Thirty-Five
Beckett
The treadmill belt slows to a hum, and I’m fairly certain my lungs are about to burst.
God, I love a three-day weekend.
I’m halfway through dragging a towel over my face and heading for the kitchen when the knock comes.
I don’t even bother checking the peephole because I know that rhythm.
“Hi, neighbor.”
Madison doesn’t wait for an invitation. She strides past, the sharp scent of her perfume cutting through the smell of sweat and rubber.
She’s dressed for a boardroom in a black pantsuit.
Then I glance down.
Granny slippers.
“Hi, Doc,” she says, not looking back.
I shut the door and lean against it for a second to watch the chaos unfold.
She heads straight for my kitchen island and slams a heavy paper bag onto the granite surface.
“You’re not working today, right?” she asks.
“I’m off for three days.”
Her eyes widen as she turns, scanning my bare chest and damp hair. “You have seventy-two hours of freedom, and you’re in your apartment? Why aren’t you in Barbados?”
I step into the kitchen, and the sight of her in that power suit and those ridiculous slippers is doing something confusing to my heart rate.
“As much as you’re always a sight for sore eyes, Madison, what exactly are we doing?”
She ignores the question and walks to my fridge.
“For you,” she says, stocking the beer.
“And the catch?”
She pulls out tequila, limes, and salt. “These are for me.”
I glance at the clock. “It’s noon.”
She pauses with two limes in her hands. “And?”
“And carry on,” I murmur, perched on a barstool, shower forgotten.
“Celeste is away with Julian,” she mutters, rolling the limes on the counter. “They’re probably doing something nauseatingly romantic. Emmy is doing parent things. You’re all I’ve got.”
I press a hand to my chest. “I feel so cherished.”
She slides a beer toward me.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, taking a swig. “Why not.”
