Page 27 of Near Miss

And then she’s gone.

It was fairly anticlimactic as far as goodbyes are concerned. I’m not really sure what I was expecting, because this is the end of whatever this was—not even an arrangement really, but the steady presence of someone who just ... seemed to maybe like me for me.

I only make it as far as my truck when I break the business-only texting rule.

Beckett: I didn’t get to properly thank you for letting me tag along the last few weeks. Can I take you for a real dinner to say thank you? Tonight? No questionable steaks from sketchy bars, I promise.

I have no idea where she ran off to—whether she’s even going to answer. But my phone buzzes when I pull into my parking garage.

Greer: Sorry. Can’t tonight. I’m on call.

I hate that.

Beckett: What about there? Been a whole three weeks and I haven’t tried this allegedly palatable hospital food.

She types, those three dots popping up and disappearing a few times before her answer comes through.

Greer: Fine. As friends. Come back around 7. I’ll be done with evening rounds then.

Beckett: A business dinner, if you will.

Greer: Goodbye, Beckett. See you at 7.

I can hear her raspy voice, and I can even imagine what she would look like if she was standing in front of me: lips pursing into a thin line, right brow raised, gemstones for eyes, rolling them before she answers.

The way she’d emphasize the wordfriends.

I’m not entirely sure where her commitment to business-only dealings comes from, but I don’t really remember the last time I had a real friend.

Especially not one like her.

Greer

He’s holding fucking flowers.

Standing just past the elevator bay, looking like he stepped out of an ad in a magazine. Chocolate hair pushed off his face, curling around his ears and a few stray waves around the nape of his neck, green eyes practically golden in the setting sun, and a dusting of stubble that makes that dimple even more noticeable.

His clothes are casual enough. Just a charcoal long-sleeve sweater rolled up his forearms and nondescript khakis.

But the flowers—this gargantuan display of peonies, hydrangeas, and lilies.

I blink for a minute, not because I’m blinded by him, unlike everyone else in the lobby who not so subtly stops to stare. But because I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking at.

I narrow my eyes at him when I cross the floor. “You can’t have those in here.”

“What? Why?” Beckett’s brow creases and he looks down at the flowers, before his eyes snap back up and he offers me a lazy grin. “Are you worried people will think I’m your boyfriend?”

“No.” I reach forward and snatch them from his hand. “It’s a scent-free environment.”

“Do you not like them?”

“No—they’re—you just can’t—” I exhale, tempted to pinch the bridge of my nose but I shove the flowers back at him. “Fine, just go put them in your truck and I’ll put them in my locker after dinner.”

Beckett gives me a rueful shake of his head, before this crestfallen look takes over his face that makes me want to give him a hug or something. “I took the subway here.”

My lips part and I’m about to apologize when he cracks a grin, all of him lighting up.

He shakes his head, fingers grazing mine when he takes the bouquet back. “I’m fucking with you, Greer. My truck’s just around the corner. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the scent rules were so strict. The last thing I need is for my carefully restored image to get destroyed on my last day if someone goes into anaphylactic shock over my flowers. I’ll leave them on the passenger seat, and you can get them later.”

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