My body still aches in all the best ways.
“You’re still a sight for sore eyes, Doc,” I whisper.
He gives me a half-smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but hits me right in the chest.
“I’ve got to go,” he says softly. “I have work.”
I blink, squinting at the clock on the nightstand. “You hardly got any sleep.”
His thumb traces my lower lip, a ghost of last night’sheat flickering between us. “I’ve had worse restless nights.”
I start to sit up, but he reaches out to stop me.
“Stay in bed,” he says.
It’s not an order, but I sink back into the pillows anyway. I’ve done this before—the one-night-stand thing. I know the script. Usually, this is the part where the air gets thin and someone starts making excuses about why they have to bolt. It’s a little different now that he’s my neighbor, but I still expect the feeling to be the same. I expect to feel a little used, a little empty, even if I was the one who invited him in.
But then Beckett leans over and kisses me.
It’s not a “thanks for the fun” kiss. It’s deep and lingering, and it takes everything in me not to reach up, grab him by the collar, and drag him back under the covers until the sun comes up.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “I thought it might be too early to make you coffee.”
I wave a hand dismissively because I can feel my armor sliding back into place before I can stop it. “You don’t have to make me coffee, Beckett. You’re a busy man. Get to work. You’ve got lives to save.”
I’m making excuses for him before he even realizes he needs them, my mouth running on autopilot because if I make it casual, it won’t hurt when it ends.
Beckett doesn’t let me get away with it. He grabs my chin and turns my face back toward him.
“I should get off at eight,” he says. “If I get held up, I’ll tell you. If I don’t, I’ll see you later.”
I swallow hard, surprised by the sudden lump in my throat. I don’t know what to do with “see you later.”
“See you later” implies a plan. It suggests this wasn’t just a physical reaction to a vibrating floorboard.
I nod, unable to find my voice.
He kisses me one last time, and then he’s gone. I hear the quiet click of my front door, and the silence of the apartment rushes back in, heavier than before.
I fall back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling where he usually runs, and let out a long, shaky breath.
“What the actual fuck.”
Thirty-One
My phoneis glued to my ear as I swing my car into my parents’ driveway.
“Let me stop you right there,” I say. I’m already unbuckling my seatbelt and reaching for my bag. “No. You don’t get to panic at me because he’s trending for the wrong reasons. You were told exactly how this was going to go forty-eight hours ago.”
On the other end, someone—some junior staffer who clearly isn’t built for this—is talking too fast.
I push the car door closed with my hip before I start up the front steps.
“You don’t like the plan?” I continue, each step punctuating my point. “Fine. You don’t have to like it. You just have to execute it. Draft the statement as I outlined it. Get legal to sign off. Pull the charity receipts and the school board records. This is the strategy until I’m back in my office this afternoon.”
He starts to argue.
I stop on the porch and lower my voice. “I’m unavailable for the next few hours. If you needsomeone to yell at, try your own reflection. It’ll be a more productive conversation.”
