 by Lauren Blakely.jpg)
Total pages in book: 10
Estimated words: 9538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 48(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 32(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 48(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 32(@300wpm)
But a year ago, I was just a girl with the start of a crush.
Everything that happened that night was just the luck of the draw.
I wound up a little bruised—fine, a little broken—and intoxicated by a man I couldn’t have.
The Crush is a prequel novella leading into The RSVP!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
Harlow
I didn’t hit the car on purpose. I wasn’t that obsessed. I wouldn’t have called it an obsession at all.
Besides, I’m not that devious.
I’d say I’m more crafty.
But a year ago, I was neither devious nor crafty. I was just a girl with the start of a crush.
Everything that happened that night was just the luck of the draw.
I wound up a little bruised—fine, a little broken—and intoxicated by a man I couldn’t have.
1
THE MAN IN PURPLE
Harlow
Several Months Ago
The office door clicks open. I look up from the French news site on my laptop and sit straighter at the dining room table.
This is my chance to check him out. I’m home for the summer, so I’ve been grabbing as many opportunities as I can. Furtively, I turn my gaze as my new crush exits my father’s plush home office, then strides across the polished hardwood floors of the living room, wingtips clicking.
Sounding like money.
Looking like a magazine ad.
I’ve been stealing glances at Bridger for the last week, ever since I returned home from the NYU dorms. I’ve known him for years, but when I saw him a few weeks ago at a dinner my father hosted, my pulse surged and my skin tingled.
And a crush was born.
So, yeah, I love studying in the middle of my home, prepping for my next semester abroad. Just in case I can catch a glimpse of him.
And I’ll have another one right now, thank you very much. From my vantage point at the imposing oak table, I peek at the man’s gorgeous profile as he leaves, hoping he turns toward me soon so I can steal a glance at his outrageously blue eyes. I want to know what’s behind them.
My father ruins the view, though, walking right behind him, a glass of Scotch in his hand, saying goodbye to the man he built his media empire with over the last five years. “Sorry to cut this meeting short,” my dad says wryly. Everything sounds wry in his English accent. Part of his charm, some say.
His American daughter isn’t fooled by his British charm.
Bridger laughs lightly as they walk through the living room, empty-handed. “No, you’re not, Ian.”
Dad wiggles a brow. “Fine, I’m not sorry.”
At least have the decency to pretend.
Bridger nears the door, and I’m just not that interested in the subjunctive tense this second.
Not with Bridger wearing that tailored purple shirt that hugs his arms, those trim charcoal slacks that hint at a strong body, and no tie.
Never a tie.
Bridger’s tieless look is so…tingly.
“We’ll catch up tomorrow on the Spanish deal,” he says, scrubbing his hand along his chin. Stubble lines his fine jawline. A faint dusting of dark brown hair, a seven o’clock shadow.
What would it feel like along my fingers? Against my face?
A shiver slides down my spine, and I suppress a murmur.
“Tomorrow for all things Spanish deal. But not too early, you know,” my dad says.
What? No wink? How else would one know what you’ll be up to?
I’m tempted to roll my eyes, but instead I seize the chance to inject myself into their business conversation, flashing a knowing smile Bridger’s way. “Dad doesn’t like to wake early,” I say, innocently.
Like I don’t know the real reason Dad will sleep in.
Like the real reason isn’t coming over in a few minutes.
Cassie. Or Lianne. Or Marie. Or whoever the latest lady is that my dad’s banging behind his fiancée’s back.
Slowly, like maybe we’re both in on the joke, Bridger turns my way. My pulse kicks. His eyes are dark blue, the color of the dawn before day takes over. They hold mine for a beat, then he looks away quickly. I’m hopeful enough to want to believe he’s entertaining the same thoughts about dangerous kisses.
But I’m smart enough to know he’s not.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, then he’s out the door.
Not even a smile. He’s just gone. But what did I expect? I’m simply his business partner’s college-age daughter, ten years his junior.
I turn back to my laptop, ready to study.
Except…
With Bridger on his way, my father turns to me, checks his watch, then hums, like he’s gearing up to make a request.
Whatever, Dad. You’re not going to shock me.
I close my laptop before he speaks.
“Harlow, love, do you think you could study in your room?”
Translation—be a good girl, put your earbuds in, blast some music, and pretend you hear nothing while I fuck someone who’s not my fiancée.