Page 175 of Rush

“Shut up.”

He laughs, deep and warm. “Best New Artist and Song of the Year? That’s huge, El.”

I bite my lip, heat crawling up my neck. “I know. It’s...a lot.”

“I hope you cried a little,” he says. “Or screamed. Or threw up in a trash can—something dramatic and befitting the moment.”

“Riley screamed enough for both of us.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

I lean against the fridge, head pressing into the cold metal. It helps a little. “Where are you, anyway?”

“Still in Zurich. I fly back Friday, if all goes to plan.” He pauses. “Was kind of hoping you’d wait till I got home to achieve worldwide domination.”

“You snooze, you lose.”

“You miss me?”

The question drops like a stone in my chest.

I don’t answer right away—just stare at the dishwasher, watching the flashing light.

He waits.

“Maybe,” I say finally, quiet.

His voice softens. “Good.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward—just full.

“We’ll celebrate when I get back,” he says.

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Me worshipping at your feet. Celebrate you like the goddess that you are.”

“Worship at my feet? Sir, I am a respectable lady. No funny business.”

“Your track record would say otherwise.”

“I’m presenting at the Oscars, too,” I say, maybe too bright.

“No big deal,” he drawls. “Just casually skipping up a few notches on the fame ladder—I’m so proud of you, baby.”

His words caress at the old scars in my chest, opening up that door just a little wider, try as I might it’s starting to get harder to resist it.

An incredulous laugh escapes me. “They just needed someone to hand out statues.”

“Well, you’re used to holding heavy things in your hands.”

“Oh my God, you sound horny.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

My breath catches.Me too.

He laughs low, and I know he hears it.