1. Somebody Else #2
“I didn’t want to miss one of the most important nights of your life,” he says, eyes catching mine again. “So…I flew back. Just for tonight.”
My heart skips.
He runs a hand through his hair, smirking—trying to make light of it, but there’s something raw in his eyes that doesn’t play along.
“I tried to make it for your party. Flight got delayed. I wasn’t sure you’d be home, figured you might be out celebrating, but Phil told me where you were.”
He did that—for me?
“I’m only here for a few hours,” he adds. His eyes drop to the space between us as he gestures vaguely, chuckling under his breath. “But I didn’t want you thinking I forgot.”
I stare at him, caught between wanting to burst into tears and the broken pieces of my heart rattling in my chest. Before I can say anything, he stands and walks toward the front doorway.
“I, uh...got you something,” he says.
He returns a moment later with a bag, flowers—tulips—and a couple of balloons.
You know they’re a symbol of love; Alex’s words echo in my head.
“I know you hate all that over-the-top shit,” he murmurs, placing the bag gently in my lap and setting the flowers and balloons beside me. “But...you deserve to be celebrated today. Even if...” He trails off, glancing away like he’s afraid to finish the sentence.
Even if Alex shattered my heart.
I stare down at the gift bag, my fingers brushing over the tissue paper, and tears threaten to rise again, but this time for a different reason.
Because Broderick didn’t just show up—he showed up in every way Alex didn’t.
When I finally look back at him, he watches me quietly, expecting nothing in return, like he would have done it all just to make me smile for a second.
“You flew across the world...for me, why?” I whisper, my voice caught behind the lump in my throat.
Broderick shrugs, but I see his jaw clench—holding back everything he won’t say.
He shifts his weight, thumb rubbing the inside of his wrist.
I hesitate, my hand hovering over the bag, like I’m about to fall.
“Open it,” he says softly.
I sigh, dipping my hand in, fingers fumbling. I pull out a box of sweets with French words all over it, along with a wrapped item tucked underneath.
Slowly, I rip the wrapping paper open, revealing a CD: “Elena’s Mix Vol. 1.” Written with a green marker on the cover.
“You made me a mix tape?”
“I know how much you love music, and I thought maybe I could share some of my favorites with you.” He shrugs.
“Brody,”
“Go on, play it,” he says, nudging me toward the entertainment system.
I get up without hesitation, kicking my discarded dress aside. I open the CD player, slip the disc in, and the soft strum of “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac fills the room.
CD cover in hand, I turn it over, marveling at the handwritten list of songs he curated and put together...for me.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Do you like it?” His eyes search my face.
“Love.”
Broderick’s face lights up like he’s won the lottery—pride flickering into a grin before it melts into something softer. He chuckles nervously, eyes dropping for a second.
“Thank you,” I say gently, as I place my hand on his knee.
The music wraps around us like a cocoon—fragile and intimate.
I run my fingers along the edge of the CD case, tracing the letters of my name.
Broderick is quiet as he moves to the other end of the couch, settling in slowly.
His hands resting in his lap, fingers loosely tangled, fidgeting now and then.
He’s watching me with that same unreadable expression.
It’s like he wants me to say something, but he knows I won’t.
The music swells, Stevie Nicks’ voice aching through the speakers, and for a while, it’s enough.
But then he clears his throat.
“Elena...can we talk about what happened?”
My stomach flips.
I set the CD case down on the coffee table.
“The kiss,” he says gently when I don’t answer. “I...I need to know what that was.”
I swallow, avoiding his gaze. The guilt threatens to consume me whole.
“I didn’t mean to—” I start, but my voice cracks, and I shake my head, blinking fast. “I’m drunk, and it was dark.”
“I know.” I can hear the hurt in his voice. “I’m not trying to make this harder for you, El.”
Worse, it’s the way it’s painted in his eyes. When I glance over at him, it claws at the broken pieces in my chest.
“Then why bring it up?”
He exhales, leaning back slightly. “Because I can’t pretend it didn’t happen,” he says, his voice rougher now but still soft around the edges. “I can’t sit here listening to music with you, acting like you didn’t kiss me like you meant it.”
I wince.
Because he’s right.
“Brody—” I falter, searching for words. “I’m so sorry—I’m a mess.”
“Hey, it’s okay, I get it.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I probably should have brought a mop instead of background music.”
I scoff, “I think there’s one in the cupboard.”
“You should probably finish that water,” he teases, with a glint in his eyes. “Don’t want you launching yourself at me again like a deranged little monkey in heat.”
My head snaps up, blood rushing to my face. I did do that. A shocked laugh bursts out of me, slicing through the tension.
“Oh my God!” I say, wide-eyed and appalled.
“What?” he says, grinning like the cocky menace he is. “Just trying to protect my virtue over here.”
I shake my head, but the smile lingers, even as my heart continues to race.
“You’re impossible,” I mumble, but it lands softer than I mean it to, threaded with something gentler, something I don’t quite want to name. And for a moment, I forget all about Alex.
Only for a moment.
“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “But you kinda like that about me.”
And I don’t answer. Because if I did, I’m not sure I could lie.
The morning sun streams through the sheer curtains, casting soft golden light across the living room.
I stir, slow and disoriented, aware first of warmth—the weight of an arm draped across my back, the steady rise and fall beneath my cheek.
Broderick.
My eyes flutter open and then go still.
His arm is heavy, comforting, as if he were sculpted perfectly to fit there. I find myself breathing him in, that mix of cedar and something darker, something uniquely him.
I should be waking up in a post-sex haze with Alex and to calls of good news about my album launch, not tangled up in Broderick’s arms.
Post-breakup with Alex.
It should feel wrong, but it doesn’t.
Our almost-kisses are now a very real kiss, lingering between us—accidental, but undeniable.
After the night’s excess, my head feels better than I deserve—thank God.
Last night had taken an unexpected turn.
Broderick stayed over. We played the mixtape well into the night—me asking why he liked certain songs, pressing him for specifics, and him playfully deflecting, as he always does, with a joke or a shrug—something easy.
And for a few hours, I forgot about everything.
Long enough to fall into a dreamless sleep.
I savor the weight of him on me, one last time.
This shouldn’t happen again.
I shift slightly, and his arm tightens around me, pressing me closer into his broad, hard chest with a soft groan.
“Good morning,” he mumbles, his voice husky with sleep.
It sounds so mouthwatering.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.
He huffs a quiet laugh, his fingers grazing the curve of my hip before he finally, reluctantly, lets me go to sit up, rubbing a hand over his face. His dark hair is a mess.
“You hungry?” he asks, standing and stretching. His shirt rides up, just enough to give me a glimpse of his toned stomach, and I try not to stare.
“Starving,” I admit, running a hand through my tangled hair. “But if you think I’m eating some fancy overpriced breakfast sandwich, think again.”
Broderick smirks as he walks toward the kitchen. “Firstly, overpriced breakfast sandwiches are deel-icious. Secondly, what makes you think I’m that predictable?”
I arch a brow, following him in. “I don’t know...Maybe because you’re on the Forbes fastest rising billionaires list.”
That makes him pause mid-step. He turns, one brow lifting. “And that means?”
I shrug, leaning casually against the counter, though my heart picks up at the way he was watching me now—like I’d just poked a sleeping bear.
“You know. Born rich. Went to an Ivy League. Probably has a private jet, used to that life of luxury where everything is doused in truffle oil or flown in from France.”
“Wow. And here I thought you liked me.”
His response catches me off guard.
“Broderick, I didn’t mean—”
“If anyone was born rich, it’s you, Princess Montgomery.” His head cocked to the side like he’s sizing up all five feet of me.
“Hey, I’ve never touched my trust fund, and you know what I mean, you fly all over the world, wear designer suits, you have a Rolex.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but there isn’t much humor in it. “No, it’s fine.” He turns away, opening the fridge and scans its contents before pulling out breakfast items. His shoulders are tight, muscles working beneath his shirt. “It’s just...that’s not me.”
I bite my lip, watching him crack eggs expertly into a bowl. “Then who are you?” I ask, softer now.
He’s quiet for a moment, working in my kitchen as if he knows the place like the back of his hand. Then he finally looks at me, his eyes softer but guarded.
“I didn’t grow up like that,” he says, shaking his head. “We didn’t have much.”
Oh.
His hands still; my eyes fixed on him whisking.
“When my dad got sick with cancer, we lost everything. House. Savings.”
He exhales slowly, as if saying it out loud costs him. “I spent a lot of nights on friends’ couches. Sometimes worse.”
My heart squeezes, the image of a young Broderick—proud, stubborn, and hurting.
“But...but you went to Columbia?”
He smiles faintly. “Scholarship. Worked two jobs to help my mom and siblings while I was there. Andrew helped me start my company after we’d graduated.
It was either that or...” He shook his head.
“Doesn’t matter. I built everything I have now from nothing, paid Andrew back double what he invested. ”