Chapter 19
Nineteen
Madison
I’m pacing my living room in a towel when the realization hits me like a freight train.
“Oh no,” I cry out, not caring whether the walls are thin enough for Beckett to hear my soul leave my body.
I drop onto the edge of my bed and grab my phone. My fingers are already flying to pull up the order history.
Next-day delivery. Address: Apartment 4B.
I live in 3B.
I close my eyes, praying to a god I haven’t spoken to in years that I’m misreading the screen.
Nope. Sent. Paid for. Signed, sealed, and delivered straight into the calloused, capable hands of my hot, judgmental neighbor.
“Oh my God,” I groan, tipping backward onto the mattress and staring at the ceiling.
This is his fault.
It absolutely is.
If Beckett Lawson hadn’t been training for the apocalypse, I wouldn’t have been ordering soundproofing mats at three in the morning.
If I hadn’t been ordering a small mountain of noise-related supplies, I wouldn’t have accidentally clicked the wrong address.
If he weren’t so infuriatingly persistent, I wouldn’t have—under any circumstances—sent him a rose-shaped sex toy.
Decorative.
I actually typed that word into a text message. The thing is designed to drive a woman through the mattress and out the other side, not to sit politely on a shelf.
I start pacing until there’s a knock on my door, and I stop dead.
Every muscle in my body locks up. I don’t move, I don’t breathe, I don’t even blink. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, he’ll think I’ve moved apartments, or died of embarrassment, or entered the witness protection program.
The knock comes again.
I hold my breath as my brain cycles through increasingly unrealistic escape plans. Then my phone starts ringing at full volume.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I answer it anyway because my dignity has already left the building.
“Hello?”
“Open the damn door, Madison.”
I close my eyes and lean against the wall, bracing myself. “Okay,” I say, giving in. “But give me a minute. I’m naked.”
“What?” He sounds unprepared for that answer.
Score one for me, I guess.
God, why do I manage to make things worse every time I open my mouth?
Professional woman, Madison. You are a high-stakes PR consultant. Get your shit together.
“I’m just out of the shower,” I clarify quickly, my face heating. “I need to put on a robe unless you want a show?”
He clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is gravelly in a way that makes me painfully aware of my own pulse. “I’ll wait.”
I end the call and move fast, tossing on my silk robe and knotting it tight. I check the peephole, hoping for a miracle, but no such luck. Beckett stands there, shoulders filling the hallway. In his hand is a small red box.
My box.
My rose.
I open the door and paste on my best smile. “Hey.”
He holds the box out between us. “I think this is yours.”
My fingers close around the edges, but I don’t pull it away immediately. Neither does he. We just stand there, holding a small red box containing my dignity, or what’s left of it, while my brain vacates the premises.
“Right,” I say because silence feels worse than anything else. “Yes, this is mine.”
When he releases it, I clutch it to my chest, which only draws attention to my wet hair dripping down my neck and soaking into the silk. The fabric darkens and clings to my skin.
I shift my weight and try not to shiver.
“So,” Beckett starts. “Decorative?”
I wince. “It could be.”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “You sent it to my apartment.”
“Yes. By accident, obviously. My finger slipped.”
He smirks. “I hate when that happens.”
Asshole.
The air between us feels thick enough to choke on, and I swear I can feel my heart in my throat.
Another drop of water slips from my hair and disappears into the V of my robe. I fight the urge to cross my arms because the cold air has made my nipples harden beneath the thin fabric.
I tell myself it’s the dampness, or adrenaline, and definitely not the way he’s looking at me.
Beckett’s eyes drop for a split second before he looks away, his jaw tightening as he swallows.
“I opened it,” he says, suddenly.
I let out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Congratulations. You’ve broadened your horizons.”
“It’s noisy.”
I hold up the box, my brows shooting up. “Is it?”
“Surprisingly so.”
“Huh. Well, thank you for returning it.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, his voice rougher than before. “I’ll let you get back to your… decorating.”
I exhale in relief.
As he walks away, he looks over his shoulder. “Enjoy yourself.”
Oh, you absolute—
I poke my head out the door before my filter can stop me. “Don’t worry,” I call after him. “You’ll be the first to know if I do. Sound issue and all that.”
His eyes darken, a ghost of a laugh catching in his throat. “Jesus Christ.”
“Bye, Doc!” I add sweetly.
He shakes his head and walks toward the stairs. “Bye, Madison.”
I close the door, press my forehead against the cool wood, and finally let out a jagged laugh.
I really do need that rose now.