The Crush List

Chapter Thirteen – Balconies and Bold Questions

The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the salty breeze drifting up from the sea. Emery sat cross-legged on the sun-warmed balcony, wearing one of Cal’s crisp white shirts over her sleepwear, the sleeves far too long and the fabric still holding the faint scent of him.

A linen-clad table sat between them, plates filled with flaky croissants, soft scrambled eggs, and fruit drizzled in honey. The sky above France was a pale, cloudless blue. If perfection could be bottled, it would taste like this moment.

Cal poured her a second cup of coffee and smiled at her over the rim of his own mug. “You’re staring.”

She blinked, her cheeks warming. “I was thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he teased, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “About what?”

She picked at her croissant for a moment before finally meeting his eyes. “About this. Us. What it means... where we’re heading.”

Cal didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed steady, calm. “I’ve been wondering when you’d ask.”

Emery exhaled. “You’re Cal Donovon. This kind of relationship—the second it’s real—doesn’t stay private. You can barely blink without someone writing about it. And I’m just…” She gestured vaguely to herself. “Me.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low but unwavering. “You’re not just anything. You’re the girl who walked into my world and flipped everything on its head in the best possible way. So yes—when the world finds out, they’ll have something to say.”

She swallowed. “Can you handle that?”

“I can,” he said. “But the real question is… can you?”

Silence fell between them, thick but not heavy. Emery looked out at the sea, then back at him. “If it means I get mornings like this—with you—then yes. I can.”

Cal’s answering smile was slow, unguarded. “Then we don’t owe anyone an explanation but ourselves.”

She reached across the table, threading her fingers through his.

And for the first time since this all began, Emery felt steady. Like they weren’t just moving—they were moving forward.

The wind teased at the edges of the tablecloth while the waves below whispered softly against the shore. Emery leaned into the quiet, into the easy rhythm they’d found in the past few days—one she wasn’t ready to let go of.

Cal’s fingers were still tangled with hers when he spoke again.

“I’ve got a film starting up soon,” he said, his voice thoughtful rather than apologetic. “We start shooting two weeks after we get back.”

Emery looked at him, the weight of reality starting to settle in around the edges of their coastal escape. “Where?”

“New York,” he answered. “Then a few weeks in Atlanta. Some studio work in London. It’ll be… a lot.”

She nodded slowly. She knew what it meant to date someone like him—a life built on schedules and travel and headlines. She just hadn’t let herself think too far ahead.

As if reading her thoughts, Cal gently squeezed her hand.

“But I’ve already spoken to my team,” he continued. “Told them to make room. You’ll come with me if you want to. Stay as long or as little as you’d like.”

Her heart thudded. “Really?”

He smiled. “You think I’d just vanish on you after all this? Emery, I’m not letting you go just because my life’s a little loud.”

“I never expected you to make space for me,” she said softly.

He leaned closer, brushing his lips against her temple. “That’s the thing—you didn’t have to ask. You were always meant to fit.”

She looked at him, overwhelmed by how easily he said things that left her breathless.

“I want this to work,” he added. “I’ve never wanted it with anyone like this.”

Emery blinked back the sudden sting behind her eyes and whispered, “Me too.”

For a while, they said nothing. They just sat there on the balcony, sipping coffee, letting the morning stretch between them like a soft promise.

Emery’s laughter echoed between the narrow, sun-drenched streets as Cal tugged her forward by the hand, pointing toward a cluster of colorful stalls lining the square. It smelled like fresh bread, ripe fruit, and salt from the sea.

They wandered with no plan—exactly how she liked it.

Cal stopped at a small market stand and picked up a basket of strawberries, handing one to her. “Best you’ll ever taste,” he promised.

She bit into it and closed her eyes. “Okay. You win.”

“I usually do.”

He grinned, smug and irresistible. She bumped his shoulder with hers as they moved on, ducking into a tiny antique shop tucked between two cafés. Emery tried on a pair of oversized sunglasses while Cal found a vintage camera and immediately insisted on documenting their day. Every few minutes, he’d snap a candid shot of her—laughing, twirling, licking gelato off her finger. She pretended to complain, but she loved the way he looked at her through the lens, like she was a piece of art he couldn’t get enough of.

They had lunch on a sunny terrace, ordering too many tapas and sharing a bottle of chilled white wine. Cal poured her glass first before clinking it gently against hers.

“To good food,” he toasted.

“To good company,” she added with a shy smile.

His gaze lingered on her lips. “And to making every minute count.”

She felt it then—that ache of something blooming, full and unstoppable.

Later, with the sun beginning to dip toward the sea, they made their way back through town, arms linked. They stopped for macarons, a tiny bottle of perfume she fell in love with, and a leather notebook Cal said she could use to write her thoughts. No interviews, no cameras. Just them.

Emery memorized the way he looked as he held her hand—sunglasses on, sleeves rolled up, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. She didn’t want this day to end. But tomorrow, they’d board a plane. The world would pull them back in.

Tonight, though, was still theirs.

Back at the hotel, Emery stood barefoot by the window, watching the coastline shimmer beneath the deep blue of night. The lights from the boats dotted the sea like stars drifting on water. Behind her, Cal moved around the room, his presence quiet but undeniable, always anchoring her without a word.

She heard the soft clink of glass—Cal pouring them each a splash of wine.

He came up behind her, wrapping an arm gently around her waist and offering the glass. She took it with a murmured thanks, but barely sipped it before setting it down on the windowsill. Her pulse had already started to quicken at the feel of his body against hers, the warm press of his chest along her back.

“Did you have a good day?” he asked, voice low in her ear.

“The best,” she whispered.

He kissed her shoulder, and her breath hitched. When she turned to face him, their lips met before either of them spoke again. It started soft—sweet, like the day had been. But when she wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, the tenderness melted into something more intense.

They barely made it to the bed.

Clothes were peeled off slowly, deliberately, like they were memorizing each movement, each breath. His hands found every curve of her body with reverence and confidence, like he had been waiting all day to touch her again. She held his face between her palms, grounding herself in the way he looked at her—like she was everything.

When he finally sank into her, they moved in perfect rhythm. The world outside their window fell away. There was no fame, no past, no pressure. Only them—bare, real, connected.

He whispered her name like a vow against her skin, and she pulled him closer, letting herself believe, fully and without fear, that this was where she belonged.

In his arms. In his life. Wherever they went next—together.