Chapter 8
Eight
Beckett
The boxes in my living room are practically screaming at me, but I’m standing in the third-floor hallway instead.
Besides, the doctor in me can’t just shut off. She looked like she was in a lot of pain last night, shuffling around in those ridiculous pink slippers. It’s neighborly to check in. It’s professional, even.
If only I could remember her damn name. Was it Abby? Ashley? Something with an A?
I knock on the door of 3B, hoping my internal GPS hasn’t failed me.
The door swings open almost instantly, and I’m met with a gust of perfume and a frustrated puff of air. The woman standing there blows a stray strand of deep red hair out of her face, her vibrant green eyes narrowed as she tries to slip her foot into a black stiletto.
When she spots me, her face sets into a mask of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
“Can I help you, Dr. Lawson?”
I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling underdressed in my old hoodie. “Call me Beckett.”
I take a second to actually look at her. She’s dressed in a tailored blazer. Her makeup is flawless, and those freckles across her nose—the ones that looked cute yesterday—now look like they belong to someone who could have me fired for breathing too loudly.
“Sorry. You’re obviously on your way out. I just wanted to apologize about last night.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
She doesn’t look thankful.
She grabs a set of keys from the table and moves toward the door with a slight hitch in her hip that tells me the meds have worn off.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, my eyes dropping to her lower back. “You might want to consider wearing more sensible footwear.”
“I’d feel better if I’d gotten a full night’s sleep,” she snaps, sliding a laptop into her bag. “And the heels are non-negotiable.”
I wince.
The “A” name still hovers just out of reach.
Amanda? No.
“Look, sorry, Doc. I’m running late.” She checks her watch. “Welcome to the building. Thanks for agreeing to run outside.”
I blink. “I never agreed to run outside.”
She pauses and gives me a look that could wither. “But you’re going to because you’re a doctor and you have a soul.”
“I was promised state-of-the-art soundproofing when I signed the lease,” I counter, my own stubbornness starting to flare. I don’t like being told what to do in my own home. “The issue is with the building, not my cardio.”
“Well, the weather app promised sun, and look, it’s raining in Los Angeles,” she says, gesturing toward the window. “Life is full of disappointments. My disappointment just happens to weigh two hundred pounds and live directly above my head.”
She shuffles past me into the hall, her gait a strange mix of a professional power-stride and a pained shuffle.
I follow her toward the stairs, feeling the weirdest urge to either argue with her or carry her bag.
“You should really mention the sound to maintenance,” I insist. “I’m not trying to be a nuisance, but I work late shifts. I need the exercise.”
“And I need my sanity,” she calls over her shoulder, not slowing as a small, knowing smirk plays on her lips. “My name is Madison, by the way.”
I freeze. “How did you know—”
“It’s my job to recognize when someone is in crisis,” Madison says, descending the stairs. “And you, Doc, have clearly found yourself right in the middle of one. You were halfway to calling me Abby. Remember: running outside. Inside, use your quiet voices.”
She gives me a mocking little wave before she disappears. Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the third-floor hallway, wondering how a woman in that much pain managed to make me feel like I was the one who needed a doctor.