“No time. Mr. Simel. Room 404.”
Presley felt a jolt in her chest, like her stomach and heart had collided. The dots connected and created a panicky feeling of hope. She did her best to maintain a professional expression. “Okay.”
She turned toward the elevators but Ms. Twain called her name. She bent behind the counter, her voice muffled as she spoke. “He called down, requested the concierge bring these up.”
Presley’s heart slammed into her throat when Ms. Twain held out a box of Band-Aids. Unable to breathe or move, she stared at it.
“Problem, Ms. Ayers?”
Something was blocking her airway. Hope was one thing, but this confirmed it. He was really, truly here for her.
“Ms. Ayers. Are you up for this or not?”
Her breath whooshed out. The answer was easy. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
The elevator ride to the fourth floor was perhaps the longest of her life. This went against everything she thought she knew about him. Beckett didn’t love spontaneity any more than she did. His life was in Smile. He’d thought the bookend dates for their time together were agoodthing. He’d told her so under the stars. He hadn’t asked her to stay. He hadn’t said goodbye.
On the fourth floor, she walked to the doorway, stared at the pale white molding that needed a paint touch-up. The little peephole was right below the gold numbers:404.
She knocked, squeezing the Band-Aid box in her other hand. The door swung open.
“You brought Band-Aids. Perfect. I got a paper cut,” Beckett said, holding his index finger up to show her a barely visible mark.
Tears and giggles welled up at once. She had to breathe through her nose for a second to keep herself in check. “You might want to clean that up so it doesn’t get infected.”
He nodded. “Smart.”
They stared at each other and she wondered if he could hear her heartbeat tap-dancing in her chest.
“Why did you do a live and pretend to be a high-profile client?”
His cheeks darkened with embarrassment. “Covering my bases in case you didn’t see my live or weren’t swayed by it.”
A heavy breath whooshed out of her lungs and she had to ask:
“What are you doing here, Beckett?”
The easy humor fled from his gaze. “You took something of mine.”
She laughed. “Yes. Fine. I admit it. I stole your pillowcase.”
Stepping closer, he reached out, took her hand. Just that simple touch was like he’d shocked her back to life. He pulled her into the room, the door floating closed behind them.
“Not my pillowcase, Presley. My heart. You took it, and it’s really freaking hard to function without it.”
She pressed her hand against his chest, trying not to cry. “I left mine for you.”
He settled his forehead against hers and everything in Presley’s body settled like it was finally all back in the right spot.
“I have a feeling they might only function properly together,” he whispered, running his hands up her arms and cupping her face. His thumbs stroked just under her ears and his gaze swam with vulnerability, honesty, and love.
“You didn’t say goodbye.” That part still hurt.
“I wouldn’t have been able to.”
“You didn’t ask me to stay.” She realized now she’d hoped he would.
“I didn’t think I had the right.”
