Page 179 of Rush

My mood’s already short and being creatively blocked isn’t helping.Stuck in my own skull.

“We’re so proud of you,” he says. “Two Grammy nominations.”

I shift the phone to my other ear, eyes flicking to the piano. “Thanks.”

“I was thinking,” he continues, “when we get back to the city—we should celebrate. Dinner, just the three of us.”

“That’s sweet, but...I’ll see you guys at Thanksgiving, right?”

“Of course. Yes.”

He sounds disappointed.What else is new?

He clears his throat. “Again, well done on the nominations.”

“Thanks.”

He’s being unusually nice and I don’t know what to do with it.

Before I can come up with a polite way to end the call, the door buzzes again.

Saved by the bell.

“Someone’s at the door. I’ve gotta go.”

“All right. Congratulations again, Elena.”

I hang up and cross the apartment, half-expecting another round of flowers. Maybe a marching band this time. I hit the intercom.

“Hey, it’s me.” His voice crackles through the static, sending a wave of excitement through me.

“Come on up.” I press the button, granting him entry.

I open the door before he even gets there.

Broderick walks down the hall—hair windblown, jacket slung over one shoulder, suitcase at his feet.

“Miss me?” he says.

I don’t answer, just launch myself into his arms. Broderick catches me. I grip the collar of his coat, my breath catching at the curve of his neck. He smells like wind and cologne and something so familiar it aches.

He kisses me before either of us speaks—hard and hungry, like he’s been thinking about this since the minute we hung up a few days ago. I kiss him back with everything I haven’t been able to say over the phone.

My back hits the door. His hand cup my face like he doesn’t trust I’m real.

“You’re a day early,” I whisper against his mouth.

“What can I say? I missed you.” He smirks. “Also, I got bored jerking off to your photos.”

I laugh, breathless. “You’re such an idiot.”

“You love it.” He kisses me again. “Tell me you don’t.”

“You just want me for my body.”

He chuckles—the irony not lost on me.

Broderick steps inside, pulling his suitcase in with one hand, the other still on me. I shut the door behind us.