Page 96 of Heartsmashed
“You’re a lifesaver.”
As the door shut behind him, I put on the coffee—priorities, after all—and then crouched beside his bag and unzipped the front pocket. Sure enough, his charger was in there, loosely wrapped around itself, along with earbuds, Advil, and a protein bar. Ready for both headaches and blood sugar drops.
Yep, that sounded like Beckett.
“Such a sexy Boy Scout,” I said, reaching for the charger and pulling it out. Something black slipped out with it, slapping against the floor beside me.
I looked down at the cardholder and grinned when I saw Beckett’s face on the ID. He looked oh so serious and very professional, but it wasn’t his driver’s license, it was what looked like a work ID.
Beckett Calder
Sports Rehabilitation Specialist
Men’s Basketball
Columbia University Athletics
That was weird.Why would he have an old work ID in his bag?
How freakin’ oldwasthis bag?
I ran my finger over his photo. He didn’t even have to smile for the warmth to come through from his eyes.
But the more I looked at it, the more something niggled in the back of my mind.
He didn’t look any younger in the picture. It looked like it’d been taken recently, but that was impossible. He’d said he didn’t work there anymore.
Right? Was I remembering that wrong? He’d helped my shoulder and mentioned being a sports therapist before getting into what he did now…or had I assumed that? It was annoying I couldn’t remember his exact words, but I was at least seventy percent sure he’d said that.
Then again, maybe he did both? New York was expensive as hell. Many people had side hustles with their jobs, so it wasn’t out of the question that he did both. Rent was freakin’ criminal, and he lived in a nice area.
So maybe escorting wasn’t his main thing and he hadn’t told me because…well, why would he? It wasn’t like I’d hired him because of his career history, but still.
Something didn’t sit right.
I stood, cardholder in hand, the charger dangling from my fingers.
Why would this be tucked in with his everyday stuff, right beside his charger and Advil?
The bathroom door opened then, steam spilling out, and Beckett stepped into the room with a towel slung low around his waist and another in his hand as he rubbed it over his hair.
He stopped mid-step when he saw me. Or maybe when he saw what I was holding.
Because he wasn’t looking at the cardholder in my hand with indifference—he was looking at it with guilt.
I held up the ID. “This fell out with your charger.”
He lowered the towel in his hand to his side and slowly met my eyes. Why was he looking at me like that? Like there was something to apologize for?
Unless…
“I thought you didn’t work there anymore?” I said.
He didn’t answer right away, only swallowed, and that made my stomach drop.
“Beckett?”
“Yes,” he said.
