Page 1 of The Crush

PROLOGUE

Harlow

I didn’t hit the car on purpose. I wasn’tthatobsessed. I wouldn’t have called it an obsession at all.

Besides, I’m not that devious.

I’d say I’m more crafty.

But a year ago, I was neither devious nor crafty. I was just a girl with the start of a crush.

Everything that happened that night was just the luck of the draw.

I wound up a little bruised—fine, a little broken—and intoxicated by a man I couldn’t have.

1

THE MAN IN PURPLE

Harlow

Several Months Ago

The office door clicks open. I look up from the French news site on my laptop and sit straighter at the dining room table.

This is my chance to check him out. I’m home for the summer, so I’ve been grabbing as many opportunities as I can. Furtively, I turn my gaze as my new crush exits my father’s plush home office, then strides across the polished hardwood floors of the living room, wingtips clicking.

Sounding like money.

Looking like a magazine ad.

I’ve been stealing glances at Bridger for the last week, ever since I returned home from the NYU dorms. I’ve known him for years, but when I saw him a few weeks ago at a dinner my father hosted, my pulse surged and my skin tingled.

And a crush was born.

So, yeah, I love studying in the middle of my home, prepping for my next semester abroad. Just in case I can catch a glimpse of him.

And I’ll have another one right now, thank you very much. From my vantage point at the imposing oak table, I peek at the man’s gorgeous profile as he leaves, hoping he turns toward me soon so I can steal a glance at his outrageously blue eyes. I want to know what’s behind them.

My father ruins the view, though, walking right behind him, a glass of Scotch in his hand, saying goodbye to the man he built his media empire with over the last five years. “Sorry to cut this meeting short,” my dad says wryly. Everything sounds wry in his English accent. Part of his charm, some say.

His American daughter isn’t fooled by his British charm.

Bridger laughs lightly as they walk through the living room, empty-handed. “No, you’re not, Ian.”

Dad wiggles a brow. “Fine, I’m not sorry.”

At least have the decency to pretend.

Bridger nears the door, and I’m just not that interested in the subjunctive tense this second.

Not with Bridger wearing that tailored purple shirt that hugs his arms, those trim charcoal slacks that hint at a strong body, and no tie.

Never a tie.

Bridger’s tieless look is so…tingly.

“We’ll catch up tomorrow on the Spanish deal,” he says, scrubbing his hand along his chin. Stubble lines his fine jawline. A faint dusting of dark brown hair, a seven o’clock shadow.