Page 90 of Rush

And when I do?

God, he looks good.

Leaning against the bar, drink in hand, dark suit tailored within an inch of its life.

Our eyes meet for the briefest second—a flicker of heat, sharp and familiar—before we both look away, pretending we haven’t noticed each other.

A part of me wants to go to him, but I plant my heels into the ground. Resisting the way my body pulls toward him.

Andrew and Philippa stand at the center of it all—he in a classic tux with an emerald-green bowtie, matching her gown. She’s radiant in deep-emerald. Her eyes land on me quickly, throwing me a small polite smile.

Although, every time my eyes meet Broderick’s, I get butterflies.

For most of the night, we keep our distance. He sticks close to Andrew, playing Best Man. I float between family I haven’t seen in years and strangers, all of them wanting to talk about my sister, or my album, the tour—thankfully, no one brings up Alex, though I can tell a few girls from Philippa’s circle are dying to ask for the dirty details of our publicuncoupling.

My Aunt Rebecca—by marriage, thank God—corners me, insisting her nephew would be anidealmatch. That’s the problem with families on the Four Hundred list: they’ve spent generations recycling each other’s bloodlines. The Astors, the Vanderbilts, the Montgomerys and even the Witneys. A pedigree so tight it borders on inbred. The mere thought of dating one of them makes my stomach pitch.

Thankfully, she’s distracted by the arrival of a tray of caviar hors d’oeuvres, and I seize the chance to slip away.

Outside, the chill nips at my bare arms, but the air feels like freedom. The sun is sinking low, gilding Ravenswood in a dying light that feels comforting.

After some time, the patio door creaks open.

“There you are,” Broderick says, his presence shrinking the space instantly.

“Here I am.” A shiver slips through me.

“Everything okay?” he asks, stepping closer.

“Yeah. Just needed to get away—it felt a little like I was being auctioned off by the hens of high society.”

He chuckles. “What, the Vanderbilt heir doesn’t tickle your fancy?”

“I’ve already got someone else to tickle that,” I say, rubbing my arms as goosebumps rise. The sun sinks behind the tree-line, the chill cutting sharper. I sip my champagne, letting the warmth slide down my throat, before setting the glass down on the nearby table.

“You cold, sweetheart?”

I shake it off, rocking on my heels. “I’m fine.”

He starts to shrug off his jacket, but I catch his lapels. “Broderick, it’s okay.”

Sharing clothes feels too intimate—too much like the time Alex shared his with me. The ache in my chest warns me not to cross that line. This is supposed to be casual.

“Okay,” he echoes, though his finger trails slowly up my arm, toying with the strap of my silk dress. “This reminds me of that negligee you wore in the Hamptons.”

His touch jolts me to the memory of grilled cheese and the kiss we almost shared.

“Stored that one away in the wank bank?”

“Absolutely. Top three rotation.” His mouth dips to my ear. “Boston’s still number one.”

“Broderick, this is a respectable place. Behave yourself.” I laugh, slapping his chest lightly.

He catches my wrist, kissing the inside before drawing me into his arms. His warmth sinks into me instantly, wrapping me in his jacket despite my protests.

I settle against him, hating how nice it feels—and hating even more that I don’t want to let go.

“Thank you,” I whisper against his chest. His heartbeat hammers loud and steady beneath my cheek.