Chapter 16
Sixteen
Madison
I am officially over this city. I am over the persistent, unblinking sun. I am specifically over men who are colossal pains in my ass.
I’ve spent the last ten hours in my office putting out other people’s fires. All I want is a hot bath and silence so profound I can hear my own blood pressure stabilizing.
Instead, I find a small, brown padded envelope on the floor outside my door. There’s no return address, just my name scrawled in handwriting that looks like a doctor’s prescription.
I rip it open as I kick my door shut. Inside, there’s a box of industrial-grade neon-orange earplugs and a small, square note.
Miss Callahan,
Since your ears are clearly sensitive, I figured I’d help you out. These are rated for jet engines and heavy machinery. They should be just enough to drown out my “ego”.
P.S. You looked great on the news again yesterday. Very authoritative. If the PR thing doesn’t work out, you’ve got a real future in professional scolding.
Your favorite neighbor,
Beckett.
The air leaves my lungs in a hiss.
This. Fucking. Asshole.
“Authoritative?” I scream at my empty living room. “Professional scolding?”
I don’t even take off my heels. I turn right back around, yank my door open, and march toward the stairs.
“Stupid… arrogant… gym rat… savior complex… prick,” I mutter, taking the second flight of stairs. My breath comes in short, angry bursts. I am a one-woman riot in a blazer.
I reach the fourth floor and hammer on the door of 4B with the heel of my palm until the wood rattles.
“Open up, Lawson. I know you’re in there. I can hear your sanctimony through the door.”
The door swings open so fast that I almost fall into his chest.
Dammit, those shoulders get me every time.
He leans against the frame, a lazy smirk spreading across his face as his eyes travel to the neon-orange box in my hand.
“Oh, good,” he says. “You got my gift. Do they match your slippers, or should I have gone with the pink ones?”
“You are a child,” I snap, shoving the box into his chest. He doesn’t take it. He just stands there, forcing me to either keep touching him or let the box fall. I drop it. “I’m a busy woman with a career and a spinal injury, and you’re sending me passive-aggressive safety equipment?”
“You said you couldn’t sleep. I’m prescribing a solution for you.”
“Those earplugs won’t work because the vibration of your treadmill moves through the foundation of the building. I can feel you running in my teeth.”
“In your teeth?” He lets out a short, bark-like laugh. “That’s a new one. Is that a medical symptom, or just more of your professional scolding?”
I step closer, invading his space as my finger jabs his rock-hard chest. “I have had a week from hell. I have spent all day lying for a man who doesn’t deserve it, and I come home to find you mocking me with orange foam?”
Beckett’s smirk falters. He looks into my eyes, and the playfulness in the air turns into something heavier.
God, do I look that exhausted?
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“I am not shaking. I am vibrating with the urge to push you down the stairs,” I lie, my voice trembling anyway.
“Take a breath, Madison. You’re going to give yourself a stroke, and then I’ll have to save your life. We both know how much you hate owing people.”
“I don’t hate owing people. I hate you!”
“No, you don’t,” he says, his voice dropping into that dangerous register. He takes a half-step forward, forcing me back an inch. “You hate that I’m the only person in this building who isn’t intimidated by you, and you hate that I know you like the Spice Girls.”
I let out a gasp of pure outrage. “I do not—that was Celeste’s playlist. I was a victim of peer pressure.”
“Sure you were, ‘Woot-Woot’ girl.”
I want to hit him. I want to kiss him. I want to scream.
“I am going back downstairs,” I say, my voice icy. “I am going to put on my noise-canceling headphones. If I hear so much as a squeak from that belt of yours, I am calling the fire marshal and telling them you’re running a clandestine sweatshop up here.”
“I’m running at 6:00 a.m.,” he calls out as I turn toward the stairs. “A five-mile sprint. I’d suggest the earplugs, but hey, you do you.”
“I hope you trip!” I shout over my shoulder.
“You’ll be the first to know if I do. Sound issues, and well, you know the rest.”