Chapter 13
Thirteen
Madison
I wake with a dry mouth, a dull ache behind my eyes, and the immediate, overwhelming certainty that I will win this war.
The margaritas are trying to punish me, but they will not succeed. I’ve survived worse men, worse messes, and significantly worse mornings. Besides, I have an appointment with a treadmill.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I know his entire morning routine now. It’s ingrained in my subconscious.
Wake at five-thirty.
Treadmill at six sharp.
Shower at six-thirty.
Smoothie blender at six-forty-five.
That’s only this week’s schedule. The good doctor is due for a shift rotation soon, which means my misery is about to become nocturnal.
I’ve tried noise-canceling headphones and white noise machines. Nothing works. The man is hot, he is loud, and I hate him with the fire of a thousand suns.
I lie very still, staring at the ceiling, my jaw clenched.
Oh, absolutely not.
I shuffle to the kitchen, swallow two ibuprofen with a glass of ice-cold water for my back and the hangover, then lean against the counter. The rhythmic pounding continues overhead.
He is doing this on purpose.
Stupid, hot, punctual doctor.
I shouldn’t know exactly how he looks when he gets out of the shower, but thanks to the acoustic intimacy of this building, I can practically hear the water droplets hitting the tile.
I shouldn’t have noticed the way his triceps flared when he carried a broken table out to the dumpster last weekend, but I have eyes.
And I definitely shouldn’t think about the way he says “Madison” like it’s a chronic diagnosis he’s trying to treat.
Unfortunately, I’m cursed with a functioning memory and unresolved tension, so here we are.
I’m mid-coffee, staring at the steam, when the thudding finally stops. I glance at the clock. 9:42.
Ten minutes later, he knocks on my door.
I know it’s him because I’ve been expecting this.
I open the door to him filling the frame. He’s such a delicious problem to have. His hair is damp from the shower—I know it was a shower because I heard the pipes—and he’s carrying a large, heavy black box under one arm, with another resting at his feet.
His eyes flick to mine. “These were delivered to my apartment by mistake.”
I lean against the doorframe. “Oh, good. They’re early.”
His mouth tightens, and that little muscle in his jaw ticks. “That’s impressive, considering I didn’t order them.”
“No,” I agree, taking a slow sip of my coffee. “I did. It’s one of the better ideas I’ve had at three in the morning.”
He looks down at the box again, reading the label. “Are you seriously acting like this isn’t weird?”
“What’s weird is the aerobic tap dancing you’ve been doing above my head for weeks. Those are soundproofing mats. Industrial-grade and designed to swallow vibration.”
Silence.
“They go under the flooring. Or, in your case, under the instrument of torture you call a treadmill.”
His jaw clenches, and God help me, it’s a very good jaw.
“I’m not installing new flooring, Madison.”
We stare at each other. There is that tight, humming space between us, neither of us willing to blink first.
“I didn’t agree to this,” he says.
“I know.”
“And I’m not accepting them.”
That gives me pause. My coffee cup stops halfway to my mouth. “You’re… not?”
“No.”
“Why? This wasn’t a gift, Beckett. It was a solution. An expensive, highly effective way for us to stop disagreeing. It’s what reasonable adults do instead of murdering each other.”
He exhales through his nose.
“Because if I accept them,” he says, stepping into my personal space, “the noise becomes my responsibility. I’m the one who has to fix it.”
“Your thudding at 5 a.m. isn’t already your responsibility?” I point out, my voice rising.
His eyes darken a shade.
“You know,” I continue, “most people would say thank you and move on.”
He meets my gaze and holds it. “Most people wouldn’t order construction materials and send them to their upstairs neighbor.”
I shrug. “I’m efficient. It’s a trait.”
“I’m not installing them,” he repeats. “You can return them.”
“These are custom-cut and non-refundable. They’re yours now.”
“That sounds like a you problem, Madison.”
He’s still damp from the shower, and the sleeves of his black T-shirt are stretched just a little too perfectly over his arms. I hate that I’ve noticed. I hate that my body is whispering, shoulders, while my brain is screaming, hit him with the mats.
I step closer and lower my voice. “This is a both-of-us problem. I can’t sleep, and you can’t run without me wanting to set your apartment on fire. Just take the damn mats.”
He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans in closer. “I’ll talk to maintenance. I’ll escalate it properly. I’m not letting you pay to fix my floor.”
“You think they’ll rip up your apartment for fun? In this economy?” I raise a brow.
“They told me they were soundproof.”
“And they told me,” I reply, “that mine was a ‘special’ unit, which is how I got it at a steal.”
His eyes flicker. “Cheaper rent? Really?”
“Congratulations,” I say. “You live above a bargain. Now take your mats and go.”
We stand there for a beat too long. The hallway is quiet, but the air between us is screaming. Finally, he bends and drops the second box on my welcome mat with a heavy thud.
“I’m not accepting them,” he says again, his voice final. “I’ll leave them right here.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I dare.”
He nudges them just inside my doorway with his boot and starts to turn away. My jaw is so tight it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter.
“Oh, so this is how it’s going to be?” I call out.
Infuriatingly stubborn, he looks back over his shoulder. “This didn’t have to be a thing, Madison.”
I force my lips into my most professional, lethal smile. “You’re right,” I agree. “But now it is.”
He steps back toward the stairs. “Good luck with the return policy.”
“Hope you enjoyed your last peaceful night’s sleep, Doctor Thuddy!” I shout as he disappears around the corner. “Because the Spice Girls are going on tour in my living room tonight!”
He doesn’t respond, but I see his shoulders shift, and I know he heard me.
Game on, neighbor.