Page 127 of Collide
Deep breath. I open the door.
There he is. Suited up, gorgeous as ever, bag slung over one shoulder. Flowers in his hand.
Flowers?
“Hot date?” I ask, nodding at the bouquet.
“Kinda.” He chuckles. “They’re for you. To congratulate you on the new place—and my mother would smack me over the head if I showed up empty-handed.”
He hands them to me. Pink tulips.
Oh. He broughtmeflowers.
“That’s…unexpected.”
“That’s me—unexpected. So, are we gonna stand out here and work, or are you gonna invite me in?” He smirks.
“If you insist,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I place the tulips in a vase on the dining table as we take our seats. He pulls out his tablet, scrolling through the guest list, pointing out who has and hasn’t RSVP’d. Broderick assigns himself the task of following up with the stragglers—he knows the entire list personally, which makes sense.
As he talks, I can’t help but stare. He’s so confident, so smug and cocky, that I’m completely distracted. His words drift into background noise, my focus shifting instead to the quiet intensity in his eyes, the easy way he moves. Halfway through our conversation, he shrugs his jacket off, and my attention snaps to how taut his shirt stretches over his chest, how the buttons strain slightly, hinting at the toned muscle beneath.
My mouth goes dry. Heat rushes to my cheeks.
There is lust here for sure. While Alex is billboard handsome, Broderick is rugged and manly, drop-dead gorgeous. Both hot, both good-looking. Maybe Riley is on to something.
“One less thing to chase.” He speaks absently, eyes still on his tablet.
I barely hear him. God, what is wrong with me?
“Did you talk to your father about Montgomery Estate?” he asks, pulling me sharply from my thoughts.
I blink rapidly, heart stumbling. “I thought you were going to do that.” I shake my head, trying to clear it.
He lifts a brow, amused disbelief coloring his expression. “We assigned that task to you.”
Shit.
“We did?” I cough, voice embarrassingly hoarse.
Focus. Stop ogling him.
“He’syourdad,” he says, shrugging. “Makes sense.”
His words hit like ice water—sharp, bracing, all lingering warmth instantly doused. I recoil internally, any desire quickly extinguished. Right,my father.
“Fuck. Shit. Sorry,” I hiss softly, embarrassment pooling hot in my chest.
“Call him now,” he says calmly, as if it’s nothing at all.
“That usually requires a little more emotional preparation,” I groan, shoulders slumping.
“Well, I’m here for emotional support.”
If only he knew. I roll my eyes at him, unlocking my phone, and scroll toFatherin my contacts, tapping it once.
Why does even that word fill me with dread?
