The Crush (That Boy #9)

May 22nd

A gazillionaire.

Ainsley

“I kind of wish I were going with you,” my roommate, Sammy, says as I set my bags near the front door of our shared apartment. “Had you told me that there was going to be a ritzy weekend bash for the reopening of your uncle’s resort and not just your typical boring family reunion—”

“Our reunions aren’t boring. I always have a great time in the Ozarks. You know that.”

“I get it. Old-fashioned family fun, followed up by lots of tips at your cushy summer job.”

“I could have gotten you a job at the resort,” I challenge, “but you said you weren’t interested. Something about an aversion to manual labor.”

“That, and the fact that my body doesn’t belong in the sun.

I mean, look at my delicate, pale skin. It would probably burst into flames.

Some of us don’t tan beautifully like you, Ainsley.

Although I would have loved for my locks to get all bleached out.

” He studies his bangs in the mirror near our entryway, then runs his fingers through his hair.

“Nothing I can’t fix with a trip to the salon though, right? ”

“Right,” I tell him. “Try not to have too much fun in class without me.”

“School, schmool. Let’s talk about this party. Do you have any idea who all might be there?”

I whip a piece of paper out of my purse and hand it to him. “Read it and weep.”

“You have the guest list?” he says in awe.

“I have the list of who was invited. I haven’t seen a revised list of who is actually attending. And I only got it because Jadyn Mackenzie gave it to me.”

“She’s fabulous herself. Really talented. I have followed her and your uncle Tripp’s hotel renovations over the years. Even before I knew you. I’m totally devastated that you got a project internship with her and not me.”

“You didn’t even try,” I argue.

Sammy can be a little dramatic. We’re interior design majors, who became fast friends in our first class together here at Kansas State three years ago.

“Have you even looked at this?” he says, gesturing wildly.

“You’ve got movie stars, athletes, musicians, CEOs.

It’s insane. If I had seen this list before just now, we could have had a quickie wedding, and I’d be going there as an Archibald.

Samuel— you can call me Sammy —Archibald does have a nice ring to it. ”

“You’d take my last name?” I say with a chuckle.

It’s funny we’re even having this conversation .

“Well, it’s about all I’d take.” He laughs.

Sammy is quite gay.

I take one last look at my tote to make sure I have everything and then realize I forgot to pack a few paperbacks to read by the pool.

As I run to grab them, Sammy says, “Tell me again how your uncle is, like, a gazillionaire and you have no money?”

I shrug. “My dad chose not to work for the family business, I guess.”

“Stupid, if you ask me,” Sammy says, still fixated on the list, but when I start shoving books into my bag, he shakes his head at me. “It’s funny that the girl who doesn’t believe in relationships is constantly reading romances.”

I’ve told him many times that until I meet a guy who’s like one of my favorite book boyfriends, I’m not going to settle.

He grabs one of my books, skims the back cover, and rolls his eyes. “A romance writer named Kitty Valentine? Puh-lease …”

“Well, you should know that she has an amazing best friend who makes her this spinning-wheel thing that helps her date different types of guys, or tropes, as research for her books.”

“Why does she do that?”

“Because even though she was a bestseller, she wrote sweet books, and they stopped selling, so her editor told her she had to spice things up—both on the page and in her own bedroom. ”

He bursts out laughing. “Well, girlie, I hope you do the same.”

“Start writing?” I ask, tilting my head at him.

“You’re a lost cause,” he says, chuckling.

“Any chance you’ll help me load my car?” I ask, ignoring his comment.

“If you promise to get me a photo of one of the guests.”

“Who?” I ask, staring him down.

“Quarterback Danny Diamond.”

I nod because that I can easily do, but then he adds with a smirk, “ Shirtless. ”

When I just stare at him, he goes, “I know he’s a little older, but, damn, the man’s body is perfection. Still. Goals right there. Hell, I became a huge football fan just because of him.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promise.

After my car is loaded and we hug goodbye, I get in the driver’s seat and blow him a kiss out the window.

Sammy puts his elbows on the door, leans down, and says to me, “I’m putting it out into the universe right now. This weekend, you are going to meet your future husband. Make that your future rich husband.”

I roll my eyes. He is always trying to set me up with someone. And I’m just not looking for love. Not right now. Maybe not ever again.

“Been there. Done that. Fucked up my life,” I respond.

He shakes his head. “When’s the last time you had a smash? You gotta be thirsty, girl.”

I shrug, like I don’t know. Or care.

“Not that I’m counting, but I think you might be like that Kitty Valentine. It’s been seven months.” He shakes his head in disbelief and gives me a sympathetic look.

“No way! It’s been, like, two, three at most.”

“Wrong. Last time was with that guy from the bar, and that was the night Leo and I broke up. Ohmigawd, did I tell you I just found out that he moved in with that guy from art club who I always thought he was having an affair with?”

“You did not,” I say, knowing I need to leave now or I’ll get wrangled into an hour-long conversation about this. “Love you. Gotta go!”

As I drive down the highway, I realize he’s right. It has been seven months since I’ve had sex. I’d like to say it’s because I have been focused on school, but it’s not really that.

It’s because I won’t ever again let a man—especially one who is a stupid boy—get in the way of my education or career.

And because I don’t want to go anywhere near that memory lane, I decide to turn the music up loud and sing my way from Manhattan, Kansas, to Kansas City.

I’m close to my parents’ house when I get a call from Mom.

“I’m almost there. I’m surprised you aren’t tracking the trip,” I say.

When I went to Notre Dame my freshman year of college, she insisted on installing a tracking app on my phone in an attempt to keep me safe. What she didn’t realize was that she should have put one on my heart.

“Oh, I am, Little Miss Speed Demon,” she teases.

“I was just trying to be safe and go with the flow of traffic,” I reply.

A few moments later, I pull into the driveway.

I know Sammy gives me shit about not being rich like my uncles, but we live in a beautiful two-story home in a nice neighborhood, and I’ve had a wonderful life.

Parents who worked hard for our family. Who instilled a good work ethic in me. And who raised me with love.

All that used to be what I wanted. A white house with black shutters and flower boxes on every window. A family to come home to.

But that was before Brad. Now I don’t want any of it. I just want a career I love. A job I’m passionate about.

That’s all I need to be fulfilled in life.

I don’t need a husband. A picket fence.

I just need me.

And Sammy might be right—an occasional hookup.

Mom meets me in the driveway and wraps her arms around me the second I’m out of the car. “I’ve missed you so,” she says, sounding teary.

“It’s only been a month since I’ve been back home,” I counter .

She leans back and looks at me. “You look gorgeous, Ainsley. And thin. Have you not been eating enough?”

“Just been working out a little harder. I’ll be in a golf skirt this summer and need those tips.”

“You’ve always had a lovely figure, but it’s your hard work and sweetness that will earn them.”

“Thanks, Mom. Are you and Dad all ready?”

She purses her lips and manages to look angry, sad, pissed off, and defeated, all at the same time.

“Your father might not join us,” she says simply.

“I don’t know why that would be a surprise, Mom. He rarely does. It’s really too bad he doesn’t get along with his brothers.”

“Yeah,” she says curtly. “I’ll go grab my bag and be right back.”

Which is weird. It’s like she doesn’t want me to go in the house. But I need to.

“Um, do you mind if I run inside and use the bathroom? I’ve been driving for over two hours, and we have at least three more to go.”

“Oh, yes, of course, honey. Go ahead.”

“Is Dad home?”

She lets out a sigh. “He is not. We’ll talk more on the way, okay? We certainly don’t want to be late for tonight’s festivities.”

But we don’t talk.

Mom connects her phone to my car and plays her favorite songs—meaning what was popular when she was in college—and sings along. And I realize that she’s acting like I did earlier, when I turned up the music and decided not to go down memory lane.

But I join in on the fun now, singing along to the songs I know and trying to feel like a part of it while knowing full well that something is off.

Mom’s not acting like herself.

Normally, she’d be asking me about my classes, how finals went, if I’d been on any hot dates, and all about the latest gossip in Sammy’s life.

About three hours into the trip, we stop for gas right before we reach the curvy roads that lead to the resort. There’s a liquor store next to the convenience store, and she comes out with a bottle of liquor.

I’ve barely pulled back out onto the highway when she opens it and takes a swig straight from the bottle.

“What’s going on? You hardly ever drink. Always worried you will be called to duty.”

She’s a charge nurse in a trauma one hospital and often on call.

“I’m officially on vacation. At least for the next few days.”

“The next few days? I thought, this year, you were going to stay for the whole three-week reunion. Mom, you promised.”

“Yeah, well, life doesn’t always go as planned,” she says with an attitude, then takes another swig.

“Did something happen at work?” I inquire.