no time to dwell. I need a miracle.

I take the fastest shower of my life—washed and dried in under five minutes—and march straight into the closet and start rifling through hangers like a woman on the brink.

My fingers land on a white T-shirt. I yank it on and pair it with my favorite jeans—the ones that hug just right and give me the illusion of longer legs.

Shoes: sneakers. No contest. Especially if we’re running wedding errands.

Accessories? No time to overthink it. Gold chain necklace. Stack it. A few rings. Tiny gold hoops. Just enough to fake effort.

I sling my crossbody bag over my shoulder and take a breath.

Hair: disaster . I spritz in some texturizing spray, rake my fingers through it, and let it fall into some kind of beachy chaos.

Good enough.

Tinted moisturizer. Bronzer. Mascara. A swipe of berry balm.

Done.

I check my phone. Nine fifty-five a.m.

Shit.