The Crush

  Lauren Blakely

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  About The Crush

  Did you know?

  The Crush

  Prologue

  1. The Man in Purple

  2. All Your Broken Bones

  3. Is It Obvious?

  4. Lucky New York

  5. This Color Would Look Good on You

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Contact

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Blakely

  LaurenBlakely.com

  Cover Design by © TE Black

  Photo: Deposit

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  Big Rock Series

  Big Rock

  Mister O

  Well Hung

  Full Package

  Joy Ride

  Hard Wood

  * * *

  Happy Endings Series

  Come Again

  Shut Up and Kiss Me

  Kismet

  My Single-Versary

  * * *

  Ballers And Babes

  Most Valuable Playboy

  Most Likely to Score

  A Wild Card Kiss

  Two A Day

  Plays Well With Others

  * * *

  Rules of Love Series

  The Virgin Rule Book

  The Virgin Game Plan

  The Virgin Replay

  The Virgin Scorecard

  * * *

  Hopelessly Bromantic Duet (MM)

  Hopelessly Bromantic

  Here Comes My Man

  * * *

  Men of Summer Series (MM)

  Scoring With Him

  Winning With Him

  All In With Him

  * * *

  The Guys Who Got Away Series

  Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

  The What If Guy

  Thanks for Last Night

  The Dream Guy Next Door

  * * *

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  * * *

  The Extravagant Series

  One Night Only

  One Exquisite Touch

  My One-Week Husband

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  MM Standalone Novels

  A Guy Walks Into My Bar

  One Time Only

  The Bromance Zone

  The Best Men (Co-written with Sarina Bowen)

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  The Heartbreakers Series

  Once Upon a Real Good Time

  Once Upon a Sure Thing

  Once Upon a Wild Fling

  * * *

  Boyfriend Material

  Asking For a Friend

  Sex and Other Shiny Objects

  One Night Stand-In

  * * *

  Lucky In Love Series

  Best Laid Plans

  The Feel Good Factor

  Nobody Does It Better

  Unzipped

  * * *

  Always Satisfied Series

  Satisfaction Guaranteed

  Instant Gratification

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  Never Have I Ever

  PS It’s Always Been You

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  * * *

  The Sexy Suit Series

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  Birthday Suit

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  From Paris With Love

  Wanderlust

  Part-Time Lover

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  The Only One

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  The Knocked Up Plan

  Come As You Are

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  The Break-Up Album

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  The Caught Up in Love Series

  The Pretending Plot

  The Dating Proposal

  The Second Chance Plan

  The Private Rehearsal

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  Seductive Nights Series

  Night After Night

  After This Night

  One More Night

  A Wildly Seductive Night

  About The Crush

  I swear I wasn’t that obsessed. I wouldn’t have called it an obsession at all.

  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 to The RSVP.

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  The Crush

  A Prequel to The RSVP

  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 th
e 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.

  I fake a smile. “Of course,” I say, swallowing down a spoonful of disgust.

  “You’re such a darling,” he says.

  I flash a bigger smile. “Thanks.”

  Then, he disappears up the stairs. Naturally. He must go beautify himself before the lady shows up.

  She’ll probably be here in less than ten minutes. Like I am going to stay in my room for the next several hours. I’m not even going to stay in this house.

  There’s a big city out there for me to escape into.

  I grab my backpack from the dining room floor, stuff my laptop in it, and sling it over my shoulder. Maybe when I reach Big Cup, I’ll tell Dad I left.

  But then again, maybe I won’t. Chances are he won’t notice or care.

  When I stuff my phone into the pouch of my backpack, the sound of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 blasts from Dad’s phone on the coffee table in the living room.

  It’s his fiancée calling. Joan’s in Vermont teaching a symposium on classical music. Poor Joan. I like her well enough, considering I’ve only lived with her for the last two summer breaks.

  His cell rattles again, the violin announcing her interest in talking to her fiancé. Not my problem. Not my problem. Not at all my problem.

  I ignore it as I pad quietly to the door. It opens into an outside alcove. My bike’s in there. I’m almost free from alibi duty.

  Footsteps shuffle upstairs. “Harlow, love,” he calls out.

  I tense.

  Don’t do it. Don’t ask.

  “Can you grab Joan’s call and tell her I’m in a meeting with Bridger?”

  And he’s asked.

  I burn, but I say nothing as I reach for the knob, stuffing in my earbuds. Useful prop. But soon, I’ll need Sondheim, Larsen or Miranda to cleanse my ears.

  For now, the violin becomes more urgent. So does my need to go. I turn the knob.

  The sound of footsteps grows louder. “Harlow, can you answer that, please?”

  Flames lick higher in me as I weigh my options. Pretend I didn’t hear? Just leave? Or something else. Like, hey, how about a no?

  I hardly even live here anymore. I did enough of this in high school. Why do I have to do it during college breaks too?

  “Harlow,” he calls once more from the top of the stairs, standing by the banister now.

  The violin insists.

  He shouts my name. Too loud to ignore. Hand on the knob, I carelessly turn my gaze to him, adopting a confused look as I point to my earbuds. After I take one out, I ask, “What did you say?”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “Joan was calling. She’ll call again. I’ll just handle it,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.

  “How noble of you,” I mutter, too low for him to hear.

  He peers at me curiously, cataloging my backpack, my fleece. “Are you leaving?”

  Genius.

  “Layla called. I’m meeting her at the coffee shop. Good luck with your Bridger meeting,” I say, sketching air quotes. I leave before he can say another word.

  He can deal with his affairs on his own. I’m not his alibi anymore.

  I open the door, step into the alcove. There, I tug on my helmet, then grab my silver bike, hoisting it by my shoulder. I leave the brownstone, rushing down the steps, fueled by righteous fire and rage.

  He can screw his lady friend without any help from me. It’s not like he has me around in the fall or the spring. He can’t use me during the summer.

  Slapping the bike down, I hop on in a flurry. I jump off the sidewalk and right onto Eighty Third Street, then race west on the smooth concrete.

  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll catch one more glimpse of Bridger in the six o’clock sunset as I ride down Fifth Avenue. He’ll be walking. He usually walks.

  He’s only a few minutes ahead of me.

  I bolt south on the avenue, sandwiching my body and the bike between the parked cars and the cabs, the trucks and buses screeching downtown. Fast and furious, I want speed and distance. Far away from my dad and his habits. His women showing up at all hours. Him asking me to disappear.

  Here I am, disappearing into the New York night.

  It’s just me and the lights and the sounds and the streets of the city as I dodge the bullets the traffic throws at me. I weave past a car turning into Central Park, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of purple.

  My heart surges. Bridger’s a block away. I pedal faster, darting past the cars to my left.

  Maybe I’ll just hop over to the sidewalk, roll up beside him and say hi.

  There’s a cab twenty feet ahead, pulling over to the curb.

  Once I jam past it, I’ll—

  But my phone rings. It’s Joan. Someone swings a cab door open five feet in front of me. The wrong side—the traffic side, not the curb side.

  Heart pounding terribly, I try to swerve, and I’m this close to making it when the door smacks my elbow, and bam.

  My bones rattle. My head rings. I’m toppling off the bike, my foot slamming into the tire, my head smacking the pavement, all of New York saying fuck you to me too.

  Pain radiates down to my marrow.

  Twenty seconds later, a man in purple is over me, lifting me up, carrying me to the sidewalk. Arms wrapped around me.

  When the ambulance arrives five minutes later, he tells me he’ll meet me at the hospital.

  Everything goes in and out of focus except for the screaming in my bones. And the wild thought that occurs to me—maybe it’s the pain or the adrenaline, but I’m not sorry I lost that fight with the car door.

  2

  All Your Broken Bones

  Harlow

  * * *

  I don’t call my dad on the way to the hospital. But after the nurse starts my IV, Bridger’s standing by my bed in the emergency room, telling me, “Your dad will be here soon. I reached him.” He sounds so cool, so in control.