Page 43 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Radio

A s soon as Broderick is gone, I dash to my bedroom, already pulling my T-shirt over my head as I go. My clothes hit the floor without ceremony. I stand there, unsure of what to wear.

I like you in red.

I can’t wear the gown I wore to the gala, obviously, but I do pick out another dress hanging in the back of my closet, compliments to Rio, saved for an occasion such as this—tight bodice, cinched waist, and flaring out and cutting above the knee, the perfect balance of cute and sexy.

I smooth the fabric over my hips, glancing at myself in the mirror.

I hope he likes this.

I busy myself, desperate to shake off the remnants of what almost happened with Broderick, even as the echo of it lingers. I focus instead on what might happen tonight.

The last time I was alone at Alex’s place, he touched me like no one ever had before. Like I was something rare.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for more tonight.

The memory flashes—his lips on my skin, there —and the way my name sounded in his mouth.

I blush, warmth blooming across my cheeks.

At the vanity, I apply a touch of makeup—not too much. Enough to make me look and feel like I haven’t been pacing emotionally between two men all night.

I run a brush through my hair, tossing it back off my shoulders. Lip balm. Perfume. Wallet. Keys.

Then I pause.

My eyes drift toward the drawer beside my bed. I open it slowly.

Condoms.

I stare at them. Maybe. I hesitate, then grab one and slip it discreetly into my purse.

I should probably look into going on the pill, I think absentmindedly, zipping my bag.

Just in case.

I settle into the cab heading toward Noho, to Alex’s place. Before I can invite him to the Hamptons, I should ask Philippa first.

Pulling out my phone, I settle on a text.

Elena

Hey Pip, can I invite Alex to the Hamptons?

I hit send, then lean back, watching the city flash by—alive and pulsing as we move through the night traffic. Windows blur with neon and taillights. My phone dings.

Philippa

Alex? Your Alex?

He’s not my Alex.

Not really. Not yet.

I type back quickly.

Elena

Yes, please. It’s his birthday that weekend too.

I stare at the screen, the message hovering in my lap like it might change everything.

Another ding.

Philippa

OKAY.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I’m giddy. A little breathless. She agreed. Now all that’s left is Alex.

By the time I reach his building, my pulse is already ticking faster. I ride the elevator in silence, the mirrored walls catching the red of my dress, the flushed pink in my cheeks.

The butterflies are already fluttering, wildly. Heat gathers low and slow beneath my skin.

The elevator hums toward the top floor.

I press the buzzer. The door opens a moment later, and there he is.

White T-shirt. Loose gray sweats. His hair damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He smells clean, fresh. His skin glows, flushed from the heat.

He looks so good. So sexy.

“Hi,” I squeak.

His eyes widen as they take me in, sweeping from my heels to the hem of my dress, then climbing slowly, deliberately, up my body. They stop at my chest. He lingers.

He likes what he sees.

“You dressed up for me?” he asks, voice low, rough. His gaze darkens.

I nod, lips parting, but I don’t get the chance to speak.

He yanks me by the waist and lifts me clean off the ground. I gasp, arms looping around his neck as my legs wrap easily around him. My purse slips from my shoulder, landing somewhere on the floor.

He kisses me. Hard.

Urgent. Hungry. Like he’s been waiting all day.

His fingers grasp the nape of my neck.

I melt into him, breath stolen, every nerve lit, and don’t care that we haven’t talked. That things are undefined. That this might not be a good idea.

All I know is his mouth, his hands, the heat spiraling fast and unstoppable between us.

Then my stomach growls.

Loud. Immediate. So obnoxiously human, it breaks the moment clean in half.

He pulls back, eyebrows lifting as he stares at me. Then he grins.

“Hungry?”

“I guess so.” I giggle, embarrassed, cheeks flushed as I cling to him.

He sets me down gently, his hands lingering at my waist. “Let’s get you fed then.”

I reach for my purse, scooping it off the floor as we head inside. The lights are low and warm, “I Only Have Eyes for You” by the Flamingos playing softly on his record player. The kitchen is already alive—pots bubbling gently on the stove, fresh ingredients neatly lined up.

“Can I help with anything?” I ask, hovering near the island.

“No, ?lskling,” he says, turning toward me, that lazy grin back on his lips. “Let me cook for you.”

He moves in close, hands slipping around my waist as he lifts me onto the counter with effortless ease.

“Sit here on display like the sexy little thing you are,” he murmurs, planting soft, lingering kisses along my neck. Each one makes me gasp, my breath catching as goose bumps rise across my skin.

“Wine?” he asks, pulling back to meet my eyes.

“Yes, please,” I whisper, still a little breathless.

He opens a bottle of rosé with practiced ease, the cork popping gently before he pours the blush-pink liquid into a glass. He hands it to me, fingers brushing mine.

“Thank you.” I take a sip. It’s cold, sweet, and crisp—the perfect distraction.

“Good?”

I nod. “It’s perfect. How was your day?”

He turns back to the stove, sprinkling sea salt over thick cuts of salmon. “Busy. We got our scripts for the next season of filming.”

“Oh, that’s exciting.” I swirl the wine in my glass, letting the words hang lightly.

“Yeah.” He nods, focused on the stove. “They’re also doing final rounds of edits on The Kingmaker . Should be out in theatres soon.”

His voice dips for half a second, like there’s something else he wants to say. But he doesn’t. Instead, he pivots.

“How’s your album coming along?” he asks, placing the salmon in the hot pan. The sizzle fills the room as his body angles slightly toward me.

“Great,” I reply. “I recorded two more tracks last week—they’re thinking a September release.”

“That’s good.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “What are the new songs about?”

I take a long sip of wine. My throat tightens as I force it down.

“You,” I admit, biting my lip. Heat climbs up my neck, flushed and spreading—embarrassment or wine, I’m not sure which.

His brows lift, eyes dark with something unreadable.

“An honor,” he says softly, then turns back to the pan, flipping the salmon with steady, deliberate calm.

My heart thumps against my ribs, stupidly loud in my chest.

“Speaking of honor.” I rush the words before I lose my nerve.

“Would you honor me with your presence at the Hamptons? It’s the weekend of your birthday—my sister’s joint bachelorette party with her fiancé.

At my family’s house. I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine.

You probably have plans. It’s your birthday… of course you’d have plans?—”

I stop myself before I spiral.

He closes the space between us without a word, hands sliding over my thighs, parting them gently as he steps between.

I look up at him, breath caught in my chest.

“The Hamptons with you?” he murmurs, cupping my face, his thumbs brushing along my jaw. “Sounds good to me.”

Then he kisses me.

It’s slow—like he’s sealing a promise, RSVPing with his tongue.

Before I can chase the warmth of it, he pulls away.

Ugh. Come back.

But he’s already turned, back at the stove like nothing happened. The air around me still buzzes, every nerve jolting for more. I take another sip of wine, the rosé slipping down too easily on an empty stomach. I’m lightheaded. Warm. A little floaty.

He plates the food—salmon, roasted potatoes, crisp green vegetables, a simple salad—and sets it down on the dining table with quiet confidence. It smells incredible.

We sit. He tugs my legs into his lap, his hand settling on my bare knee like it belongs there. I settle into the feeling, the moment. It’s domestic, almost tender, but charged underneath.

“I can’t wait for you to hear them,” I say between mouthfuls, trying not to sound too giddy. This is so good.

“Your album?”

“Yes. Maybe after the Hamptons. Or”—I glance at him, hopeful—“you could come to the studio while we’re recording?”

He chews thoughtfully, then nods. “Let me get back to you on that. I’ve got a few things lined up, but I’m sure I can make the time.”

“Okay.”

He’s quiet for a second, then glances up at me.

“Actually…would you be interested in being my date to the red carpet premiere for The Kingmaker ?” he asks, drawing lazy patterns across my skin

My fork pauses mid-air.

Red carpet.

Paparazzi.

With him.

That sounds…official.

Is this it? Is this the talk?

“Is that a good idea? When is it? That seems official, like really official, and the media, oh.”

He chuckles, deep and easy. “It’s not for a while. Just floating it on your radar.”

“Okay.” The word comes out slowly as I try to process. Not quite the talk I was hoping for. “I mean, I’ll think about it. I’ll talk to Kylie.”

Now that the media buzz around us has died down, Kylie’s been gently steering me toward low-key, off-grid dates. Private dinners. Hotel lobbies with back entrances. Nothing too flashy, nothing too public. She doesn’t trust the press—or the fans who treat Alex like a public commodity.

He takes a long sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. “You know, a few calculated public appearances might actually drum up more interest for your new album. Your older stuff’s been getting some airtime again, hasn’t it?”

He’s not wrong.

His fans—fierce, loyal, intense—flooded toward my music, giving my old album new life. So much so that the tracks are charting again. The attention is flattering, sure, but part of me bristles.

I want my work to stand on its own.

“Alex…I wouldn’t want to use you like that.” The words come gently. “It’s not right.”

He looks at me, and for a second, something shifts. His eyes widen—not in shock, but in something softer. Gratitude. Relief.