Chapter 42
Forty-Two
Me: It’s late, Dr. Lawson. Do you ever actually sleep, or is your body fueled entirely by cardiovascular fitness?
I wait, watching the three little dots appear almost instantly.
Me: I was, until a certain someone decided to run a treadmill right above my head.
Beckett: Your neighbor is an asshole.
Me: Right?
Beckett: Are you complaining about the noise, or are you just lonely down there?
I feel a smile tugging at my mouth despite my best efforts to stay annoyed.
Me: I’m perfectly fine.
Beckett: Fine is overrated at this hour. Come up here.
My heart does a little tap-dance against my ribs.
Me: I’m in my pajamas. They have penguins on them.
Beckett: I’ve seen you in granny slippers, Madi. The penguins don’t scare me.
Me: They should. They’re very judgmental birds.
Beckett: Tell them to bring you up to 4B. I’m off the treadmill. Just got out of the shower.
The mental image of Beckett, dripping wet, towel hanging low on those hips. It’s enough to make my insomnia feel like a gift.
Me: Is this a medical emergency, Doc?
Beckett: It’s a case of acute restlessness. Only one known cure.
Me: And let me guess, it involves me leaving my apartment?
Beckett: And ideally, the penguins stay at the door. I’m waiting.
I bite my lip, staring at the phone. I should stay here. I have a meeting in the morning.
But I’m already halfway to the door before I’ve even finished the thought. I tiptoe into the hallway in my judgmental penguin pants and oversized T-shirt.
The door to 4B is already cracked open.
I push it wide, and the first thing I see is Beckett. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, hair damp and messy, wearing nothing but his slutty sweatpants. These ones are navy.
“Hi, neighbor,” he says. He scans me from head to toe, his eyes lingering on the penguins. “You weren’t lying about the birds.”
“You look… awake.”
“I knew you were down there, thinking about me,” he says, stepping toward me.
“I was thinking about my ceiling,” I retort, though I’m already moving into his space. “And how much I’d like to sue you for emotional distress.”
His hands find my waist, pulling me in until the heat from his skin soaks through my T-shirt.
“Is that so?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Well, as a doctor, I think the only way to treat emotional distress is distraction.”
“Hypothetically?” I whisper, my hands landing on his bare, warm chest.
“No,” he says, leaning down until his nose brushes mine. “Physically. Very, very physically.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He picks me up, and my legs instinctively lock around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom.
“The penguins are staying,” he mutters against my neck.
“For now,” I gasp, my head falling back.
Sleep can wait. I have a feeling Beckett is about to give me exactly the kind of workout I’ve been looking for.