“Coming down here in those slutty gray sweatpants.” She flashes me a wink that’s entirely too effective. “I see you, Doc. I really do.”
I feel the heat creep up my neck. I have no idea what to say to that. “Drink some water before bed. You’re going to feel the tequila in the morning.”
Madison smiles. “Bossy. I like it.”
“You won’t like it when I’m going for an extra-long run on my treadmill before the sun comes up,” I add, my voice tight.
Her eyes light up with a fresh spark of challenge. “Threatening me? Careful, Beckett. I might just start to like you.”
I head for the stairs without another word.
Behind me, her voice follows me up the concrete. “Goodnight, Doc! Try not to thud too loud!”
Thirteen
Madison
I wake with a dry mouth, a dull ache behind my eyes, and the immediate, overwhelming certainty that I will win this war.
The margaritas are trying to punish me, but they will not succeed. I’ve survived worse men, worse messes, and significantly worse mornings. Besides, I have an appointment with a treadmill.
Thud.Thud.Thud.
I know his entire morning routine now. It’s ingrained in my subconscious.
Wake at five-thirty.
Treadmillat six sharp.
Shower at six-thirty.
Smoothie blender at six-forty-five.
That’s only this week’s schedule. The good doctor is due for a shift rotation soon, which means my misery is about to become nocturnal.
I’ve tried noise-canceling headphones and white noise machines. Nothing works. The man is hot, he is loud, and I hate him with the fire of a thousand suns.
I lie very still, staring at the ceiling, my jaw clenched.
Oh, absolutely not.
I shuffle to the kitchen, swallow two ibuprofen with a glass of ice-cold water for my back and the hangover, then lean against the counter. The rhythmic pounding continues overhead.
He is doing this on purpose.
Stupid, hot, punctual doctor.
I shouldn’t know exactly how he looks when he gets out of the shower, but thanks to the acoustic intimacy of this building, I can practically hear the water droplets hitting the tile. I shouldn’t have noticed the way his triceps flared when he carried a broken table out to the dumpster last weekend, but I have eyes. And I definitely shouldn’t think about the way he says “Madison” like it’s a chronic diagnosis he’s trying to treat.
Unfortunately, I’m cursed with a functioning memory and unresolved tension, so here we are.
I’m mid-coffee, staring at the steam, when the thudding finally stops. I glance at the clock. 9:42.
Ten minutes later, he knocks on my door.
I know it’s him because I’ve been expecting this.
I open the door to him filling the frame. He’s such a delicious problem to have. His hair is damp from the shower—I know it was a showerbecause I heard the pipes—and he’s carrying a large, heavy black box under one arm, with another resting at his feet.
