Page 189 of Rush

Ripping my emotional door right off it’s hinges.

My mind replays through all the quiet moments we’ve shared these past few months—every broken rule, every look, every touch. Every time we leaned too far into what this wasn’t supposed to be.

I force a laugh. Too loud. Too late.

Broderick just keeps serving like nothing happened. Like that word didn’t just split me open in front of a pack of seven-year-olds.

Eventually, he bumps me with his hip, snapping me out of my daze and we continue working. Plate after plate.

People smile. Say thank you. Take what they can.

The line finally thins. Trays empty. The buzz fades.

While Broderick carries things back and forth, Keisha and her friends pull me over, ‘teaching’ me a clapping game.

“Like this, Miss Elena,” Keisha says, holding her hands up.

Her friend Mika claps out the rhythm, and they giggle when I can’t follow—which, to be fair, is only partly on purpose. It reminds me of the games Philippa and I used to play when we were younger.

I thought this time would be different. That my first Thanksgiving back would be spent with family. But as far as runners-up go, this—helping people who need it—actually feels good. Maybe even better.

It’s something my mother always understood. Before she was Miss Universe, before the crown and the titles, she was already this way—giving, open, always looking for someone to help. It came naturally to her. She took Riley and her brothers in without hesitation, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like kindness wasn’t something you chose—it was just who you were.

She used to remind me how lucky we were. That there were kids out there—kids like her, once—who had nothing.

I look at Keisha, at the way she laughs, carefree despite everything, and I can’t shake the feeling settling in my chest.

I want to do more.

“How are you with dishes, girls?” Broderick asks, leaning against the wall.

They all shake their heads, squealing playfully.

“Can I steal Miss Elena?”

They push me to my feet, playfully shoving me into him—he catches me. His warmth soothes me in more ways than one.

In the kitchen, I scrub trays in water that runs too hot. Steam clings to my face, curls into my hair. I don’t mind.

Broderick works beside me, slow and steady, wiping down counters.

“You gonna recover?” he asks.

I glance over, heart already slamming into my ribs. “From what?”

He leans a hip against the counter, grinning. “The girlfriend comment nearly took you out. You went stiff like someone tasered you.”

“I did not.”

“You did. Full body-lock. I thought you were gonna throw the green beans.”

I roll my eyes, but my heated cheeks betray me.

“I mean…” he goes on, treading lightly, “I get it. Horrifying. The idea.”

Was it?

I shove the thought aside. The last time I was desperate to be someone’s girlfriend, it ended before it ever truly began.