The worst part was that I could almost feel him in the room, the ghost of him—his quiet steadiness, his stupid smirk, the way his voice could tilt between teasing and something else entirely. I sat up, squinting around the room. No Beckett. No evidence of last night except the note, the aspirin, and the faint, traitorous warmth sitting low in my chest.
I picked up the note again, reading it a second time. Drink water, dream girl. Don’t call me next time.
It was such a Beckett thing to say—half sarcasm, half concern.
“Dream girl,” I whispered, testing the words like they might bite.
I flopped back down, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere between the mortification and the headache, a laugh slipped out—quiet, exhausted, but real.
Because as horrifying as it was, the thought that he’d actually shown up… that he’d held my hair back, tucked me in, left me aspirin and a note…
That part didn’t feel like a mistake at all.
And that, unfortunately, was the most dangerous thought of all.
Naomi and I looked like a cautionary tale for responsible adulthood.
It was mid-morning at the foundation, sunlight far too bright, air-conditioning far too cold, and both of us shuffling through the door like survivors of an apocalypse. Sunglasses on, messy buns barely holding, iced coffee cups practically glued to our hands.
“If you make any sudden movements,” Naomi groaned, lowering herself into her chair like it might explode, “I’ll cry.”
“Don’t worry,” I muttered, setting my drink down with surgical precision. “I might throw up.”
She managed a weak grin. “Good. Teamwork.”
We both laughed—well, wheezed—then turned to our laptops. The sound of clicking keys and the faint hum of the coffee machine were the only things keeping me tethered to reality. My head still throbbed, my stomach still protested, and the memory of last night kept sneaking up like a punchline to a joke I didn’t want to hear.
Drink water, dream girl. Don’t call me next time.
I winced. I’d reread Beckett’s note twice that morning before throwing it in the trash, and somehow, it still echoed in my brain. Every time I thought about it, my heart did this embarrassing little skip—equal parts mortification and something dangerously close to giddiness.
Naomi glanced at me over the rim of her coffee. “You’re quiet. Should I be concerned?”
“Just reliving my poor life choices,” I said.
“So, business as usual.”
“Pretty much.”
We fell into a rhythm, triaging sponsor emails, flagging invoices, pretending to be functional human beings. I’d just started to feel like maybe, maybe, the day wouldn’t completely implode when the front door opened. Loudly.
The sound was sharp enough to make Naomi flinch and me nearly spill my coffee.
“Oh, for the love of—” she started, but her voice cut off as we both turned toward the entrance.
Beckett Mason stood in the doorway, sunlight slashing across his shoulders, cap backward, gym bag slung over one arm like he owned the place. He looked annoyingly awake—sweat-damp from practice, smug in that way people only are when they’ve been productive before 10 a.m.
My brain short-circuited for half a second.
No. No, no, no. God wouldn’t.
Naomi leaned closer and whispered, “Oh, my gosh."
“Don’t.” I cut her off before she could finish the sentence.
Beckett’s gaze landed on me instantly, like he’d already guessed what I’d been saying. The corners of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—more like a silent morning, dream girl.
I straightened in my chair, adjusting my sunglasses even though we were indoors. “You’re early,” I said, aiming for professional and probably landing somewhere near defensive.
