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His eyes narrow. “Becks.”

“Bishop.”

“What’s in it?”

“None of your business.”

“You just let me carry four hundred pounds of Jane Austen upstairs. I’m invested.”

He reaches for it. I grab the opposite side.

“Give it to me.”

“Tell me what’s in it.”

“Tampons.” His grip loosens just a fraction. Laughing, I pull it toward me. The bottom flap gives.

“Oh, shit.”

A handful of things tumble onto the rug. Pens. A charger. Two hair ties. A NPU mug. And a small black velvet pouch with a zipper.

The laughter dies in my throat as soon as Bishop looks down at the pouch. It happens in slow motion. I move. So does he.

“No!” Then I lunge but he gets there first.

Of course he does. Six-three, professional athlete, with reflexes trained specifically to ruin my life versus a curvy bookworm that lives on coffee and takeout.

He snatches the zippered pouch.

“Give me that.”

“What is it, Baby Becks? Must be good if you're so desperate to keep it a secret.” His blue eyes watch me with amusement.

“Nothing.” I lie.

“Lot of nothing in this apartment today.” He laughs and damn those dimples.

I reach for it. He lifts it just out of my reach, dangling it above my head.

“Hayes.”

His grin flashes. “Oh, we’re using Hayes now?”

“Give. It. Back.”

I grab his forearm and stretch onto my toes to grab it. But before I can, the pouch shifts in his hand, and the small pink object inside falls out, slapping a very deserving Bishop on the face before falling to the floor with a thud. Then a buzz.

Bishop goes completely still. So do I. His eyes drop. Then slowly lift to mine.

Because apparently embarrassment isn’t enough, I need to be mortified, and when it fell and hit the ground it kicked on and is now buzzing between our feet. Darcy decides now is a good time to cut his nap short and he runs over to see what the fuss is all about.

“Zipper’s broken.” He bites back a smile.

“Your jaw is going to be broken if you keep talking.” That gets a laugh out of him.

The heat that hits my face is freaking volcanic.

“Don’t.”