Page 5 of The Crush
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My head CT scan is clear, so they send me home that night. My foot screams the next day, but painkillers shut that down quickly, and soon I’m feeling pretty good.
I entertain visitors nonstop in my living room. Layla appears in the morning, bearing lip gloss and nail polish. She’s an angel. Ethan brings tulips and gossip about our Carlisle Academy alum—the former senior class president of the most elite prep school in Manhattan was just thrown out of Yale after three years. Joan sends bouquets of dahlias, then calls, too, asking how I’m doing.
“I’ve been better,” I tell her, appreciating the motherly check-in.
After I get reacquainted with the joys of naptime, my brother FaceTimes from London, offering to catch a flight to New York to be with me. I decline but ask Hunter to tell me stories of life in England.
All day long, Dad swings in and out of his home office down the hall to check on me. After he orders a late lunch from my favorite Mediterranean restaurant, he tells me about the new storyline inSweet Nothings, probably to distract me.
Or maybe to distract himself till he sees whoever again.
“And then Josie and Sam get all caught up in this whirlwind fling,” he says. “We see them sneak off to the wine cellar and the library.”
I have no interest in learning where his characters canoodle, but I feel too good to cut him off. “Great, Dad. Tell me more.”
He unspools the next few episodes then checks his Victoire watch and pushes up from his chair. “I have to nip off. I have a thing.” He shrugs, sheepish, and nods to the front door. “I’ll be back later, but Bridger’s going to stop by too.”
“Oh?” I try to sound blasé.
I pulled off the nonchalant look, judging from Dad’sno big dealgrin. “Yes, he wants to make sure you’re okay. Good thing he was there to call 911.”
Dad leaves for histhing. The door has barely closed behind him when I grab my brush from the coffee table, run it through my hair again, then slick on lip gloss. I glance at my shirt—a cute slouchy top that goes with my shorts. Perfect.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” I shout. Bridger knows the code.
Bubbles bounce under my skin as Bridger unlocks the door. When the handsome, broody man strides into the brownstone, those bubbles speed through me. I am effervescent.
He holds a bouquet of gerbera daisies. “Hey there.”
“Those are my favorite flowers.” Did I mention that in the hospital last night? Have I ever said that at a dinner party, event, or gala where I saw him? I don’t know.
He peers around the living room, checking out vase after vase. The room is bursting with blooms. “It’s a florist shop in here.”
“I might start a side hustle peddling flowers.” I point to his arrangement as he sets it on the coffee table by the couch. “But I like yours best.”
“Thanks,” he says, evenly, like he has to be careful with me. Like he can’t reveal any emotion.
Understandable. I’ve known Bridger James since I was fifteen and his upstart production company acquired the TV rights toSweet Nothings. He was the wunderkind new producer who spotted a hit and made it happen with my dad. They became partners, then, in growing that property to global domination, turning the book series my mom had penned and Dad had inherited into a worldwide phenom as a TV show. The risqué, racy soap opera counts legions of fans, and it started in my home when the two of them worked late on the concept, refining it and then pitching it to a network. Now, they own a renowned TV production company together called Lucky 21 that’s responsible forSweet Nothings,its spin-offs and other top shows too.
Over the last few years, Bridger’s hung around at my house late at night working, then shown up early in the morning collecting Dad for meetings. I’ve seen him at fetes, galas, parties.
But someone else has always been around. Now it’s just the two of us, alone together for the first time.
“Want a seat?” I ask, gesturing to the other chair.
As he sits, I catalog his appearance—he’s in hiswork uniform. Sharp pants, fine leather shoes, and a tailored shirt. Today’s is a shade of deep, rich green.
“Nice cast,” Bridger says, gesturing to the pink cast on my foot.
“Evidently the cab door had it in for me. Have you ever broken a bone?” I ask, quickly shifting away from my ankle injury.
“Many times,” he says with a sigh, but it’s a welcoming kind of sound, likebeen there, done that.
I sit a little straighter, eager for this chance to get to know him. “Tell me all your broken stories.”
He laughs curiously, eyeing me like he isn’t sure I mean the request. “Really?”