Page 11 of For You & No One Else (Say Everything 3)

Three

A few days after New Year’s, the private sanctuary of Beckham’s office was breached at exactly six fifty-five when his noise-canceling headphones died and the sound of loud, racking sobs replaced the driving beats of the action-movie score he’d been listening to. He hit the save command on his work and tried to ignore the sounds of anguish on the other side of his wall as he fiddled with his headphones. But jiggling them and peering at them intently did nothing for the failed electrical bits contained inside. His hacking skills didn’t help him with hardware.

He sighed, tossed the headphones aside, and then tried to refocus on what he was doing. He’d found two ways into the medical records of the hospital that had hired him, but he knew there were probably more. The security on this system wasn’t nearly as robust as it should be for this level of private information, and they’d had multiple breaches over the past few years. He wanted to find all the holes before going back to them with his report and recommendations.

He stared at the screen, trying to concentrate, but then a higher-pitched voice started shouting, the deeper sobbing still going. So it was the guy crying today. Beckham couldn’t understand what was being said. Eliza used one of those white-noise machines, presumably to give her clients some privacy, but that didn’t stop Beckham from hearing the emotion of it all even if he couldn’t decipher the words. He had no idea how Eliza maintained any desire for matrimony after seeing dysfunctional couples all day. Marriage was a bad bet. Hitch yourself to someone and then have to pay a therapist to continually convince you not to leave each other.

Or, go about marriage like his parents did. Quietly seethe and snipe at each other but then put on a smiling, adoring face out in public.We couldn’t be happier. We’re so blessed.

Right.Blessed.Either way, marriage was a trap. He’d learned that the hard way, and didn’t need to repeat that lesson. But lucky him, he now got to be a sideline observer of other people’s screwed-up marriages while he worked.

When the small company he contracted with had decided to move out of their cramped space on the industrial side of town this past summer and into the WorkAround building in downtown New Orleans, he’d been happy to go along with the plan. More room. Better lunch options within walking distance. A private office. He’d volunteered to take the one office that wouldn’t be on the fourth floor with the rest of the team. He didn’t mind his coworkers, but he liked not being easily accessible. He worked better without interruptions.

What he hadn’t anticipated was sharing a wall with a therapist. No, not just a therapist butEliza—the woman he’d had a weird, strangely intimate day with on Christmas. He’d ruined their nicely established arrangement of being polite hallway-passing coworkers. Now there was thisthingbetween them.

Not that she seemed to be feeling that.

Sure, they exchanged more words in the hallway now, but they were empty.How’s Trent? How’s the new dog?He’d insulted her that night and now he’d lost access to the real Eliza, the one he’d met on Christmas. She was back in day-planner-toting businesswoman mode. The smart, ambitious, hustling therapist and influencer. His day pass to get beyond the gates had been revoked.

Which wasfine. He didn’t need to get involved with someone like Eliza. It had been anexceedingly wisedecisionnotto invite her back to his place when she’d mentioned licking his tattoos—even if that visual had assaulted his brain regularly since. Hooking up with her would’ve been a terrible idea. She saw him as an immature kid. He took issue with that. He’d been through more life than any guy his age should’ve. But in one respect, he understood that he and Eliza lived in different worlds. She knew what she wanted, and he definitely couldn’t provide it.

Things were as they should be.

Beckham shoved thoughts of Eliza out of his head, tried to ignore the crying on the other side of the wall, and went back to the screen with its lines of code. Maybe if he went into the system via—

A sharp knock on his door made his hand jerk and random letters appear on the screen. He let out a frustrated sound, undid the mistake, and rolled his chair backward with a hard shove. Everyone else from the team had left for the day, so he had no idea who’d be knocking on his door at this hour. He’d come in late today after taking Trent to the vet for a checkup, hoping he could get a few uninterrupted hours.

He crossed the small space, the hand-drawn sketches of his game ideas on the whiteboard/corkboard combo next to his computer fluttering in his wake. He grabbed the handle and pulled open the door. A vaguely familiar dark-haired guy in jeans and a blazer was standing there, twirling a pair of sunglasses in his hand.

“Can I help you?” Beckham asked, unable to mask the impatience in his voice.

“Hey, man,” the guy said with a half smile, “sorry to bother you, but I wanted to make sure I’m in the right place.” He flicked his head to the left. “I’m supposed to be picking up this woman for a date. She told me to wait downstairs and she’d meet me by the coffee bar, but we were supposed to meet fifteen minutes ago. I decided to come up in case I misunderstood. But the door I thought was hers is locked.”

“Therapist or fashion designer?” Beckham asked, dread curling through him because he already knew the answer. This was the guy with the fake boat.

“Therapist.” He turned his phone screen toward Beckham. “Eliza Catalano.”

Beckham glanced at the photo. Eliza’s dating profile pic. In it, she was laughing, head slightly tipped to the side, dark hair cascading along her bare arm. Candid and open. The pic had probably been taken by a friend, based on the warm expression on Eliza’s face. She looked great, happy. Beckham’s gaze scanned down the picture. The hint of cleavage her tank top revealed probably had a long line of swipe rights in her inbox. Beckham looked up—dudes like this tool. A bitter taste crossed his tongue.Not my business. Not my business.He braced a hand on the doorknob, ready to close the door. “You have the right office, but I think she has a session running long. I’d wait downstairs.”

“All right, cool, cool,” the guy said, glancing at Eliza’s closed door. He looked back to Beckham with a smirk. “So is she as hot in person as she is in her YouTube videos?”

Beckham frowned at his we’re-all-just-bros-here tone.

“You know, the ones where she gives relationship advice?” the guy said. “She wears these tight little skirt suits and…” He gave Beckham a conspiratorial look. “Well, it’s hard to concentrate on the advice when a sexy Latina woman is giving it, if you know what I’m saying.”

Beckham bristled, jaw tightening, the whole vibe of this guy getting under his skin. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t use YouTube.”

The guy gave him a yeah-right look. “What do you mean, you don’t use YouTube?”

Beckham wasn’t going to get into an explanation about his analog life choices with this idiot. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Oh right, yeah, sure,” the guy said.

Beckham was about to close his door when the one next to him opened. A balding man with puffy, post-cry eyes stepped out first. He quickly turned down the hall and a petite woman, presumably his partner, walked out with Eliza by her side. Eliza was murmuring something to her. The woman nodded, a Kleenex held tightly in her fist, and then followed the man out.

Eliza watched them go for a second and then turned toward Beckham’s office. A startled look lit her brown eyes. Her gaze jumped to the guy with the sunglasses and then to Beckham. “Oh. Hi. I didn’t realize anyone else was out here.”

She’d worn her long, black hair down today, the ends curling right above her breasts, and Beckham couldn’t help but notice that she was wearing one of those skirted suits the guy had mentioned. Now he wouldn’t be able tounnotice how great that suit hugged her body, how nice her legs looked, how much smooth, tan skin was exposed. He cleared his throat.

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