Page 26 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

I Like Me Better

T he harsh lobby lights in Philippa and Andrew’s building have me questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

Head pounding.

Hungover.

Hungry.

And, of course, uncaffeinated—because I couldn’t figure out the stupid, overpriced coffee machine Philippa installed in my new apartment.

A dangerous combination.

Maid of honor reporting for duty—and for the promise of coffee, waffles, and maybe something for this fucking headache.

I couldn’t care less about this brunch. Even less about weddings.

All that effort, only to unravel slowly, silently. To grow distant. To choose silence over apology before self-imploding.

Maybe I’m too young to be this cynical.

Perhaps I’m exactly old enough to remember how my parents’ marriage shattered so hard they put continents between them.

Or maybe I’ve never loved anyone enough to believe forever is anything more than a vow made with fingers crossed behind your back.

“Be kind to your sister,” my mother’s voice echoes in my pounding head.

Ugh. Fine. I’ll play nice.

I cling to the hope that brunch will deliver something worth chewing—something greasy, sweet, or both.

While I’m looking somewhat forward to the promise of brunch, I’m less than thrilled for what will follow after—shopping for a honeymoon wardrobe with Philippa.

What kind of self-indulgent bullshit is that?

Even I cringe at my sour mood.

But I’m not nice when I’m hungry.

Or hungover.

And right now, I’m both.

But it’s for Philippa. She put together the apartment of my dreams; it’s the least I can do for her. I sigh, releasing my annoyance.

I catch my reflection in the glossy lobby doors—jeans, T-shirt, sneakers.

Casual and comfortable.

We couldn’t be more different.

Chalk and Cheese. Night and Day.

If I were to take a guess on what Philippa was going to wear today, my money’s on tweed. Pearls for sure. If Riley were here, we’d be placing bets—or at least a few shots—on it.

Shots . I shudder at the thought.

I press the elevator button as another hand collides with mine, sending a jolt up my arm.

“Whoa, my bad,” a deep, amused voice rumbles beside me.

I look up— way up—into a pair of striking green eyes framed by thick, dark lashes.

Green.

My favorite.

A mischievous and dazzling smile spreads across his face, dimples on his cheeks, revealing perfectly straight teeth, and I immediately regret every life choice that led to me standing here, mildly hungover, in front of this: an Adonis sent by the gods to mock me.

My jaw drops.

I never lose my thoughts. But for a second, I do.

I take a step back, looking away as I try to scrape my dignity off the floor, then tilt my head—just enough to steal another glance.

Devastating.

Tall, so tall. Taller than Alex, even. Hair, the color of rich, dark chocolate, and long enough to be tousled.

With the kind of subtle scruff that makes a man look both rugged and refined.

He’s broad-shouldered, built like an absolute unit, the sign of a man who doesn’t just spend time in the gym but enjoys it.

His black button-down hugs his frame. Tight, sleeves rolled to the forearms, veins pulsing across his skin— those forearms . The kind that look like they’ve done things.

Built things.

Broken things.

Pinned someone.

Don’t.

His fitted jeans, leather belt, and black sneakers are casual yet completely unfair. Like he woke up and looked this good without even trying.

I drink him in without meaning to. I’m mid-appraisal when I realize— he’s watching me.

Watch him.

Busted.

The smirk on his lips deepens and so do those damn dimples, but before he can call me out, the elevator dings, announcing its arrival.

Saved by the bell.

I slip inside, reaching to press ‘PH3’, only for our hands to brush again.

Another jolt.

Another glance.

Slower this time.

What the fuck . Is New York full of tall hot fucking men? Or am I just repressed and horny?

Probably both.

This man is a walking problem.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” His voice fills the elevator, velvety and low, deep and completely inappropriate for this enclosed space.

“Yup,” I say, too high. Too quick.

God, get it together.

I drop my gaze to my sneakers like they hold all the secrets of the universe.

“I’m Broderick, by the way.” His voice is as smooth as his jawline. Of course that’s his name—tough, manly, sounds like it chops wood and breaks hearts.

I nod like my brain isn’t short-circuiting.

“El—um.” I clear my throat. “Elena.”

His smile widens, and now it’s smug.

The way he looks at me should be illegal—and he knows it.

“Elena,” he repeats, trying it on like a tailored suit. “Pretty name.”

Butterflies dance in my stomach, or maybe that’s just because I’m hungover. I’m going with the latter.

My heart thumps in my chest, and I swallow, trying to ignore it.

It’s not just his face, it’s the confidence. The calm way he takes up space like he’s never had to fight for a room to notice him.

I force a breath, trying not to let it hitch.

Who is this guy? I need—no, want —to know more.

“So,” I utter, desperate to reassert some kind of control, “do you…live in the building, or enjoy loitering in lobbies and touching strangers’ hands?”

He chuckles, slow and low, shaking his head, eyes fixing right on mine. “No, Elena . I don’t live in the building.”

The way he says my name—like it’s a secret. My heart skips a beat.

And just like that, I’m fucked.

He tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to place something.

“You must be Phil’s little sister?”

Oh. He knows Philippa?

“Yes,” I drawl, wary now.

“You look like her. Kind of. Except those eyes…” He pauses, just long enough. “They’re enchanting.”

Normally, I hate when people say that. My eyes are not a personality. But when he says it, I practically melt.

No. Focus.

I raise my brow. “How do you know Pip?”

“Through Andrew.” He shrugs.

And there it is.

Ugh. Fantasy ruined.

He must be one of them . A trust-fund bro wrapped in pure sex appeal. Andrew Sinclair’s friend, all legacy and old money. Ivy-educated, trust-enshrined.

Annoyance flickers, snuffing out the earlier buzz. Great.

He extends a hand. The Rolex flashes, and it’s practically a punchline.

I shake it anyway, ignoring the way it engulfs mine.

Ignoring how warm his palm is.

How good it feels.

I pull back quickly. Nod. Controlled.

“ The maid of honor,” he teases, eyes glinting. So he knows who I am.

A jolt shoots straight between my thighs.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

My hormones are traitorous. Where’s Alex when you need him?

I scowl at him.

His grin falters—just a hair. Then something shifts. His eyes darken. The charm sharpens.

A challenge.

I refuse to blink first.

Instead, I pull out my phone, effectively ending whatever that moment was.

Alex

Good Morning ?lskling.

A smile tugs at my lips.

I quickly type back.

Elena

Morning, thinking of you.

Which isn’t entirely true, because right now, I’m practically eye-fucking this guy. I roll my eyes.

The elevator is silent except for the soft whoosh as we ascend. But I feel it—the weight of Broderick’s gaze, the awareness humming between us.

I force myself to focus on my screen as Alex’s response comes through.

Alex

Better now that I know you woke up thinking about me.

A mixture of guilt, annoyance, and amusement fills me, and I bite my lip to hide my smile, thinking of the predicament I’m currently in.

Broderick shifts, leaning in slightly, and damn it, he smells good. Like warm amber, cedarwood, and trouble. My body betrays me with the smallest shiver. Annoying.

“You’re a friendly one, aren’t you?” Broderick’s voice breaks the silence as the doors slide open.

I glance up to find him watching me with that same lazy amusement.

“Charming,” I reply, flat and disinterested.

He huffs a quiet laugh but says nothing as he strides ahead, ringing the doorbell with an ease that tells me he’s done this before.

The door swings open immediately.

“Brody! Come in.” Philippa beams, stepping aside to let the ridiculously attractive annoyance into her home.

“Shoes off, please,” she chirps, already padding back inside.

I toe off my sneakers and slip on house slippers from the nearby basket. Broderick, meanwhile, takes his sweet time untying his shoes, fingers deft and meticulous.

I glare at him just for existing. He chuckles, eyes flicking down.

Pink unicorn socks.

Fuck.

Of all the mornings to throw on the first pair I grabbed without looking, it had to be this one. I resist the urge to curl my toes under, but Broderick’s slow smirk tells me he’s already clocked them. Fantastic .

Philippa, blissfully unaware of the tension brewing, leads us inside. She’s wearing a yellow tweed dress. Called it . The sight of her in house slippers makes me snort.

“When did you get back from Germany?” she asks Broderick, I assume.

“Last night.”

Germany? Consider me intrigued. I’d never been anywhere except Australia, New York, and LA.

“You must be exhausted,” she coos, showing genuine concern for him. It’s maddening. Who is he to her?

“I’m fine. Nothing a cup of coffee can’t fix.” Then he grins.

Goddamn it. That smile and those dimples should be illegal.

I don’t know if I’m annoyed or horny.

Annoyed. Obviously…Right? I find myself staring again.

He notices. His lips curve in amusement.

Pretentious bastard.

I look away.

Annoyed, definitely annoyed.

“Ready to go, Pip? I could murder a cream cheese bagel and a mountain of bacon,” I say, redirecting my attention to my sister, who glances at her watch.

“How much did you and Riley end up drinking last night?” she asks, all sugar and smug.

“Ugh, too much.”

She chuckles.

“That might explain the attitude,” Broderick mutters.

I shoot him a look sharp enough to slice. He’s really pissing me off.

“We’re waiting for Andrew,” Philippa says sweetly.

“Andrew…I thought it was just us ?” I frown.

She claps her hands like she’s hosting a damn talk show. “Oh, didn’t you check the calendar invite? This is the maid of honor meets the best man brunch!”