I rub my hand over the back of my neck. “I was told these units were soundproof. That’s why I moved in.”
“Oh, they are. All around us.” Madison smiles sweetly. “It’s the vertical integrity that’s the problem. We’re basically living in a two-story drum.” She glances over her shoulder. “It’s wine night… or margarita night. We’re still deciding.”
“In our defense,” Celeste adds, “we tried to be quiet.”
I look at the margarita jug.
“I noticed,” I deadpan.
Madison’s smile turns predatory. “Would you like a drink, Doc? It might ease the tension.”
“No.”
“You’d be so much more fun if you did. You’re very sturdy, but very boring.”
“I’m a doctor on my day off. Boring is the goal.”
“My previous neighbor,” she cuts in, waving a hand, “was Mr. Rogers. He was eighty-five. He took out his hearing aids at 9 p.m. and went to sleep. We were best friends.” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Mr. Rogers shuffled. He didn’t thud.”
“I don’t thud.”
“You thud,” she repeats.
“I’ve heard it myself,” Celeste laughs. “It’s definitely a thud.”
This is a losing battle. I’m standing in a hallway at 1 a.m., being bullied by three drunk women and a Spice Girls track.
I need to say something to gain control of this situation.
“I saw you on the news today,” I blurt out, looking at Madison.
What the actual fuck, Beckett?
The playfulness in her eyes falters for a split second before she masks it with the iron-clad composure I saw on TV.
“Did it get my good side?” she asks.
Is it possible for a woman like her to have a bad side? Even in an oversized sweater and no shoes, she looks like she could negotiate a peace treaty.
I don’t answer.
Celeste does. “Oh my God, Madi, stop flirting with your neighbor.”
“We’re not flirting,” I say flatly.
Madison arches a brow, her gaze lingering on me. “That’s whatyouthink.”
I look at her properly. The confidence. The sharpness that even alcohol can’t dull. She’s the kind of woman who would chew you up and spit you out for sport, then offer you a margarita while you’re still bleeding.
I try to regain some ground. “I just need the music lowered. That’s it.”
She considers me, her eyes flicking over my face. “Fine. This song is the last one.”
“Thank you,” I say, turning to go.
“Wait,” Madison calls out. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” she says, waving lazily at me.
“What am I doing?”
