Page 7 of Rush

The morning sunstreams through the sheer curtains, casting soft golden light across the living room.

I stir, slow and disoriented, aware first of warmth—the weight of an arm draped across my back, the steady rise and fall beneath my cheek.

Broderick.

My eyes flutter open and then go still.

His arm is heavy, comforting, as if he were sculpted perfectly to fit there. I find myself breathing him in, that mix of cedar and something darker, something uniquely him.

I should be waking up in a post-sex haze with Alex and to calls of good news about my album launch, not tangled up in Broderick’s arms.

Post-breakup with Alex.

It should feel wrong, but it doesn’t.

Our almost-kisses are now a very real kiss, lingering between us—accidental, but undeniable.

After the night’s excess, my head feels better than I deserve—thank God.

Last night had taken an unexpected turn.

Broderick stayed over. We played the mixtape well into the night—me asking why he liked certain songs, pressing him for specifics, and him playfully deflecting, as he always does, with a joke or a shrug—something easy.

And for a few hours, I forgot about everything.

Long enough to fall into a dreamless sleep.

I savor the weight of him on me, one last time.

Thisshouldn’t happen again.

I shift slightly, and his arm tightens around me, pressing me closer into his broad, hard chest with a soft groan.

“Good morning,” he mumbles, his voice husky with sleep.

It sounds somouthwatering.

“Morning,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.

He huffs a quiet laugh, his fingers grazing the curve of my hip before he finally, reluctantly, lets me go to sit up, rubbing a hand over his face. His dark hair is a mess.

“You hungry?” he asks, standing and stretching. His shirt rides up, just enough to give me a glimpse of his toned stomach, and I try not to stare.

“Starving,” I admit, running a hand through my tangled hair. “But if you think I’m eating some fancy overpriced breakfast sandwich, think again.”

Broderick smirks as he walks toward the kitchen. “Firstly, overpriced breakfast sandwiches aredeel-icious. Secondly, what makes you think I’m that predictable?”

I arch a brow, following him in. “I don’t know...Maybe because you’re on the Forbes fastest rising billionaires list.”

That makes him pause mid-step. He turns, one brow lifting. “And that means?”

I shrug, leaning casually against the counter, though my heart picks up at the way he was watching me now—like I’d just poked a sleeping bear. “You know. Born rich. Went to an Ivy League. Probably has a private jet, used to that life of luxury where everything is doused in truffle oil or flown in from France.”

“Wow. And here I thought you liked me.”

His response catches me off guard.

“Broderick, I didn’t mean?—”