Thirty-Six
Someone is trying to break down my front door.
That’s my first coherent thought. My second is that whoever it is deserves to die.
I open my eyes to weak morning light pushing through the gap in the curtains and the warm weight of Rowan curled against my side, one knee tucked between mine.
The pounding comes again.
Rowan makes a small, irritated sound and burrows deeper into the pillow.
I glance at the clock. Seven-eighteen.
Fuck.
I’m usually awake before six, but I turned my alarm off last night. Rowan was exhausted. She’d eaten, then fallen asleep halfway through a show with her legs across my lap.
The pounding starts a third time.
I slide out of bed without waking her, pull on sweatpants and a T-shirt, and head downstairs with murder on my mind.
I know who it is before I turn the handle. Very few people are arrogant enough to show up at my house unannounced this early.
Beckett stands on the porch in navy scrubs, an overnight bag slung over one shoulder.
He takes one look at me, his eyebrows climbing. “Were you asleep?”
“You were knocking. I assume you already know the answer.”
It’s not unusual for Beckett to stop here after a night shift. The hospital isn’t far, and over the years my house has become the place he lands when he’s too wired to sleep but too tired to go home. Sometimes he brings coffee. Sometimes he steals mine.
Normally, I don’t care. Right now, he needs to fuck off.
I move to close the door, but he plants a hand against it. His eyes shift from my face to the narrow crack of the doorframe, then back again.
His exhaustion disappears with impressive speed. “You have someone here.”
“Yes.”
His mouth slowly curves. Jesus Christ.
“Who?”
“None of your business.”
A loud thud sounds upstairs.
We both freeze.
Then—”Stupid motherfucking—”
My eyes close. Beckett’s widen.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
Another bang echoes down the hall.
“Why is stubbing your toe the worst fucking pain in the world? Ow. Fucking piece of shit bed.”
I slowly open my eyes. Beckett is staring at me. I stare back.
From upstairs comes one final, wounded “Motherfucker.”
There are moments in life when denial remains a viable option. This isn’t one of them.
Beckett’s mouth drops open. “Rowan is the only person I know that swears that much.”
I step outside, pull the door shut behind me, and point toward the far end of the porch. “Over there.”
“She slept here?”
“No,” I say, folding my arms. “She arrived at dawn to test my furniture with her toes.”
He blows out a breath and looks toward the street. “She’s Madison’s kid sister. She’s—”
“Don’t finish that sentence unless you’re about to say she’s a grown woman and is perfectly capable of deciding whose bed she wants to be in.
Speaking of Madison—aren’t you eight years older than her?
Go fucking preach to someone else, Beck.
You’re only losing your mind because you know Madison won’t like it.
Because you all look at Rowan like she’s incapable of making her own choices. ”
“Shit,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“I’ve seen you turn down more women than I can count without so much as an apology, and now you’re standing here defending Rowan’s honor.”
“She’s not just any woman.”
The words come out more certain than I expect them to, but I don’t take them back.
He drags a hand through his hair. “So this all happened after her show?”
“No.”
“No?” His eyebrows go up.
How the hell do I explain this while protecting Rowan’s privacy?
“She… wandered into the study.” That’s the best I can come up with.
“At Westbrook?”
I nod.
“She wandered into your study?” he asks, confused.
“She’s got a way of sticking somewhere once she’s in it.” I shrug, keeping my eyes on the driveway.
“And what, you just let her stay?”
“It’s complicated. We reached an arrangement. She’s not in the cohort, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. What was she even doing at the medical center in the first place?”
I let the silence sit there a beat too long before I answer. “It’s not my story to tell.”
“Is she alright?”
“I’m a little worried about her toes right now—”
“You know what I mean.”
I hold his gaze. “Not my story.”
He just nods and lets it go, which is exactly why I’ve trusted this man more than most people in my life.
“I’ll have to tell Madison.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. I can’t sit on this. That woman is a bloodhound.”
“I’m not ashamed of the woman in my bed, Beckett. Tell Madison whatever you need to tell her.”
“Okay, well, I should probably get out of here before she comes down and finds me.”
“Probably wise.”
He heads for his car.
“For the record,” he says, turning back, “I get it.”
I laugh under my breath. Beckett knows the power of a Callahan woman more than most.
“And good luck, man,” he adds, “because you’re going to need it.”