7. Chapter 6
Darcy
I'm currently three glasses of champagne into the evening, and I've come to a horrifying conclusion.
The Beachside Bears are the best-behaved guests at this gala.
I don't understand it.
I’ve been braced for disaster since Colin bought the table. A broken champagne tower. A fistfight over hors d’oeuvres. Corbin Cole face-planting into the ice sculpture of my mother’s foundation logo while somebody films it for TikTok.
Instead, they’ve brought the room to life.
The ballroom glows gold beneath cut-crystal chandeliers, candlelight scattering across marble floors and white orchids spilling from every centerpiece.
Servers glide past with silver trays of tiny lobster rolls, truffle arancini, and seared scallops balanced on saffron risotto.
In the corner, a pastry chef torches crème br?lée to order, each sharp crack of a spoon through caramelised sugar followed by somebody making an indecent noise.
And in the middle of my mother’s five-hundred-thousand-dollar evening, Finn MacAllister is holding a champagne flute like it’s a pint of Guinness.
“Nope. No.” Beck reaches over and repositions Finn’s fingers onto the stem. “Hold it like this.”
Finn squints at the glass. “Why?”
“Because your giant Irish hand is heating it up, and it’s not a beer, mate. You don’t chug it.”
“It’s just fizzy juice.”
“It’s four-hundred-dollar fizzy juice.”
Finn looks down at it with fresh respect, then downs the entire thing in one swallow.
“Grand,” he announces, looking around. “What else is free?”
Across the room, Mason is sitting on a velvet settee, entirely surrounded by four women, none of whom are under seventy-five. They're all holding martinis, one has a hand on his forearm while another is showing him pictures of her grandchildren on her phone.
Mason is tuxedo-perfect, looking less like a hockey player and more like he owns a private island with inconvenient inheritance laws.
“Is that Barbara Vanderbilt?” I ask.
Beck follows my gaze. “The one touching him or the one about to?”
“The one about to.”
“Then yes.”
“Why is she showing him photos?”
“She offered him a boat.”
I turn to stare at him. “A boat?”
“Yeah. My bet is she’s going to leave him something in her will, then he’ll feel terrible about it forever.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Beck looks over at me and smirks like it belongs to him.
Which is ridiculous, because he’s not even supposed to be paying attention to me right now.
He’s supposed to be proving he has value to Beachside.
And unfortunately for me and my report, so far, he’s doing a spectacular job.
Near the terrace doors, Declan is shaking hands with two hotel developers and posing for a photograph without visibly wanting to die, which for a man who wouldn’t do a media interview two months ago is a vast improvement.
Rose is talking to a group of foundation volunteers, all warm smiles and soft laughter, looking perfectly at home in the role of the coach’s daughter. Corbin has somehow acquired three dessert spoons and is attempting to convince a waiter that this is a perfectly normal way to eat crème br?lée.
Then there’s Beck.
He’s just moved across the room, and is now talking with my father.
Not only has he charmed every person through those double doors like he’s hosting the Oscars, but now he’s standing beside Charles Madden, grinning while Dad laughs.
Beck Morrison, miracle worker, has somehow cracked the uncrackable.
Dad’s hand lands on Beck’s shoulder as he says something I can’t hear over the orchestra, and Beck tips his head back with a laugh that makes the blue of his eyes sparkle beneath the chandeliers.
He looks like he belongs here.
In this ballroom. At my parents’ gala. In the place where he might be traded away from because I decided his numbers didn’t make enough sense on a spreadsheet.
My champagne suddenly tastes a little less celebratory.
"Well, don't you look like you're about to have an aneurysm."
Josie appears at my side, all honey-brown waves and a slinky emerald-green gown that instantly makes me feel underdressed.
"Hey," she says, her voice more tentative than usual as she steps in closer.
"Hey," I reply, voice overly bright.
The initial pause is awkward. Painfully so.
“So…this is…” Josie gestures to the extravagant scene around us with a slight grimace.
“Exactly what you’d expect from someone with my mother’s event planning genes?” I finish for her, managing a small smile. “My mother goes all out. She believes if you're going to raise money, you should make people feel like they're spending it in paradise."
"Smart woman." Josie bites her lip, clearly suppressing a laugh. Her gaze flickers to a passing server holding a silver tray loaded with tiny mouthfuls of expensive food. “Is that…truffle…popcorn?”
I laugh. “Like I said, welcome to paradise.”
We stand there for a moment, both of us trying too hard to sound normal. It's so forced it's ridiculous, but then Josie takes a deep breath, and straightens all five-feet-six-inches of herself.
“Darcy, listen—I—" Josie suddenly drops the polished voice. "I came over here to apologize, not to make small talk about your mother's party planning skills."
The honesty hits me like a relief.
"Josie—"
"No, let me say this." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "I was a bitch about the Beck thing. I was hurt that you made this huge decision that affects all of us without even mentioning it, and I took it out on you. But that wasn't fair."
My chest tightens.
"I'm sorry too," I say. "For not giving you a heads-up. You deserved better than finding out with everyone else."
Josie's shoulders relax. "Friends?"
"Friends."
She grins, and it's like the sun coming out from behind clouds.
I take a long sip of champagne and let my gaze drift across the ballroom.
Big mistake.
Because Beck is leaning against one of the marble columns, tux jacket perfectly fitted across shoulders that have no business looking that good right now. My eyes betray me, dropping lower.
Damn. His ass looks incredible in those pants too.
Jesus Christ, Darcy, get it together.
I think about his hands on my desk yesterday. The way he crowded into my space, close enough that I could smell his skin. I can't remember the last time a man showed me that kind of attention.
"So." Josie sidles closer, her lips curling. "How's the audit going? He driving you insane yet?"
I tear my eyes away from Beck's backside and shrug. "He's… manageable."
"Mhm." Josie follows my line of sight. Her smirk widens. "Is that why you're staring at his butt?"
"I am not." I drain my champagne, ignoring the flush of heat moving up my arm. "How are things with Declan?"
Josie's cheeks flush pink. "He's fine. Frustrated with all the coverage of his parents' divorce, but…" She bites her lip. "He's working it out."
"Working it out how?"
"Let's just say Declan Morrison handles stress very… physically."
I nearly inhale my own tongue. "Josie."
"What? You asked." She swirls the last of her champagne, cheeks going the exact shade of the centerpieces. "The man is insane. He goes for a run at five in the morning, and comes back and pins me against the mattress before I've even had coffee."
"You did not just say that in a ballroom full of Los Angeles' most elite."
"Whispering makes it classy, right?" She leans in anyway, dropping her voice even further. "Darcy. I have bruises shaped like his hands on my hips. I've never had sex like this before."
I set my glass down on a passing tray and immediately take a fresh one, because apparently, I'm going to need to be drunk to get through tonight.
"Well, for what it's worth, you're glowing," I tell her. "It's honestly disgusting. But I'm happy for you."
"Good. Because I need your help." She glances toward the table where the Bears have somehow claimed prime real estate. "I've been staying at the mansion a lot this week. Obviously."
My stomach flips at the mention of the mansion and Josie's current sexual revelations.
My mind wanders to Beck's house. Beck's bedroom.
I wonder what that looks like?
If Declan pins Josie against mattresses before sunrise, what does Beck—
No.
Absolutely not. We are not going there.
Not with three glasses of champagne dissolving whatever remains of my professional judgment.
"And?" I manage through a deep swallow.
"And I've seen enough to know that these boys are not okay.
They joke, they drink, they argue about protein powder…
but Darcy…" Josie pauses and shakes her head.
"Something's changed since the divorce thing.
Declan's been grumpier than usual, which I didn't think was possible.
Mason's cooking for an army but barely eating. And Beck..."
My eyes snap to her. "Beck what?"
"Beck's… Beck's being Beck. But more than usual. Like he's trying to prove something to everyone, including himself."
I think about our breakfast conversation, the vulnerability in his voice when he talked about chasing after his brothers, trying to be impossible to ignore.
"So," Josie continues, "I invited their sister Zoey to visit this weekend. A Morrison sibling reunion. Get them all together, some food and drinks, maybe help them actually talk about what's happening."
"That sounds nice."
"It would be, except I've never met Zoey in person, and I'm terrified of getting it wrong." Josie's voice goes higher. "She's their sister, Darcy. The one who basically raised them. What if she hates me? What if I say something stupid? What if—"
"Josie, you won't."
"What if she thinks I'm not good enough for Declan?"
I look at her, understanding exactly where this is heading. "You want me to come, don't you?"
"Please," she confirms, trying a sweet smile for good measure. "I promise it will be fun. Diego's promised to make cocktails for as long as it takes to get these boys to smile again."
I should say no.
I should be carefully managing my proximity to Beck Morrison. Especially after what happened in my office.
My trade evaluation needs to remain professional.