Page 256 of Playing With Fire

I smile.

Me: Depends. Are you difficult?

Bishop: Only when I'm awake.

I laugh aloud.

Then I type one more message.

Me: Happy birthday, Ken.

There's a pause before he responds.

Bishop: Thanks, Becks. Miss you.

Two words, little words that somehow make the last stretch of the drive feel twice as long.

It's almost nine when I finally pull into the parking garage beneath Bishop's building. Darcy announces our arrival with a particularly offended meow.

“I know,” I tell him. “You're exhausted from sleeping for three hours.”

He meows again.

“Terrible life you lead.”

I gather my bag, the cat carrier, the food bag, and the cheesecake. By the time I reach the elevator, I'm regretting not bringing a second set of hands.

The ride upstairs feels unusually long.

I check my reflection in the mirrored wall, wearing leggings and my grey sweater. Hair pulled into a messy ponytail. No makeup left worth mentioning. Definitely not the kind of grand romantic entrance a woman should probably make when surprising the man she's sleeping with.

Then again, Bishop has already seen me first thing in the morning.

I think we're past worrying about appearances.

The elevator opens, I fumble with the lock, open the door, and step into the penthouse. I immediately hear the television.

Football.

Of course.

The living room is dim except for the glow of the enormous screen and a lamp beside the couch.

Bishop is stretched out on the sectional wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, one arm draped over the back cushion.

There's an empty takeout container on the coffee table. A bottle of water. And absolutely no sign that it's his birthday.

He doesn't notice me at first.

Not until Darcy lets out a long, indignant complaint from his carrier.

Bishop turns his head.

Then sits up. “Becks?”

I smile. “Surprise.”

For a second, he just stares at me.