4. Chapter 3
Darcy
"Oh my God. Would you stop slurping that thing and start stretching?!"
Beck Morrison lowers his iced coffee just far enough to squint at me over his sunglasses. Yes. Sunglasses. The sun has barely even surfaced over the ocean, and this ridiculous man is wearing aviators like some kind of hungover lifeguard.
He is, unfortunately, also shirtless.
"It's six in the morning," he says. "Leave me alone. This is literally the only thing standing between me and a coma right now."
"It's six thirty, actually. You were late. Remember?"
Oh. And he looks like he just rolled out of bed, too. Like he lost his shirt somewhere on the walk over, and decided clothing was more of a suggestion than a rule.
The worst part? Somehow, somehow, I don't seem to care.
Which is a professional failure on my part, honestly.
Because the data I presented in yesterday's meeting said Beck Morrison is a liability to the future of this team. But the data did not mention the abs. Or the V-cut disappearing into his shorts like an arrow pointing directly at my downfall.
"Sunrise has a grace period," he says, slurping loudly through the paper straw. "Everyone knows that."
He keeps rolling the straw between his lips, and each time he does I lose approximately four seconds of my life imagining what that tongue does when it isn't wasted on cold brew coffee.
I clench my thighs and pretend it's the sea breeze drifting across the shore.
"How are you drinking that thing anyway?"
I gesture to the clear plastic cup in his hand.
"What? This?" He holds the cup out. It's the size of his forearm, and it has whipped cream domed over the rim with caramel sauce dripping down the outside. "It's a triple-shot caramel latte Kai made me. Because someone scheduled a run at an hour that violates regular human behaviour."
"Regular human behavior? You're not even wearing a shirt," I say, dropping onto the bench to keep stretching. "Do I need to remind you this is part of your evaluation?"
"Then technically…" He spreads his arms wide. "…my shirt would only get in the way of your evaluation. I'm being helpful."
Seeing you shirtless is certainly NOT helpful, Mr. Morrison.
"And technically," he barrels on, because I'm quickly learning Beck Morrison has no off switch, "you're not my mom. I think. You'd tell me if we were related, right? Because honestly, with my family's current track record—"
"Please stop talking."
"—I'm not ruling anything out." He takes another slurp, deeply satisfied with himself. "Anyway. For future reference, my mom would've brought me a croissant. Although, she's living with my sister now though, so breakfast is more complicated because my niece—"
"Please, for the love of God, just stretch so we can start."
He pulls his sunglasses down, and those blue eyes pin me in place.
"I am stretching."
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like a palm tree swaying lazily in the breeze.
And God, I hate that he just somehow makes all this look so… breezy.
The backwards cap and the black joggers and the complete absence of a shirt. This man is just so… casual about everything.
All six-foot-two of him, standing there with his sun-bleached hair sticking out from under that cap, sipping his ridiculous caramel latte like this is a beach vacation and not a mandated performance session to save his career.
How does he do it? How does he stay so relaxed?
Didn't his entire life just get ripped apart the night I revealed the trade recommendation?
Why isn't he freaking out?
I look away before my brain starts doing things I can't put in a report, pulling my right quad toward my chest instead.
In front of me, the ocean is beginning its daily transformation.
The water catches the first rays of sunrise as the waves roll in with that perfect, rhythmic swoosh that sounds like the world's most expensive sleep noise machine.
The sky is turning from a deep purple to pink, and somewhere down on the sand, a dog is losing its absolute mind, yapping its high-pitched bark across the beach like it's cheering on the sun.
This is my favorite time of day. My quiet time. The one hour of the day where nothing demands anything from me.
Or at least, it was. Until Colin assigned me seven weeks of this.
"New leggings?" Beck's voice cuts through my focus.
I glance up. "What?"
"The leggings. Are they new?" He tilts his head, sunglasses sliding down his nose.
I stare at him.
I mean, he's right. They are new. I ordered them after the season opener and have been saving them like fine wine. They're the single most indulgent thing I own that isn't a blazer, and putting them on this morning felt wonderfully therapeutic.
They feel good, and the matching sports crop sits flat against my chest, firm enough to keep the girls locked and loaded for any workout I throw at them, but not so restrictive that I feel like I'm being slowly suffocated by spandex.
"Yes. They are new. How did you know that?"
Beck's gaze drags down my legs with zero shame. "I'm very observant."
"You're also very annoying," I groan, clicking my fingers in his face to stop his eyes from wandering. "Now come on! Finish that drink so we can get this jog over with. I have a very busy day ahead."
Beck drains the last of his latte, backs up three steps, then launches the cup at the trash can. It rattles in just as my phone buzzes inside my bag.
I pull it out and find a message waiting.
MOM: Are you coming to the gala tomorrow? Your father and I expect you. Wear the cream gown.
“Okay, who’s issuing wardrobe instructions before sunrise?” Beck peers over my shoulder. “Because unless you’re secretly six years old, that feels excessive.”
“My mother.”
“Is she always this terrifying?”
"Only every single day since she decided hosting a gala for LA's most insufferably wealthy families was her personal mission from God."
His faces scrunches together. “Hosting what now?”
I lock the screen and slide my phone into the sleeve strapped around my arm. “The Madden Foundation gala.”
Beck goes still. “Wait. The Madden Foundation? As in the Madden hotels?”
“And resorts.”
“Holy shit. Darcy Madden.” He looks me over with renewed interest, eyes suddenly glowing with new information. “You’re Californian hotel royalty!”
"No. My father owns the hotels. I work with hockey players who don't follow instructions.”
“Right. Completely different kingdoms.” He gestures at me. “Still, this explains a lot.”
“What exactly?”
He points a finger in my general direction. “The posture. The color-coded schedule. The fact that you look personally betrayed by wrinkles.”
I should ignore him. Instead, I glance down at my phone again, where Mum’s message is still glowing through the screen.
Wear the cream gown.
As if there is a world where I’d arrive in the wrong dress. Or, heaven forbid, with the wrong man. The last man I brought to a Madden event had worn cufflinks shaped like tiny gold anchors and spent forty minutes discussing luxury real estate with Dad.
Mum had liked him. Dad had approved of his investment portfolio.
I broken up with him two months later and didn't hear the end of it for weeks.
I check my watch and shoot up from the bench before Beck can continue this complete psychological assessment of my entire damn childhood.
“We should run.”
Beck looks from me to the watch, then slowly rises and finally starts stretching.
“Wow. Someone gets within ten feet of a real conversation and you prescribe cardio. Way to deflect, Darce.”
He bends into a leg stretch, and I have to physically redirect my eyes to the horizon because the sight of this shirtless man stretching directly in front of me sends a pulse of heat straight between my legs.
“I prescribed cardio thirty minutes ago.”
“Maybe that’s your problem.” He follows after me. “You’re always so serious. Have you ever tried to just… not be?”
“I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”
“Excellent.” Beck grins as he falls into step beside me and we start a slow jog along the boardwalk. “Hostility noted. Let’s run.”
I press the timer on my watch and launch forward before he can say anything else, my sneakers sinking into the cool sand at the edge of the boardwalk before finding traction on the timber.
Beachside at sunrise is unfairly beautiful.
Surfers are just starting to drift across the boardwalk in loose packs, their wetsuits peeled down to their waists, boards tucked beneath bronzed arms as they head toward the glittering water for the first time today.
A pair of women roll open the shutters of a tiny breakfast kiosk ahead, releasing the smell of warm pastries and freshly ground coffee into the salty morning air.
White café tables are being carried onto the pavement, little glass vases of flowers placed in the middle of each one, ready for the crowds who will arrive once the rest of Beachside decides to wake up.
It is peaceful.
Perfect.
Or it would be, if the shirtless man jogging beside me wasn’t making enough noise with his breathing to suggest he is being hunted for sport.
“Are you dying?” I ask.
“Maybe.” Beck puffs out another dramatic breath. “But I want it noted that I’m dying handsomely.”
“You’ve been running for forty seconds. Aren't you a professional athlete?”
“An athlete who normally wears skates to move my body.”
I roll my eyes as a golden retriever trots past us in the opposite direction, barely panting, despite carrying a thick branch twice the length of its body.
“The dog is fitter than you.”
Beck points after it. “That dog has four legs. That's clearly an advantage.”
I try to focus on the even rhythm of my stride, but Beck is proving alarmingly difficult to ignore. He runs with the same loose, careless confidence he brings to everything else, his long legs eating up the boardwalk beside me.
His skin is already glowing with the first faint sheen of sweat, and each time his arms pump, the muscles across his shoulders shift beneath that golden skin.
I've never met a man like Beck Morrison before.
Someone who can juggle cocky charm and complete chaos yet somehow make it seem… effortless.