Chapter 14 Collette
COLLETTE
The elevator doors open to the rooftop terrace in the middle of Manhattan, and the first thing I see is Fish’s face, fifteen feet tall, dressed in a charcoal suit, leaning against a brick wall with an expression that would melt women’s panties. Damn him for being that hot stretched out like that.
“Wow,” Felix says beside me, stepping onto the rooftop. “He looks very big.”
“At least he scrubs up well,” Pierre adds.
“Don’t tell him that, it’ll go to his head,” I mutter as we continue walking into the party.
The rooftop is ridiculous, string lights crisscrossing overhead, a DJ in the corner playing something smooth and moody, the Manhattan skyline glittering behind everything, like the city itself showed up to be his backdrop.
There are at least six of these display boards scattered around the terrace, and every single one of them is a different version of Justin Crawford looking like he was assembled in a lab specifically to ruin women’s lives.
Navy overcoat with the collar turned up and his jaw doing that tense thing, looking at something off camera.
Him in a tuxedo like a prince of some faraway country.
White shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing forearms that should be classified as a public safety hazard.
You’re staring. Pretty hard not to when his face is everywhere you turn.
I haven’t spoken to him properly in weeks.
Not since Fishette started trending and the internet collectively decided that Justin Crawford and I were in love based on a lanyard and some tunnel footage.
I told him in his hotel room in Pittsburgh to dial it back.
He said okay, no argument, no pushback, no cocky comeback, and then he actually did it.
No more hanging around the tunnel after practice.
No more swinging by my office with coffee.
No more anything. He pulled back exactly the way I asked him to, and it worked.
The comments died down, especially when he was seen having drinks with an actress.
Fishette became old news. It’s what you wanted.
Still is. But you miss him. I miss our banter.
Miss his stupid face appearing at my desk, trying to make me laugh when I’m on a deadline.
Urgh. Men, I need to get laid, that’s my problem.
The rooftop is packed with industry people, press, and waiters circling with trays of champagne and tiny food that looks too pretty to eat.
The air up here has a bite to it, cold enough that I’m glad I wore sleeves, and the wind carries the faint smell of someone’s cigarette from the far corner mixed with expensive perfume and rooftop bar candles.
A couple of female models from the campaign stand near the bar, impossibly tall and impossibly beautiful, laughing at something Fish is saying.
One of them touches his arm. He doesn’t flinch, just smiles and keeps talking, completely at ease in a room full of people who are all here because of his face.
So out of my league. Where the hell did that thought come from?
I am not interested in Fish. Nope. No way.
Never. Is he hot? Yes. Do I want to sleep with him?
The reviews by the bunnies …. No. What the hell am I thinking?
Pierre hands me a drink. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?” I ask, taking the glass of champagne from him.
“You’re staring into the distance with a frown on your face.” Because I’m watching a model stroke your teammate’s arm, and apparently that’s a problem for me now. “I’m taking in the event. Forgot to turn my resting bitch face off,” I say, sipping my drink. “This rooftop is pretty nice.”
“Yeah, it is,” Pierre says before Felix pulls him into a conversation about something hockey related, and I tune my brothers out.
My eyes drift back to Fish at the bar. The model has her hand on his arm again.
She’s leaning in, and he’s laughing at something she said.
It’s probably not even that funny, but she’s gorgeous and tall, and her legs go on for days, and she’s exactly the type of woman who ends up in his bed and on that Reddit page raving about the experience.
Stop it. I take a large sip of champagne to settle whatever is happening to me.
I zone out for a moment until I hear my name.
“Collette.” Fish taps me on the shoulder, and I jump so hard I nearly spill my drink.
I didn’t see him break away from the models but here he is, drink in hand, smelling like expensive cologne and looking at me with that grin.
Not the billboard grin, the real one, the one that’s slightly crooked and does something to my rib cage that I refuse to acknowledge.
“You came,” he says, and he sounds genuinely surprised, which I guess he would be because I’ve made it perfectly clear I want distance. Distance I created.
“Of course. Congrats, your campaign looks great,” I tell him, keeping my voice even and professional, the way a colleague would.
“Thanks. I’m so happy to see you here.” And just like that, the weeks of careful distance collapse into nothing because the way he says it, warm, surprised, and honestly happy to see me with such golden retriever vibes, makes my chest do something stupid. It’s just champagne on an empty stomach.
“I said to Lettie earlier you don’t scrub up too badly.” Pierre grins, breaking the moment between us. Thank God for brothers with no sense of timing.
“Giving you a run for your money, pretty boy,” Fish says, playfully hitting him in the stomach.
“Please, look at me,” my brother brags.
“Ew.” I groan, sipping my champagne and realizing the glass is empty. When did that happen?
“I’ll get you another,” Felix says, taking my glass. “Come on, Fabio, let’s find some food, I’m starved,” he asks Pierre, who hesitates to leave me alone with Fish. “She’s fine,” Felix says, pushing him along.
And then it’s just us standing on a rooftop in Manhattan, surrounded by six different versions of his face while the city glitters behind him as if it’s in on the joke.
The wind picks up, and I cross my arms against the chill, pretending it’s the cold making my skin prickle and not the fact that he’s standing two feet away, looking at me like I’m the only person at his own party.
“So.” He gestures around. “What do you think?”
“I think your ego doesn’t need any more fuel tonight,” I say, slipping back into our old rhythm like the last few weeks never happened. It’s so easy. That’s the problem. It’s too easy.
“That bad?” he asks.
Is he fishing for compliments, or does he genuinely not know? “Come on, you know it’s good,” I tease him.
“Strangers can say anything all day long, but from a friend it means more,” he confesses and then catches himself.
“I mean … are we still …” He trails off and runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like the guy on the billboards.
He looks uncertain. Like a guy standing on a rooftop not knowing if the woman in front of him is still his friend or just someone who used to be.
Because you made it that way. Because I had to. Now I feel like I’ve overreacted.
“We’re friends, Fish,” I tell him, and I don’t know why my voice comes out softer than I intended. “The internet just made it weird for a minute.”
Something shifts in his face. Relief, maybe. His shoulders drop half an inch, and the tension around his jaw loosens. “Good. Because these last few weeks have sucked not being around you.”
“They have?” The surprise in my voice gives away more than I wanted it to.
“Yeah, who else am I supposed to annoy at work?” he jokes, deflecting, the way he always does when he accidentally says something real.
“I’m sure you were able to annoy lots of other people.”
“That’s true. You owe Evan an apology because he has been dealing with the brunt of my annoyances.”
The image of Evan’s face while Fish pesters him has me bursting out laughing. “Guess I owe him an apology then.” I lean into him without thinking about it. “If I’m honest, he scares me.”
“Me too,” he says, bumping his shoulder against mine. The contact is brief and casual, and my entire arm tingles from it, which is ridiculous, and I’m going to blame the champagne. “So, which photo do you like?” he asks, falling back into our old pattern.
“The navy overcoat.”
He raises a brow. “You like the preppy look. Wasn’t expecting that, but it’s my favorite too. Want me to give you a private showing later?” He winks.
And there he is, the old Fish, cocky, flirtatious, impossible Fish.
“I’m good.” I smile. “But wear that one on game day, the internet girlies will love it.”
He smirks. “Noted.”
We drift toward the railing, the city spread out below us.
From up here Manhattan looks like it’s breathing, all those tiny lights pulsing and moving, taxis inching through gridlock twenty-three stories down, the distant wail of a siren somewhere in Midtown.
The wind is stronger at the edge, cold enough to make me shiver.
“You look good tonight,” he says quietly, not for the party, just for me.
“You don’t have to give me a compliment because I gave you one.”
“What I wanted to say is you look hot, but Pierre might jump out at any moment and tackle me for that.”
This makes me laugh. “Probably would.”