Page 48 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Firestarter

T he mirror fogs with heat and hairspray. Someone’s got a Prince remix pulsing through the speaker, and the bathroom is alive with girl energy—heels kicked off, dresses half-zipped, lipstick tubes rolling across the counter like dice.

I press the tip of my eyeliner to my waterline and drag it, slow and steady. It gives my hands something to do.

“He’s so hot,” Sienna groans, elbow-deep in the steamer as she waves it over her satin dress. “That jawline? How are you not banging him twenty-four-seven, Elena?”

Avery snorts from where she’s perched cross-legged on the sink. “I saw a photo of him on a red carpet recently. He looked like sex in a tuxedo.”

“Honestly,” Philippa utters, ironing out her hair in long, impatient strokes, “he’s attractive, sure. But also completely full of himself. He seems intensely aware that he’s good-looking. I don’t know how you do it, Elena.”

I shrug, a little smug.

Riley flops backward on the bed in the adjoining room, voice floating through the open door. “Yeah, but when you look like that, why wouldn’t you be? I’d be insufferable.”

They all laugh.

I force a laugh, but it lands flat. They haven’t stopped talking about Alex, and honestly, I’d probably join in on objectifying him if my mind wasn’t still stuck on that conversation at the beach.

Alex is out with friends for his birthday dinner.

We’ll see each other later at the club. It’ll be fine.

Whatever’s lingering between Broderick and me, it will pass.

I hope.

I dip my brush into a palette, keeping my eyes low, blending eyeshadow into the corners.

At least they’re not talking about Broderick. Which is good.

What if you met me first? His words haunt me.

“Hey Philippa,” Natalie calls from behind her curling iron, twisting a strand with practiced ease, “is Broderick seeing anyone?”

Fuck, I spoke too soon. I stare at her through the mirror. Natalie is beautiful, toned, tanned, with long brown hair.

Philippa catches her own eye in the mirror, one brow arching with a look that says please . Then she smirks.

“Yes—his job. You know him. Gym, work, charity, repeat. I don’t even know how he manages to squeeze in time to see his mother.”

“Tragic,” Natalie sighs dreamily. “I could fix that.”

Her words hit me, my chest tightens. I shouldn’t feel like this. Natalie is perfect. They would work well. They run in the same circle. It makes sense.

“I’d love to see you try.” Philippa flips her hair off her shoulder. “The last girl didn’t even last a month. He was in Dubai. Or Singapore. One of those. She dumped him before he even got off the plane.”

“Cold,” Riley mutters from the bed.

“Yeah.” Philippa pouts, completely unserious. “It’s sad, honestly. He’s a great guy. Loyal to a fault. Married to the mission. But I think…for the right person?” She glances down, smoothing gloss onto her lips. “He’d move mountains.”

The words land heavy in my chest.

I trace my lip liner in slow, controlled strokes, eyes locked on my reflection. My throat tightens, too fast, too sudden. I breathe and refocus on the task.

For the right person.

A flash of him in my apartment. The look in his eyes when he leaned in. That pause, half a breath before a kiss that never came. My fingers had curled in his shirt. My pulse had stuttered.

He would’ve kissed me. He wanted to.

If it weren’t for Alex’s call.

Now here I was, pretending I didn’t care while they all sat around laughing, planning Broderick’s hypothetical girlfriend and thirsting over Alex like we weren’t all tangled in the same messy web.

The lipstick in my hand shakes slightly as I reapply.

Broderick deserves someone who won’t hesitate.

And I’m not sure if that could ever be me.

I have Alex. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. But what if…

“Hey, you’re quieter than usual?” Riley asks, placing a warm hand on my shoulder.

“Just tired,” I lie.

Riley narrows her eyes at me. “Okay.”

She waits in silence, the kind that says, I’m here when you’re ready .

The room cracks up again, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I stare at my reflection. Cheeks flushed. Lashes curled. Eyes too tired for someone about to step into a night of champagne and dancing.

But I love dancing.

I straighten my spine, smooth out my ponytail, and take a deep breath. My dress is red.

Alex will like it.

It clings in all the right places—tight, short. My heels are higher than I’m used to, courtesy of Rio’s additions to my wardrobe. Confidence stitched into every seam.

I look the part. I press my lips together and smile. No one would think the wiser.

“All right, ladies, enough boy talk, I’m cutting you all off,” I announce, voice light, laced with that same feigned confidence I wear on stage. The mask.

The version of me I wish I could be all the time.

They giggle and shriek in response, heels clacking, perfume clouding the air as we spill downstairs.

The guys are already waiting in the entrance, dressed in understated designer goods. Some in suits, others in polos, hair styled perfectly, expensive watches catching the light.

Andrew’s eyes widen when he sees Philippa gliding down the stairs—his bride-to-be in a white bodycon dress, tighter than anything she usually wears.

The push-up bra was worth the investment, judging by the look on his face.

Her hair is dead straight, makeup a little heavier than usual, her skin shimmering with glitter.

Andrew’s cousins, James and Cole Sinclair, the other groomsmen, and a few of his friends let out wolf whistles as we descend the steps.

“There they are.”

“Looking good, ladies.”

“Damn, Sienna.”

“Looking good, Avery.”

Standing next to them and looking completely unfair is Broderick, taller than the rest, in a black shirt, tight and tucked into black pants. He wears a leather jacket and boots.

“Fuck, he’s hot,” Natalie hisses under her breath, stealing the words right out of my mouth.

He looks up just as Natalie and I are the last to join the group. His eyes flick to her—then past her—right at me.

He winks.

I blush.

Natalie turns her head over her shoulder and shoots me a look.

I roll my eyes and shake my head like it means nothing. We’re friends. I’m trying—desperately—to convince myself of that.

“He’s all yours,” I say to Natalie, voice a little too high, a little too forced. She beams a huge smile at me and wags her brows.

Outside, I hang off to the side as everyone gathers by the limousine.

“Damn, El, you really know how to twist the knife,” he whispers over my shoulder.

“This old thing…” I giggle.

“You owe me that drink,” he says, holding the door open.

He offers me his hand. A spark shoots through me at the contact, sharp and sudden, as I climb inside.

“If I’m not mistaken, I think I owe you a shot as well.”

Broderick slides in beside me, our bodies pressed close in the tight space. Riley gives me a look.

That look.

She knows something’s up. I must not be hiding it well.

I take a breath, try to rearrange myself, and my face.

The ride is short, loud, wild. One of the guys pops a bottle of champagne, spraying a few of the girls, who squeal and groan. Thankfully, I’m not in the firing line. This time.

The Vanguard is the place to be in the Hamptons—VIP lounges, sets spun by celebrity DJs, velvet cigar rooms thick with smoke and secrets. Bottle service flowing. Everything drips with sin and indulgence.

Broderick and I had a roped-off corner reserved near the bar, prime real estate with a clear view of the main floor.

Sienna and Avery are already grinding on each other, soaking up the attention from Andrew’s friends like it was their job.

Andrew and Philippa are up against a booth wall, looking like they’re about to make me an aunt.

Somewhere in the crowd, Riley is spinning circles around Cole, her curls bouncing as he tries to keep up.

Broderick is lingering off to the side, half-shadowed by a strobe light, his face lit from his phone screen.

I saunter over, heels sinking into the plush carpet. One glance.

Emails.

I roll my eyes. The guy is working.

“Let’s get you that drink, best man!” I yell over the pounding bass, grabbing Broderick’s arm.

His eyes widen in amusement, then he flashes that full, maddening smile, dimples cutting deep.

“Lead the way, gorgeous,” he says, leaning closer, voice brushing my ear.

Gorgeous …my heart skips a beat.

We push through the crowd. Bodies crush around us, hands brushing skin, heat thick in the air. Each step shoves us closer, his chest at my back, his breath at my neck, until we break through the tide.

His arms wrap around my waist, steering me, his taller frame guiding as he sees the gaps better. We reach the bar.

It feels good, though I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way.

“What’ll it be, Mr. Schwartz?” I ask, tilting my head up.

“I’ll have an old fashioned. Michter’s, please.”

I nod just as the bartender turns. “What can I get started for you guys?”

“Two old fashioneds with Michter’s bourbon. And two shots of tequila.”

Broderick exhales through his nose, huffing. “Damn. Want to add a side of regret with that?”

“You’ll drink it and be grateful.” I smile.

He laughs, rich and unfiltered.

The bartender gets to work.

“Hand it over,” I say, palm out.

“What?”

“Your phone. I caught you emailing. We’re here to have fun, not run Goodman Enterprises. So hand. It. Over.”

He grins, slow and wicked. “Make me.”

Oh.

I press him back against the bar’s edge where the crowd thins, and I dig into his pocket like I own it. He doesn’t fight back.

“What the fuck—El!” he yelps, half-laughing, half-squirming. His eyes widen—surprise and hunger flashing.

“No more work tonight. Or else.” I shove the phone into my purse.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ew. None of that,” I mutter, scrunching my nose.

“Hey, we’re American. We have manners, especially around ladies. Though that”—he nods at my purse—“was not exactly ladylike.”

He chuckles. The bartender slides the drinks across the counter.