∞∞∞
I’m halfway through unbuttoning my shirt, the fabric hanging open as I head toward the bedroom, but my brain is still in 3B.
Then comes the knock.
I’m at the door in three strides, pulling it open while leaning one hand high against the frame. Madison is standing there, still wrapped in her coat, those lethal red heels making her nearly eye-level with me.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, her voice a little breathless.
I take her in—the flushed cheeks, the messy hair, the way she’s clutching the lapels of her coat. “Have you?”
“Yes, and I love that you respect me enough to take me on a date and simply walk away. It was very noble. Very… gentlemanly.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice dropping an octave as I fight the urge to just haul her inside.
“You’re welcome,” she counters, stepping into my space until the scent of her perfume hits me full force. “But Beckett? Could you be noble tomorrow? Because I’ve been thinking—”
I don’t let her finish. I reach out, threading my fingers through her hair and hauling her into my arms. I retreat into the apartment, my boot catching the door and slamming it shut with a bang that echoes through the room.
Her coat doesn’t even make it past the entrance; it slides off her shoulders and pools on the floor. The dress follows a second later, a shimmering black heap on the hardwood.
She reaches down, her fingers fumbling with the straps of those red heels. I catch her wrists, pinningthem against the wall behind her.
“No,” I growl, my eyes dark as I take her in. “Leave those on.”
The corner of her mouth curves into one of the most dangerous smiles I’ve ever witnessed. “Oh, Doc, I was hoping you’d say that.”
Forty-One
Madison
The cursor blinks on my laptop screen. I should be at the office. I should be in a glass-walled conference room dismantling a scandal before the morning edition hits the stands.
Instead, I’m in my kitchen, wearing nothing but a crisp white button-down that smells like Beckett.
Across the table, he’s leaning back in a chair, perfectly content. He’s shirtless and wearing those thick-rimmed, slutty reading glasses while he flips through the newspaper. He’s also wearing those slutty gray sweatpants, which isn’t helping my focus. He looks entirely too comfortable for a man who justupended my entire sense of professional discipline.
“Are you listening, Madi?”
Grant’s voice crackles through the laptop speakers, pulling my eyes away from the flex of Beckett’s forearm. I blink, refocusing on the grid of tired-looking men in suits on my screen.
“I’m here, Grant,” I say. I adjust the collar of Beckett’s shirt, making it look like an intentional, oversized fashion choice for the camera. “I’m just reviewing the digital footprint of your client. It’s a mess.”
Grant sighs. “The board wants him out by noon, and the press is circling like sharks. We need you to spin the video as a targeted hit.”
This morning’s disaster Grant is trying to drag me into? A CEO was literally caught with his pants down.
Why can they never keep their pants on?
“It’s not a hit if he actually did it, Grant,” I say, my tone sharpening.
I’m mid-sentence when I see Beckett’s head tilt. He’s looking at me over the rim of those glasses, his brow arched so high it’s practically in his hairline.
Madi?he mouths silently.
I feel a flush that has nothing to do with the conversation. I shrug one shoulder at him, a defiant little spark in my chest. There’s a toxic part of me that wants to see him react. I hate it when Grant calls me Madi because it’s a tactical move on his part, a way to remind the room that he once knew me in a way they don’t, a subtle stripping of my authority. It’s juvenile, and usually, I shut it down.
But watching Beckett’s jaw tighten? That’s a new kind of fun.
