“Faster,” he says. “You’re losing her.”
“I’m trying,” I huff, my hair starting to escape its clip. “This is a lot of work.”
“It’s a workout. Keep going.”
“Has anyone tried to give Annie a margarita? I bet that would wake her up.”
He refuses to answer that.
Boring.
I’m pumping with everything I have. My face is bright red. Beckett is watching me with an intensity that only makes me hotter. I need a distraction, so I focus on the beat. It’s catchy. Because my brain has officially melted, I start humming. Then I’m singing.
I’m really into it. I’m not just pushing; I’m performing. I’m swaying my hips to keep the tempo, moving in a way that feels surprisingly fluid. I am the Beyoncé of cardiac arrest.
Beckett makes a strangled sound.
I don’t stop. I give the dummy another vigorous shove. “What? I’m staying on the beat.”
“Madison,” he rasps.
I look up. He’s stopped humming. He’s staring at my lower half with an expression that is somewhere between horrified and impressed.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide a grin. “You’re grinding on the dummy.”
I freeze. I realize my hips are moving in a very suggestive, circular motion against the plastic hips of Resusci-Annie. I am giving a lap dance to medical equipment in a room full of senior citizens.
“I am not!” I snap, scrambling back onto my heels.
“You were,” he says, his voice vibrating withlaughter. “The dummy hasn’t seen that much action since it left the factory. You were supposed to save her life, not take her out for cocktails.”
“Did I save her, at least?”
“No,” he says, reaching over to wipe a smudge off my forehead. “But you’ve successfully bruised her plastic ribs.”
I sit back, exhausted. My brain has finally stopped looping about my mother. It’s too busy thinking about how Beckett is looking at my mouth.
“Let’s try again.”
I dip my chin, whisper an apology to good old Annie, and get back to the business of saving lives.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve saved Annie and her toddler.
“Well done,” Beckett says, squeezing my shoulder. “Don’t go tripping me so you can give me mouth-to-mouth in the hallway, though.”
I scoff, trying to find my armor. “You could never handle me, Doc.”
He stands, offers me his hand, and pulls me to my feet. “I’ll see you at home?”
“I’ll be the one complaining about the noise.”
“I’ll try to keep the thudding to a minimum since you’ve had such a big night of heroism.”
Then the bastard winks at me.
I walk out of that basement with a certificate and a very confused heart. I still think my mother might collapse, but at least I know that if she does, I’ll be humming the Bee Gees while I save her.
Twenty-Seven
