But I’m already halfway to the door before I’ve even finished the thought. I tiptoe into the hallway in my judgmental penguin pants and oversized T-shirt.
The door to 4B is already cracked open.
I push it wide, and the first thing I see is Beckett. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, hair damp and messy, wearing nothing but his slutty sweatpants. These ones are navy.
“Hi, neighbor,” he says. He scans me from head to toe, his eyes lingering on the penguins. “You weren’t lying about the birds.”
“You look… awake.”
“I knew you were down there, thinking about me,” he says, stepping toward me.
“I was thinking about my ceiling,” I retort, though I’m already moving into his space. “And how much I’d like to sue you for emotional distress.”
His hands find my waist, pulling me in until the heat from his skin soaks through my T-shirt.
“Is that so?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to mylips. “Well, as a doctor, I think the only way to treat emotional distress is distraction.”
“Hypothetically?” I whisper, my hands landing on his bare, warm chest.
“No,” he says, leaning down until his nose brushes mine. “Physically. Very, very physically.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He picks me up, and my legs instinctively lock around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom.
“The penguins are staying,” he mutters against my neck.
“For now,” I gasp, my head falling back.
Sleep can wait. I have a feeling Beckett is about to give me exactly the kind of workout I’ve been looking for.
Forty-Three
Beckett
I have a day off, and apparently my brain doesn’t know what to do with itself when it’s not working. My first instinct was to go back to Madison’s to see if the penguins wanted to go for lunch, but she’s with her friends.
So, being the dutiful son I am, I decide to check on my mother.
I pull my SUV into the driveway of my childhood home, expecting to find the usual things she leaves for me to get to when I can. I brought my toolbox, ready to play the role of the sturdy, reliable son who fixes the leaky faucets and hacks back the overgrown hedge.
Except the hedge is perfectly manicured.
The lawn is freshly mowed, the stripes so straight they’d make a golf course superintendent weep with envy. Even the porch has been power-washed.
I kill the engine, staring at the front of the house in confusion before I get out.
Maybe Tom came by. They both mentioned he’s been helping more.
“Mom?” I call out, pushing the front door open. It’s unlocked, which is typical for her. She has a terrifying amount of faith in the goodness of humanity. “You in here? I came to fix the—”
I stop dead in the hallway.
The house is quiet, but there’s a strange energy in the air. The smell of frying bacon and… is that jazz? My mother hates jazz.
I walk toward the kitchen, my boots silent on the hardwood. “Mom? Everything ok—”
I round the corner into the kitchen, and the world as I know it ends.
Tom is here.
