Page 3 of Rush

“I mean—of all the people to choose as your boyfriend.”

“Stop.”

“—could’ve at least picked someone less full of himself.”

I slap his arm. He grins, proud of himself. I break—snorting before I can stop it. My hand flies to my mouth, mortified, but it’s already out.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Sure. But I’m the asshole who made you laugh.” He feigns being hurt by the slap, which makes me crack half a smile.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I sigh, shaking my head.

His thumb brushes away a tear, soft and careful.

Broderick pauses, then tilts his head, giving me a small, crooked smile.

“Because it’s your birthday.” He states it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m almost one hundred percent sure it’s the law. Be nice to the birthday girl. It would be illegal not to.”

Despite everything, I laugh—genuine but broken wobbly and wet with tears.

He smiles wider, those dimples deepening, clearly pleased that he got two reactions out of me tonight.

“There she is.”

I shake my head, wiping at my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “What’s ridiculous is two grown-ass adults sitting in the doorway of your apartment, in the dark.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, voice hoarse as I glance around. “Ridiculous.”

Broderick leans back against the doorframe, stretching his legs out in front of him like we’re just two friends killing time—not two people sitting in the wreckage of my life.

“Come on, El,” he says softly, bumping my knee with his. “You’re gonna get cold sitting here all night.”

I shrug, more bothered than I’d admit, wiping beneath my eyes as slow tears trickle down.

“I think my legs are numb.”

He lets out a soft sigh.

“Alright,” he says, standing smoothly and holding out a hand. “Guess I’ll just have to carry you, then.”

I look up at him, my heart thudding weirdly in my chest.

“Don’t be stupid,” I whisper, but there’s no heat behind it.

His lips twitch. “Too late for that.”

Before I can argue, he’s bending down and slipping his arms under me, lifting me clean off the floor like the sad sack of potatoes that I am.

“Brody!”

“See?” he says, smirking as he carries me toward the couch. “Told you.”

“Put me down,” I squeal, wriggling in his grasp, but he just tightens his hold.

This is mortifying.