Meet Me at Midnight

With bellies full of Mexican food from our favorite restaurant up the street from our condo, Avery and I walk through the lobby of our building and step onto the elevator.

She’s busy texting with I-don’t-even-know who, and I’m dreaming about crawling into my bed. It’s not easy being a secret whistleblower—discreetly spying on Seth McKenzie’s every move—and anonymously conversing with my lifelong crush, who just so happens to be my best friend’s older brother, who also happens to be a man I now work with on a daily basis.

Trust me, I know. When I lay it all out there, it sounds batshit crazy.

“Once we get upstairs, you have exactly ten minutes to get your ass in gear,” Avery says, taking a selfie of herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror wall of the elevator.

“My ass in gear for what?” I scrunch up my nose. “Because if it’s for anything but crawling into my big, cozy bed, I’m not doing it.”

“Oh, get serious,” she says through an amused snort, as if what I’m saying is the epitome of ridiculous. “You’re not going to bed, Grandma June. You’re coming to Allure with me. We already established this at dinner.”

If I’m being honest, I didn’t hear half the shit Avery said during dinner. Once she started telling me about some college football player she thinks I need to bang, I started tuning her out and just focused on keeping my exhausted eyes open long enough to eat my enchiladas.

The cart beeps as it rises and passes the floors below ours, and Avery slides her phone back into her purse and turns her attention back to me. “Come on, June. You can’t freaking miss this,” she says, a proverbial knife to my throat. “It’s DJ Johnny! I’m begging you. Go in your room, put on something that shows your cooch, and come with me to Allure.”

“Avery, I’m exhausted. I have cheese dip in my hair from falling asleep at dinner. I’m going to take a shower and go to bed early. Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll be rejuvenated for the weekend.”

“But DJ Johnny won’t be at Allure this weekend, and Bo Daniels will be back in Alabama to play football against other teams or something. You have to come tonight!”

Somehow, earlier today, after the kiss with Luke from Copywriting, she left work to check out some sale at Saks and ended up meeting part of the University of Alabama football team. Evidently, they played against the University of Miami this past weekend and then got stuck here when all the flights were grounded due to weather. She’s convinced herself I need a boning from Bo Daniels to keep as a souvenir of his visit. I’ve got a different Beau on my mind, though, and as confusing as the names might sound, there’s no confusion in the old hoochie-coochie whatsoever.

“Ave, I’m going to hold your hand while I say this, but no,” I say just as the elevator dings its arrival on our floor.

“I swear, it’s like you’re trying to avoid men or something. You need to open your eyes, girl. The Miami dating pool is smokin’, and there’re plenty of fish in our hot-as-fuck sea.” She sighs and steps forward to tap me on the vagina, and I crumple forward as she spins on her heels and heads out the now-open elevator doors. “Seriously. Is your beaver broken?”

“Avery!” I shout, following her into the hall, intent on coldcocking her right back. But the hall isn’t empty.

“Hey,” Beau says, a giant smile on his face. “What’s going on?”

His best friend Henry stands beside him, his eyes unabashedly scanning Avery. I don’t know if he’s actually interested or not, but her outfit is hard not to look at. I had to pull the gold mesh back over her nipples at least three times during dinner.

“June’s being boring,” Avery says matter-of-factly, smashing the elevator call button no fewer than fifteen times. Apparently, she’s given up on talking me into going out—thank everything—and fully focused on getting her ass in the club.

“June? Boring?” Beau questions with a smile I want to kiss right off his lips as he runs a hand through his slightly sweaty hair before slipping a baseball cap over it.

Damn, he looks good in a hat. I’m talking, downright delectable.

I shrug and cross my arms over my chest to cover my suddenly excited nips. This tank top is a lot more sheer than I remember. “Guilty.”

“Beau’s boring too,” Henry teases with a big grin. Out of all of Beau’s closest friends, Henry is the biggest player and the wildest of the bunch. He’s an adrenaline junkie from way back—which is probably why his company is called exactly that. And truth be told, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him leave a club or bar without a random girl on his arm. Which makes sense. He has a James Dean kind of bad-boy dangerous vibe to him. Women flock his way almost as much as they flock to Beau.

“We just ran six miles. I’m fucking tired,” Beau retorts. “There’s a difference.”

Henry ignores him and smiles at my best friend. “The bastard said he’d rather shower and lie low than go out because he has to get to the office early tomorrow.” His voice is mocking, and Avery’s face is delighted.

“Beau and June, sitting in a tree,” she sings, “L-A-M-E-O-L-D!”

Beau guffaws. “Lame old?”

Avery nods, high-fiving Henry as he holds up a hand for her to smack. “Yep. She’s lame. You’re old.” The elevator dings. “And I’m outta here.”

Henry blocks the doors from closing. “Where you heading, Avery?”

“Allure.”

“Funnily enough, that’s exactly where I’m heading too.” He flashes a wink over his shoulder as he steps onto the elevator with her. “Later,” he says to both Beau and me.

“Henry, are you flirting with me?” Avery questions with a hand to her hip, and he just laughs.

“Avery, honey, you’re not really my style.”

“Excuse me?” A scoff escapes her lungs. “I’m everyone’s style.”

Beau and I stand there together as the doors close in front of them, blocking out their flirty but harmless banter that I’ve witnessed a hundred times, and an awkward silence envelops us as soon as they’re on their way.

He shakes his black T-shirt away from his body. “Well…I’m gonna head in to shower. Six miles is a lot harder than it used to be.”

I snort. “Yeah, well, it’s about five point nine miles more than I can do, so good for you.”

Beau’s smile settles into his almost-dimple, and I settle myself deep inside it in turn. He really is the sexiest man alive. Hot, sweaty, casual, dressy, or anything in between—he’s freaking perfect.

“Night, neighbor.”

I push into our door and meet his eyes one final time. I feel the brown all the way to the bottom of my soul. “Night.”

Padding softly, I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and head for my room, turning the lights off as I go. I climb into my bed and get under the covers, leaning back into my headboard and pervishly waiting for the sound of Beau’s shower to start. It may not be Avery’s wild time with an Alabama football player, but my little hoochie-coochie will get double the enjoyment out of fantasizing about the man next door with the auditory evidence of his nakedness as a soundtrack.

I close my eyes, ready to wait, but a ping notification from my phone goes off in the silence instead, scaring the living crap out of me. I snag my phone from its spot on the bed and claw my way to sitting straight.

New Message from ThunderStruck sits front and center on the screen.

Beau is messaging me? Holy shit!

When my phone chimes again with the same little chirpy sound and New Message from ThunderStruck pops up on the screen for a second time, I almost jump all the way to my ceiling.

Beau is messaging me!

With shaky fingers, I fight to slip my phone over and switch off the ringer on the off chance that he pays attention to my side of the wall and gets suspicious, and I ready myself to read what he has to say.

Two deep breaths, in and out, in and out. Fuck, I’m nervous.

My heart threatens to burrow into my throat at the thought of Beau sitting just on the other side of my wall, but I swallow hard against it and force myself to open Midnight.

ThunderStruck: I need to know. Who are you?

ThunderStruck: Seriously. It’s driving me crazy.

I let out a deep exhale of air, thankful that he hasn’t suddenly figured out who I am. Clearly, his interrogation of half the staff this morning didn’t give him any leads, and as much as the naïve part of me wishes it were obvious it’s me, the realistic part knows this is way better. I’m not…forward. I’m not bold. I don’t take what I want and ask questions later like Avery does, and I don’t even know how to start.

Beau sees me like he does for many reasons—way more than being his five-years-younger-sister’s best friend. I’ve never in my life pushed the envelope when it comes to him, despite feeling like I should nearly every damn day.

Maybe this…maybe being anonymous is my shot to try it. Maybe tonight, I shouldn’t cut the messaging off at the knees before it has a chance to get interesting.

I mean, this is my shot. A chance to lay it all out there and see if we’d actually be a good match. If we’re not, maybe then I’ll be able to put this lifelong crush behind me.

Determined to see where this goes, I type out a response.

ElizaBeth: Driving you crazy? That doesn’t sound good.

ThunderStruck: Exactly. It’s not good. Dangerous, even.

ElizaBeth: Dangerous? Should I call Crime Stoppers?

ThunderStruck: C’mon, just tell me.

ElizaBeth: I can’t.

ThunderStruck: How about you just tell me your first name?

ElizaBeth: Nope.

ThunderStruck: Your initials.

ElizaBeth: Come on. You know that would make it too easy to figure out who I am.

ThunderStruck: The company has hundreds of employees. It wouldn’t be THAT easy.

ElizaBeth: We both know it’d only take a quick search through the Human Resources database to narrow down the options. And we also both know that since you’re Neil Banks’s son, you could easily get Cheryl to help you.

ThunderStruck: Are you Cheryl?

ElizaBeth: I don’t know. Does this seem like something Cheryl would do?

ThunderStruck: No. I guess not. Not likely for anyone in Human Resources at all to be messaging secretly.

ThunderStruck: Or maybe it IS LIKELY? And that’s why you’re trying to keep this all hush-hush?

ElizaBeth: If I WERE in human resources, would I have to be a resource for humans? Because I’m not sure that’s me.

ThunderStruck: Fucking hell.

ElizaBeth: LOL.

ThunderStruck: If you were on your way into work and you had the option to stop for Starbucks and be late or skip the Starbucks and be on time, which would you do?

I snort to myself, knowing full well he’s currently wondering if his own sister is fucking with him. It’s an option I’m quick to dispel since flirting is my end goal. His thinking it’s Avery would really get things weird fast.

ElizaBeth: I’d be on time.

ThunderStruck: Okay. Are you the type of person who goes to church every Sunday but listens to death metal music while you’re working on spreadsheets?

ElizaBeth: Excel isn’t a strength. I Google shortcuts every time I have to use it, but death metal has its moments.

ThunderStruck: When’s the last time you shared a recipe on Facebook, and what crockpot meal was it for?

ElizaBeth: LOL. Not a single time in my life, and I don’t own a crockpot. I should probably get one, tho. I hear they’re nice. Also, are these actual things our coworkers have done? Or are you pulling shit out of thin air?

ThunderStruck: I’m not at liberty to say.

ElizaBeth: Oh my God. Now I’m scared.

ThunderStruck: Have you ever left a one-star review on Amazon for a pair of toenail clippers because you didn’t feel like they cut smooth enough?

ElizaBeth: Oh, sweet Jesus. I do not want to know who this is about.

ThunderStruck: Dean Marks from Accounting.

ElizaBeth: I said I didn’t want to know!

ThunderStruck: And I said I wanted to know who you are. Maybe if you tell me now, I won’t have to tell you about Donny Lewis in Public Relations.

ElizaBeth: What if I am Donny Lewis?

ThunderStruck: Then you’re a bit of a closet freak with a balloon fetish.

ElizaBeth: BALLOON FETISH? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?

ThunderStruck: Haha, I guess we can cross Donny off the list.

ElizaBeth: You’re cruel.

ThunderStruck: So are you.

ElizaBeth: Does it help if I confirm that I’m a woman?

ThunderStruck: It definitely helps me feel a little better about spending my late nights talking to you, at least.

ElizaBeth: Late nightS? As in, you’re planning on more?

ThunderStruck: I guess I’ll have to if you really won’t tell me who you are.

My stomach dances. The excited crush-holder inside me wants to keep this conversation going forever, but the emboldened woman behind the keyboard knows better. Anticipation makes the heart grow fonder, and if I want Beau fond of me, I need to drag this out as long as possible.

ElizaBeth: Goodnight, Beau. Thanks for the nightmares.

ThunderStruck: Goodnight, Mystery Woman.

Despite my better judgment, I sent him one final message.

ElizaBeth: Goodnight but not goodbye?

ThunderStruck: There’ll be more Midnight chats. I’ll make sure of it.

His words probably shouldn’t make me feel so damn happy, but they do. Sigh.