Nope. Sent. Paid for. Signed, sealed, and deliveredstraight into the calloused, capable hands of my hot, judgmental neighbor.
“Oh my God,” I groan, tipping backward onto the mattress and staring at the ceiling.
This is his fault.
It absolutely is.
If Beckett Lawson hadn’t been training for the apocalypse, I wouldn’t have been ordering soundproofing mats at three in the morning. If I hadn’t been ordering a small mountain of noise-related supplies, I wouldn’t have accidentally clicked the wrong address. If he weren’t so infuriatingly persistent, I wouldn’t have—under any circumstances—sent him a rose-shaped sex toy.
Decorative.
I actually typed that word into a text message. The thing is designed to drive a woman through the mattress and out the other side, not to sit politely on a shelf.
I start pacing until there’s a knock on my door, and I stop dead.
Every muscle in my body locks up. I don’t move, I don’t breathe, I don’t even blink. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, he’ll think I’ve moved apartments, or died of embarrassment, or entered the witness protection program.
The knock comes again.
I hold my breath as my brain cycles through increasingly unrealistic escape plans. Then my phone starts ringing at full volume.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I answer it anyway because my dignity has already left the building.
“Hello?”
“Open the damn door, Madison.”
I close my eyes and lean against the wall, bracing myself. “Okay,” I say, giving in. “But give me a minute. I’m naked.”
“What?” He sounds unprepared for that answer.
Score one for me, I guess.
God, why do I manage to make things worse every time I open my mouth?
Professional woman, Madison. You are a high-stakes PR consultant. Get your shit together.
“I’m just out of the shower,” I clarify quickly, my face heating. “I need to put on a robe unless you want a show?”
He clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is gravelly in a way that makes me painfully aware of my own pulse. “I’ll wait.”
I end the call and move fast, tossing on my silk robe and knotting it tight. I check the peephole, hoping for a miracle, but no such luck. Beckett stands there, shoulders filling the hallway. In his hand is a small red box.
My box.
My rose.
I open the door and paste on my best smile. “Hey.”
He holds the box out between us. “I think this is yours.”
My fingers close around the edges, but I don’t pull it away immediately. Neither does he. We just stand there, holding a small red box containing my dignity, or what’s left of it, while my brain vacates the premises.
“Right,” I say because silence feels worse than anything else. “Yes, this is mine.”
When he releases it, I clutch it to my chest, which only draws attention to my wet hair dripping down myneck and soaking into the silk. The fabric darkens and clings to my skin.
