Crush (Unhinged Holidays #3)

Chapter 1 Anabel

One

Anabel

Dusk is slowly, gently falling over the city of Rome as I walk through the cobblestoned streets with my best friend at my side.

I take a lick of my gelato, the strawberry-lime flavour bursting over my tongue as I sneak a sideways glance at Cole.

As always, my heart does what can only be described as a kick-flip in my chest.

Why?

Because I’m in love with my best friend. And I don’t think he has any idea.

But I’m going to tell him. I think. Probably.

Cole glances over at me, and heat rushes to my cheeks.

I look away, taking in the gorgeous lavender and pink hues of the clouds in the sky, the way the golden light seems to touch everything.

After a few more steps and another delicious lick, I steal another peek at the man who’s come to mean everything to me.

He’s tall, standing just over six feet, with a quietly athletic build.

He looks lean, but I’ve seen him with his shirt off, and his abs are to die for.

He has this dark, curly hair that never quite behaves the way he wants it to, with a curled lock always falling forward onto his forehead.

His eyes are a soft brown colour, warm and earnest. When he smiles, he has these dimples that make my organs liquefy, and when he blushes, my knees weaken.

I’m also mildly obsessed with his hands. He has large palms with long, skilled fingers. He’s been playing the piano since he was five years old, and I’d be lying if I said that I’ve never thought about what those fingers would feel like inside me. On my clit. Plucking my nipples.

My face heats again, and I take another lick of gelato, trying to cool myself off.

Cole and I have been friends since our freshman year of university.

For seven years, he’s been my closest confidant, my cheerleader, my shoulder to lean on, and the person who hands down brings me the most joy.

And for the first few years of our friendship, that’s all it was.

Friendship. We each dated other people, and were there for each other when those relationships crashed and burned.

But then, about eighteen months ago, something started to shift. I can’t fully explain it. But I started to see Cole…differently. I started noticing things, like those fingers, that dimple, the deep timbre of his laugh, how good he smells.

Okay, fine. I had a crush.

I realized it was more than that when he started dating someone new, and I threw up. Like, literally hurled my guts up because the idea of him with someone who wasn’t me was that upsetting to me.

It was the acting performance of my life to pretend I was sad when they broke up three months later.

So. Yeah. I’m secretly in love with my best friend. The one I’m on vacation in Rome with. The one I’m sharing an adjoining hotel room with.

I sigh, anchoring myself in the here and now to try and ignore the way my nerves are jangling as we wander back to our hotel, full from dinner.

The restaurant was perfect—tiny, candlelit, tucked into a narrow alley where the scents of garlic and basil clung to the warm evening air.

I watched Cole eat, the way his lips parted just slightly as he took each bite of his creamy pasta, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.

The way his eyes fluttered shut for a second, like he was savouring not just the food, but the moment, and the entire time, I was savouring him.

Now, walking back to the hotel, he lets out a low, dramatic groan.

“Oh my god,” he laughs, pressing a hand to his perfectly flat abdomen. “I think I actually overdid it.”

“You? Overdo it?” I tease, nudging him with my elbow. “Mr. ‘I’ll just have one more arancini’?”

His fingers brush against mine as we walk, just for a second, but it’s enough to send a jolt up my arm and make butterflies flap in my stomach. “In my defense,” he says, voice warm with amusement, “those were exceptional arancini.”

I hum, fighting a smile. “Mmm. The best you’ve ever had?”

His eyes flick to mine. “Absolutely.” His gaze lingers on mine, something flickering in his eyes that I don’t know how to process.

Every once in a while, I catch Cole looking at me…differently. He looks at me with what I think is wishful hunger, and it makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, he wants me too, and we’re both too shy and unwilling to risk our amazing friendship to be honest.

Or, maybe it’s all just wishful thinking on my part. I don’t know. I do know that I haven’t dated anyone in the eighteen months since I realized I had feelings for my best friend. And Cole’s been single for almost a year, seemingly uninterested in dating.

The foolish, hopeful part of my brain (or is it my heart?) tells me it’s because he wants me, too.

The realistic, self-protective part of me says it’s because he’s been busy with work after his promotion at the library and he just hasn’t had time to get back out there.

“Man, that was the best cacio e pepe I’ve ever had,” he says, rubbing his stomach again.

I swallow, my fingers tightening around the gelato cup. “You say that about everything,” I tease, nudging him again, mostly just so that I have an excuse to touch him. “The best pizza, the best wine, the best—”

“View,” he finishes, stopping suddenly. We’re at the edge of a small piazza, the fountain in the center glowing under the streetlights that have just flicked on. His shoulder brushes mine as he turns to face me, and I don’t step away.

“You’re right,” I murmur, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. “This is the best view.”

His throat works, just once. His eyes drop to my mouth, then flick back up. “Anabel—”

My pulse jumps. Say it. Please, say it. Say you want me. Say you love me.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his hand and brushes his thumb over the corner of my mouth. “You have some gelato,” he says quietly.

“Oh,” I breathe, my body going haywire from the sensation of the pad of his thumb so close to my lips. He shoots me a half smile, that dimple popping, and then sucks his thumb into his mouth, licking the gelato off.

My eyes go wide, a blush spreading from the roots of my hair all the way down to my collarbone. It takes Cole a half second to realize what he’s just done, and now he’s blushing furiously too, sucking in a breath as he looks away.

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The air between us is thick, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. Cole’s fingers twitch at his sides, and he clears his throat, his gaze darting everywhere except me.

He makes an adorably panicked gesture at the fountain in front of us and starts moving toward it.

I follow, wishing there were something I could do to soothe his obvious embarrassment.

I wish I had the courage to tell him that he didn’t need to be embarrassed about wanting me, if that’s what’s going on.

So many ifs, all tangled up in doubt and fear.

“Y’know, this fountain—uh, the Fontana del Cupido—it’s, um, actually from the sixteenth century,” he says, his words a little too fast, a little too bright.

“Bernini had a hand in it, or at least, his workshop did. The, uh, the carvings here—see the way the water spills over the edges? It’s meant to mimic natural rock formations.

Really innovative for the time.” He gestures vaguely at the stone, his other hand pushing back that stubborn curl of hair that’s fallen onto his forehead.

“And the, uh, the basin—it’s not just decorative.

It was designed to collect rainwater for the neighborhood.

Practical and beautiful. That’s—that’s the Roman way, I guess. ”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and when I glance up at him, I can see that he’s still beet red.

His fingers drum against his thigh, restless.

“I mean, not that you care about any of this. I just—uh, I read about it earlier. In…a book,” he trails off lamely.

He lets out a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“God, I’m rambling. Sorry. I just—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head, and his eyes finally flick to mine.

“Sorry.” I feel like he’s apologizing for more than his adorable rambling. The word is heavy, weighted between us.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I say softly, and he lets out a long breath. There are times when I miss the way it was before. I miss the ease, the simplicity. Now things are awkward, heavy, stilted. Is it too much to ask for to want all of that, plus orgasms?

The fountain’s stone glows amber in the fading light, water spilling over its edges in a soft, soothing trickle.

“I think there’s an inscription,” I say, stepping forward.

The cobblestones are uneven under my sandals, and my feet are tired from all the walking, but I don’t care.

I feel oddly compelled to read whatever it says.

Cole follows, his footsteps quiet behind me.

The air is cooler now, the kind of evening chill that sneaks under your skin when you’re not paying attention. I shiver.

There’s a rustle of fabric, and then warmth settles over my shoulders. Cole’s jacket. His scent wraps around me—cedar and something faintly citrus, like the soap he uses, mixed with the heat of his body still clinging to the fabric. I pull it tighter, my fingers curling into the sleeves.

“Better?” His voice is low, rougher than usual. It makes my toes curl and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold makes its way down my spine.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The jacket is too big, the sleeves swallowing my hands, but I don’t care. I want to burrow into it. Into him.

The inscription is carved into the stone just above the waterline, the letters worn smooth by the passing of centuries. Cole leans in, his shoulder brushing mine as he squints at the Italian. His breath is warm against my temple when he exhales, and I fight the urge to lean into him.