Page 266 of Rush

“I wouldn’t let him finger me in the backseat.” I chuckle, shaking my head.

Broderick blinks. “What?”

“Yeah. Said I was a tease. Dropped me off early. I spent the rest of the night on the back steps with my heels off, eating Macca’s and listening to my friend cry over some rugby guy.”

He shakes his head. “I gotta find that punk and knock his lights out.”

I smirk. “You don’t even know his name.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll find every guy who owns a beat up Toyota Corolla in coastal Australia and just start swinging.”

I laugh—and it cracks something open in my chest.

He reaches over, warm fingers brushing mine. “Anything to defend your honor, sweetheart.”

“Pretty sure you obliterated any shred of my honor when you fucked me in the ass.”

He laughs incredulously. “You and your filthy mouth.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand when we get out of the car. The sea breeze still biting, but something about it feels…warm.

The boardwalk creaks beneath our boots, sea wind tugging at my coat. Most of the rides are shut down, lights dimmed, but the bones of it are still there—candy-colored signs, the distant buzz of arcade machines, the smell of salt and grease and something sweet.

Broderick leads the way.

“You think they’re open?” I ask, squinting at the glowing sign ahead—Lou’s Grill, flickering.

“They’re always open,” he says. “Even in a hurricane.”

The place is barely more than a window with a counter, a few cracked stools out front, the scent of fried onions thick in the air. An old guy in a Mets cap leans over the grill, flipping patties like time doesn’t mean shit.

We step up to the window. Broderick lets go of my hand to pull his wallet out and nod at the chalkboard menu.

“Two chili dogs. Fries. Chocolate shake,” he says, then glances at me. “Unless you’re gonna go all diva on me and want a salad?”

I squint at him. “Do I look like someone who orders salad at a place like this?”

“Didn’t think so.”

“Add extra pickles on the fries please,” I tell the guy behind the window. “And can we do the shake half chocolate, half strawberry?”

Broderick raises a brow at me like I’ve just committed a federal offense.

“What? It’s called balance.”

“You’re deranged.”

The grill guy smirks but doesn’t comment, just rings us up and turns back to the fryer.

Broderick pays, then leans his elbows on the counter beside me, shoulder brushing mine. I can feel the heat from him even through our coats.

“This was your go-to?” I ask.

He nods. “Every time. Right here, same order. Dad would pretend we were broke and it was a big treat. Mom always knew better, but she’d play along. We’d sit on the beach and eat like kings.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close.

I reach for his hand again, and he folds his fingers around mine like it’s instinct.