Page 16 of Near Miss

I glance back up at her, and this upturned, sly grin spreads across her face. She looks like the Grinch.

“I think you should order Beckett Davis’s dick for breakfast.”

I narrow my eyes at her before shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t think the nutrient profile in dick is quite enough for a balanced breakfast, but thank you for the suggestion.”

Stella lights up, and her mouth drops open before she tips her head back. Her laugh is this larger-than-life, wonderful thing, and that big, ugly, horrible bit of baggage I can never seem to shake, loosens its knots, and it makes me remember what it was all for.

Beckett stays true to his word, and even though I said business included any time he was feeling particularly lost—Stella said that was my heart bleeding all over the place again—he doesn’t text me until he has a free afternoon to come to the hospital.

He’s punctual—I’ll give him that. Foot resting against one of the pillars in the lobby, arms crossed over his chest, another nondescript hat—navy today—pointed forward on his head and pulled low, still-damp hair curling around his ears and at the nape of his neck.

He kicks off the pillar with a grin when he sees me coming down the stairs, holds out his hand to me. “Afternoon, Dr. Roberts.”

I wrinkle my nose, reaching out to shake his hand. “Beckett. Hello. Is this a thing we do now?”

The grin stays put, and our hands move up and down in space, like we’re strangers who’ve never met. His grip tightens on mine just for a moment before he lets go, shoving both hands into the pockets of his linen shorts. They pull up, revealing an extra inch of muscled thigh. “Just making up for lost handshake time.”

My eyes snap back up to him. “Pardon?”

Beckett angles his head. “The first day we met—when I was with Nathaniel, I held out my hand for you and you just left it there.”

“Oh.” I blink. I hadn’t really thought about it. “I’m sorry. I think I was in my own world that day. I’d just done a harvest on a child. They’re never ... pleasant.”

“I was just joking. I can’t imagine a world where that’s ever enjoyable.” He studies me, and his mouth pulls to the side before he grins again, changing tune, like he can see right through me, and he sees this thing that lives in my chest with my heart behind its bars I try so hard to hide. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Why?” I wrinkle my nose.

Beckett shrugs, and the cotton of his shirt buckles against the trapezius muscles straining there. “I hear doctors drink a lot of coffee. Thought I could bring you one next time I’m here.”

“That’s not necessary.” I give him a tight smile and gesture towards the elevator bay lining the wall by the stairs. His eyebrows knit, and not for the first time he reminds me of a lost puppy. “Black, though. Just black coffee.”

He nods, taking his hat off and quickly running a hand through his hair, keeping his head ducked the entire time.

I didn’t know him before—but seeing someone who seems like they were almost effervescent, so full of life, reduced to someone who thinks they have to hide—seems impossibly sad to me.

His eyes press closed when he takes a step, otherwise full lips pull taut, and the lines of his jaw clench.

I reach my hand out on instinct, wrapping it around his arm. “Are you okay?”

Beckett shakes his head, and he smiles at me again, but it’s strained. “Coach killed my quads earlier this week. And there’s a new dynamic kickoff formation this season, so Darren, the special teams coordinator, had me for about an hour and a half longer than usual. Skipped the ice bath to get here on time.”

“Why?”

He gives another shake of his head, a bit incredulous. “I didn’t want to be late.”

I widen my eyes at him, finally letting go of his arm. “We could have rescheduled. Your job comes first.”

Beckett tips his head back, exposing the column of his throat, reverberating with his laughter. “How nice of you to call it a job. Nah. I only have a few weeks to please my agent and maybe the masses by showing face. I’m done with the public appearances once regular season starts.”

His hands are still firmly in his pockets, and he tips an elbow towards the elevator bay.

I cross my arms, eyeing him as I follow. “There’s a difference between self-deprecation and negativity. I only tolerate one from my residents, and I’ll only tolerate one from you.”

“Negativity?” He pauses dramatically, clapping a hand to his chest before hitting the button. “Beckett Davis isn’t negative. Beckett Davis is an affable ray of sunshine.”

“Does Beckett Davis always talk in third person? Because I don’t tolerate that either.”

“Nah. I just—” He shoots me a wry look before scrubbing his jaw. “Sometimes I wonder if I was ever a real person, you know? Something beyond all these cookie-cutter adjectives people have stuck to me my whole life.”

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