by Emily Childs
I wince. It’s a shot to the gut. I have been closed off with Alexis. In a way treating her like Nadia, and it’s never been that way with Alexis.
“I know,” I say. “But I also think you’re making a mistake agreeing to do this.”
Alexis shifts in her seat the best she can with the seatbelt and pierces me with her gaze. “Why? Why is the idea of anyone being close to you so terrible? You’re not some broken thing.”
I laugh. “Perfectly Broken.”
She rolls her eyes. “I still think I deserve a royalty check for coming up with your band name. It’s so much better than the first one.”
“Warped Head was awesome,” I say, my shoulders relaxing. Per usual, a few tangents with Alexis and I’m forgetting the stresses of reality.
“No. It was a dumb name.” She takes another fry. “You are, you know.”
“What?”
“Perfectly Broken. And perfectly broken people deserve good things. You deserve a lot of mean and nasty things, too, because you’re terrible. But all the work you’ve put in to bring you to this place.” She grins at me. “You deserve to stay in a positive light, Bridger. She doesn’t get to take any of this away from you. Not while I’m around.”
I clench my fist over my knee to keep from reaching out and pulling her against me and kissing her until we can’t breathe anymore. There isn’t any point in trying to shove the thoughts away, either. They’re on a constant replay and I’m starting to enjoy the forbidden more and more. Parker will murder me if he ever finds out the thoughts I have about his sister.
“Fine, Al,” I say and pull sunglasses over my eyes to annoy her. “You have no idea what you signed up for. I’m a very needy boyfriend. Get ready for it.”
“Pfft. I can take anything you’ve got, Cole.”
I wish she would. I really wish she would.
Chapter 18
Alexis
My life has whittled down to spooning a dog.
But she’s so soft and cuddly. I bury my face in Poppy’s velvet ears, the deep snorting breaths of her massive body soothing the tension in my shoulders. I’m sure I look pitiful. I’m wearing my old yoga pants with paint stains, my hair is a rat’s nest on the top of my head, and I must’ve bent my glasses at some point because they’re not sitting right on my face.
My eyes sting from no sleep last night. Never mind the fact that I agreed—in one of my emotional tornados—to hang all over Bridger in public, but surprise! Bryce finally reached out.
Nothing earth shattering. A simple text. But it clued me in to know that Bridger likely got a hold of my phone since I became his roomie and deleted my ex’s number.
(702) 300-2781: Hey. Can we talk?
Even with Bridger’s good intentions, I knew it was Bryce. I’d memorized his number when I was once without my phone for a week.
Me: Guess.
(702) 300-2781: Come on, Lexie. Please.
I’d sent an emoji in return that would make Parker proud, then shut off my phone, and stared at the ceiling the rest of the night. After so long, I gave up and started to wander. Bridger’s house is comfortable. A man’s house, to be sure, with a lot of leather and musky smells. He picked a soft rug, though. Dark and plush. The perfect place to snuggle a dog and try to sleep.
I’m about to doze off when a stern knock rattles the front door. I sprawl out like a starfish and curse everything. It’ll be someone Bridger knows personally or they wouldn’t be using his mysterious side door.
“Why, Poppy? Tell me, why?” I grunt as I stand and shuffle to the door. I don’t know if Bridger will appreciate me answering his door, but it’s flipping six in the morning and he’s dead to the world after his concert.
Squinting in the dim light, I open the door to a woman in a suit and straight blonde hair. She eyes me. Really goes for it and drinks me in, then raises a brow. “You must be Miss Knight.”
I push my glasses up my nose and nod, trying not to talk too much in case I smell like morning breath and dog.
She shoves her way in. “I’m Mallorie. The executive assistant for Enigma Records and PR for Perfectly Broken.”
Mallorie spins on her thin stiletto heel and takes me in again as if I might look better on second glance. She’s the most put-together woman this early in the morning I’ve ever seen.
“You have two jobs?”
“Indie record labels. We all wear different hats. I’m here to speak with you and Mr. Cole about the next steps.”
“Next steps?”
“Yes. For your role in his image readjustment.”
That’s one way to put it. Poppy hops up from her place on the rug and bolts down the hall. My stomach clenches when Bridger’s raw voice greets the dog, then another heartbeat later he rounds from the hallway. His hair is a delightful mess, but I’m at a loss for a minute. He’s shirtless. Well, he’s halfway pulling on a T-shirt and getting a peek at his chiseled, colorful shoulders and chest is probably the best sight of the morning.
I clear my throat and turn away. He rubs his eyes and blinks into the room. “Mal, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here with the itinerary for your public appearances.”
“We have them scheduled?” I gawk at the list of events. Some are official like an interview with a local radio station. A fancy dinner in two weeks. But the others are staged sightings. Taco truck downtown. Blue Man Group next weekend. Getting into an Uber. Holding hands in a department store. Visiting Bridger’s family. That one I have no problem with.
“The goal is to get into next month’s edition of People with the hope they’ll put you in the Stars are Just Like Us column,” says Mallorie.
I school my confusion at Bridger. He doesn’t meet my eye, but points at a spot on the list. “This one is off.”
Mallorie takes a look. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m not going to interrupt Al’s school and have her walk around campus talking about me. It’s not natural, and she’s there to get a real degree. It’s not for show.”
My heart sings. Only Parker shows any hint of understanding how much I love my education. To know Bridger gets it leaves my insides squishy and greedy for him to step a little closer.
“It’s a good place to gather attention,” Mallorie says, sternly.
“No.” Bridger holds her stare. “I’m not making her a spectacle. She’s doing me a favor. No.”
It’s quiet the impressive standoff. Clearly, Mallorie knows how to handle the rich and famous. She hardly blinks. But does she know when Bridger Cole digs his feet in, he rarely backs down?
At long last, Mallorie lets out an annoyed breath. “Fine. No bragging at the university.” She crosses it off our public agenda. “Next, Miss Knight has an appointment tomorrow with our stylists.”
“Why?”
Mallorie looks me up and down a third time. “To smooth out some edges.”
“Rude.”
Bridger laughs. “Get used to Mal. She doesn’t know what sugar-coating means.”
“I mean, you can’t really judge what I look like right now. I had a rough night,” I insist. “We got in late, I was thinking about this situation, and my ex texted me, so I didn’t sleep much. I do clean up decent enough”
Bridger narrows his eyes. “Bryce texted you?”
“Whoa, who is this ex? I wasn’t informed,” Mallorie says. “We can’t have any skeletons jumping out of her closet.”
I ignore her and turn to Bridger. “He wanted to talk.”
“And you told him to get lost, right?”
Bridger’s voice is deliciously low and demanding. My fingertips tingle. “I did.”
“Seriously, who is the ex?” Mallorie says.
“He’s no one. He’s married to my stepsister now. Long story.”
“And I expect to hear it,” she says. “I’ll need to know anything that might be a surprise. I assure you, if you two will listen to me and do as we’ve planned, you’ll get through this, Mr. Cole.”
Brid
ger sits on his couch. He claps his hands together so Poppy will come to him. “Honestly, Mal, I think the best thing to do is ride it out. Stay low. Forget all this charade crap.”
Weird, but hearing him say that strikes a nerve. This getting along is a charade, and I’d do well to remember it. I bother him. He bothers me. But I guess I hoped I wasn’t so irritating that he’d hate this idea.
“Look, it’s not a favorite idea for me either,” I say, an attempt to shield my weak heart.
Bridger opens his mouth to say something, but Mallorie interrupts. “It’s no one’s favorite idea. But this is what happens when non-disclosures aren’t signed. Which brings me to the next point.”
She slaps a packet on Bridger’s coffee table.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I already told Tim Grant I’m not signing one.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need one. I’m not a backstabber.”
“Yes, but we don’t know that.”
“Bridger does.”
Mallorie rests a hand on her hip. “He’s believed that before.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not Nadia. Unlike that woman, Bridger and I have a history.”
“Exactly. You have even more you could sell.”
I throw my hands in the air, frustrated. “You’re right, I have so much on this guy, if I wanted to sell something I would’ve done it already.”
I cover my mouth, afraid it got away from me again. Bridger and I don’t talk about certain things I know, things I’ve seen. He doesn’t look up from stroking Poppy’s ears. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’d never, never, hold certain things over his head.
“Are we done here?” I ask, desperate to get away. “I’d like to shower and smooth out my edges.”
Mallorie doesn’t seem appeased at all, but she relents. “We’ll be in touch, Miss Knight. You might not like my methods, but I’m very good at my job. I know how to make guys like him look like baby angels to the public.”
“Right. Got it. My job is to make sure no one sees the real Bridger, only a sparkly, pink-cheeked cherub. Well, I happen to think the world would like the real Bridger Cole!”
I turn on my heel and storm down the hallway. Why, tell me why, do I let my mouth run wild? Who tries to swing an insult with a cherub in the mix?
Before I close my door, Mallorie’s voice carries. “Get her to sign it, Bridger”
“She doesn’t need to.”
“You willing to take the risk?”
He pauses too long.
His silence is deafening and cracks a sharp line straight through my chest.
I close my door against it all.
On Monday, my appointment with the label stylists was canceled. He never took credit, but to thank Bridger without being too obvious, I made his favorite green chili enchiladas after my orientation.
After the enchiladas, his gratitude came by leaving the keys to his jeep to drive to my classes with an explicit note that if I scratch it, he’ll sell my copy of Jane Eyre.
My classes take up my mornings with one extra online class, and I already love it.
I even survive the entire week without shouting to the university that I’m ‘with’ Bridger Cole.
Truth be told, we haven’t seen much of each other since Mallorie’s visit. He spends his time in the studio with the guys. Enigma insists on a new album by winter, and Becca hinted that they’ve been in a bit of a slump. Bridger works the lyrics for the band most of the time. Adam and Tate work melodies. I’m not sure where Lance fits in.
With the amount of time they’re working, hopefully it means they’re finding their groove.
On Friday, I set out the few groceries I bought, ready to make Mama Holly’s famous mac ‘n cheese she always made us as kids. I figured today he might need a little more comfort food.
Monday is the day. The bomb-dropping day. Nadia’s book is going live.
As I’m shredding cheese, the door to the kitchen opens and Bridger steps inside. His body screams fatigue, but his eyes are bright, like grass after rain.
“Hey, Al.”
I give him a look. “Hey, yourself. What’s with you? Why are you so happy? No, scratch that, why haven’t you insulted me today?”
He laughs and takes out a Dr. Pepper from the fridge. One right next to his devils. “No insults. I’m riding a high right now.”
My eyes widen, blood drains from my face.
Bridger chokes on his first drink and holds up a hand. “No, not like that, Al. Not like that.”
I let out a shaky breath. He crosses the space between us, surprising me. One hand holds the side of my face and I think of nothing but the warmth of his skin, the hint of clean laundry on his skin. The burn of his gaze.
“Never again,” he whispers.
I swallow with effort and nod as he pulls back. I’m not even ashamed to admit I wish he wouldn’t.
Bridger takes a seat in the breakfast nook. “We just scored six new songs in five days. Six. It all . . . flowed. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve been able to do that? I’m talking years.” He wears a boyish grin. “I’ve missed this feeling.”
“Glad you finally pulled your head out.” I bend down into the cupboard for a pot. “What changed, do you think?”
Bridger doesn’t answer. He twists his soda can on the table, knee bouncing.
“Earth to Bridger.”
He takes another drink and shrugs. “You’re the only thing that has changed for me.”
My heart blocks my throat. I turn around, hoping he doesn’t see the heat rush that went straight to my head. What is happening here? I’m acknowledging unspoken feelings I’ve had for my frenemy since I was fifteen, that’s what. It’s risky, given what we’re about to do publicly. Doubtless, one of us will be burned in the end if we don’t keep walls up.
But when he looks at me like that . . .
“What are you making?”
I lick my bottom lip and blink through my brain fog. “Uh, your mom’s mac.”
His smile widens. “Hey, that’s the one thing I know how to make. Let me help on this one.”
Bridger doesn’t give me a chance to retort before he comes to my side and takes over the cheese grater. Ten minutes later we’re dancing around each other, laughing about how many times Adam pretended to be sick all so Holly would bring him this mac n’ cheese.
“You know, we ought to tell her what’s coming so your family isn’t blindsided,” I say, searching the fridge for my fresh basil.
“I already talked to them,” he says as he fires up the burner on the stove.
“You did. What did she say?”
He chuckles. “I’m not going to tell you or you’ll blush again.”
“I didn’t blush.”
“I made you blush and you tried to hide it.”
“You did not, and you have never made me blush, Bridger Cole.” Lies. All lies.
He raises a brow. “Al, are you giving me a challenge?”
I blow out my lips and snatch the basil. When I turn, I smash into his chest. “What are you doing?”
“You think I don’t know how to make you blush.” Bridger traps my face in his hands, thumbs drawing a line across my jaw.
The floor tilts. “Why . . . why would you even try?”
He grins, a little wickedly. “Because it is one of my favorite things to do.” Bridger glides one palm across my shoulder, down my back, and curls an arm around my waist, holding me against his chest. “And . . . success.”
I frown and try to shove him away, but he tightens his hold. Bridger’s smile fades, his thumb grazes my lip. One more touch and my legs are going to give out. His eyes bounce between mine, his heart hammers under my hand I didn’t realize was on his chest.
“Alexis,” he says, voice rough. “Safety net moment.”
“Okay.” I’m melting into him and can’t stop.
“I’m grateful you’re here. I’m grateful for what you’re doing. I’m grateful for you.”<
br />
Warmth blooms in my chest and I’m undone. All walls are down for half a breath and I curl my arms around his neck, holding him closer. He buries his face in my hair and hugs me back. My fingertips tickle his neck, tracing the edge of his T-shirt. “You’re going to survive this, Bridge.”
“I know,” he says and pulls back slightly. “But I’ll admit it’s nice not to do it alone.”
I scoff and let my hands drop. Any more and I’ll do something crazy like kiss him. With uneven steps we drift apart, finding our places around the food again. “And you tried to kick me out. Aren’t you glad you didn’t?”
Bridger laughs, but when the front door bangs open, we both jump.
“Bridger!” Tate’s voice carries.
Together, we let out a breath of relief as Tate, Adam, and Becca shove their way into the kitchen.
“Oh,” Tate says. “There you are.”
Adam pauses at the stove. “What is this? Lex, don’t tell me . . .”
I wink. “Yep. Mama Holly’s.”
“Babe.” He turns to Becca. “We’re staying for dinner. I don’t care what they say. We’re eating here.”
“Okay, chill,” she says as she looks at me. “What have you done to him?”
“It’s his favorite from Bridger’s mom.”
Tate takes some of the shredded cheese and sprinkles it in his mouth. Poppy pounces on the bits and pieces that fall, slobbering all over the tile.
Bridger shoves his shoulder. “Are you three? Get a plate. Why are you here?”
“We were talking about making a few changes to the last verse from earlier. We think it might work better with a repeat of the second verse. What? Did we interrupt something?”
Bridger glances at me. A small, knowing smile curled in the corner of his mouth. As if we have a secret that’s only ours. “Only making Al blush.”
“Oh, got it. A truce moment,” Tate says.
I frown until he laughs. Maybe we all know each other too well.
Our safety net is over. But the weird thing is, after we all sit around the table, laughing, shoving our forks with pasta, Bridger and I trade more than one heated glance across the table.
