Page 149 of Rush

“No, it’s Tony today.”

“Pity. Luca’s nice to look at,” she says wistfully. “Though, he’s being a tease—so maybe he’s interested in you?”

“All yours, babe,” I quip back, linking my arm with hers as we head down the stairs.

“Yeah, you’re too preoccupied getting snapped in half by that fucking bear.” She giggles. “He definitely gives off big-dick energy.”

My cheeks heat.

“How big is it?” she asks, holding her hands out and widening them as we walk toward the car waiting curbside.

Tony opens the door for us.

“Tell me when.” She widens it more. “Are you fucking serious?” Hopping into the back seat, she slides over, and I climb in.

“No comment.”

“You and Luca edging me—you’re both such grumps.”

Tony hops into the driver’s seat.

“Hi, hot stuff, how are you this delightful afternoon?” Riley says.

“Miss Fisher. Good.” He nods politely.

“Geez, dude, don’t talk my ear off,” she teases back at him.

Leave him alone,I mouth, slapping her shoulder playfully. Riley could talk the hooves off a horse—sober.

“Just home, please, Tony.”

He nods again.

“Christ, how do you manage to get a word in with Mr. Chatterbox over here?”

I chuckle. How I’ve missed her.

“How are things going with Broderick, anyway? Is he shopping for rings already?”

If my cheeks were hot before, they’re scorching now.

“Riley, stop. It’s not even like that between us.”

“Please. He’s clearly so smitten with you—bet he jumped at the opportunity to smash your brains out.”

I roll my eyes. “Actually, I convinced him. He was reluctant because of Alex.” I shrug. “But I knew he wouldn’t say no.” A little smugness creeps into my voice.

“Ugh, don’t say that jerk’s name.” Her tone sharpens, and she rubs her arms as if brushing away the thought of him.

If only it were that easy. The only time I don’t think about him is when I’m with Broderick.

“Anyway—enough about him.” I pull my phone out. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Not really. I pity-fucked James from the wedding. Can confirm Avery was right—he’s pretty average in bed…” She keeps talking, launching into an in-depth assessment of James Sinclair’s sexual ineptitude.

I only half listen. My attention snags on the hundreds of notifications lighting up my screen—until my thumb freezes mid-swipe.

There it is. Alex’s post.