9. Chapter 8 #2
There are some things that should remain between a man, his shower, and whatever higher power is currently having a fucking field day with his life.
But Poppy's watching me again.
Waiting.
God, I hate the waiting.
"There might be a woman."
Her expression doesn't change. "Might be?"
"Okay… there's definitely a woman." I shift in the chair, rubbing a hand over my face. "And before you ask, yes, she's the same woman currently assessing whether I deserve to keep playing for the Bears."
"The team analyst."
I narrow my eyes. "You really did get a file."
"I work for the team, Beck."
"Right." I point at her. "Still. Feels invasive."
Poppy's mouth twitches before she glances down at her notes. "And has something happened with Darcy?"
The memory of kissing Darcy against the kitchen counter hits instantly.
My entire body warms.
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "We kissed."
"And how do you feel about that?"
"Like I'd quite enthusiastically like to do it again."
This time, I'm almost positive the corner of her mouth moves.
"But you feel like you're supposed to dislike her."
"Exactly!" I lean forward, relieved somebody finally understands the fucking problem. "She's trying to trade me. She follows me around. She judges my life choices."
"And yet?"
"And yet..." I blow out a breath, looking toward the ocean. "I don't know. When I'm with her, I'm not thinking about Dad. Or Mom. Or Declan knowing about the affair. I'm not thinking about any of it." I pause, because apparently I've decided honesty is contagious. "I'm just thinking about her."
Poppy studies me for a moment. "Maybe that's okay."
My gaze comes back to hers.
"You're allowed to enjoy something good happening in your life while something difficult is happening somewhere else.
And maybe you don't need to know what to say to your father yet.
" She sets her notepad aside. "You can give yourself some time, Beck.
With him. With Darcy. You don't have to decide what either relationship means today. "
Well.
That's surprisingly fucking reasonable.
"Huh." I settle deeper into the ridiculously comfortable chair. "You know, Doc, I thought therapy was going to involve considerably more homework than this."
"Sorry to disappoint you."
"Does this mean I can go kiss Darcy again?"
"It means we're making progress." Poppy reaches for the bowl and tosses me a gold-wrapped chocolate. "Now off you go, same time next week."
I catch it against my chest, grinning when I see the smallest laugh finally escape her.
Holy shit.
I made Buddha laugh.
By the time I pull into the mansion driveway, I've eaten Poppy's ridiculously expensive chocolate and decided therapy might not be complete bullshit after all.
I don't have to call Dad today. I don't have to figure out what the hell is happening with Darcy either.
Apparently, I'm allowed to just enjoy something good for once.
So naturally, I park the Bronco crooked next to Declan's pristine Range Rover because his eye twitch feeds me, and shove through the front doors.
"BECK!"
A brunette missile hits me at full sprint. Zoey wraps her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, and the momentum takes us both down onto the rug.
Biscuit loses his shit. Barking, spinning in circles, one ear up and one flopped, fully convinced this is either the best game ever invented or a home invasion worth dying for.
"Hi, Zo."
"I missed you, you absolute idiot."
"You're crushing my spleen."
"Good. Builds character."
She climbs off me, then does the thing. The Zoey thing. Grabs my face with both hands and studies it like she's reading fine print.
"Okay. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong—"
"You've got the face."
"I have one face. This is it."
"He had therapy today," Declan calls from the kitchen, not even looking up from the cutting board where he's slicing limes.
"Ah yes. Thank you, Captain Confidentiality."
Zoey spins as I shut the door and toss my keys into the bowl. "Therapy?"
"Team mandated," Declan says. "Part of the assessment."
Zoey turns back and squeezes my arm, eyes gone all soft and big-sister. "Oh, honey. Was it awful? Please tell me it was better than Mom's."
"What's wrong with Mom's?"
"Uncle Beck!"
Before Zoey can reply, a tiny thundering voice echoes down the stairs. Morgan Morrison's ten years old and has absolutely zero indoor voice. She's also the smartest little brat I've ever met.
She barrels down the steps and crashes into me for a hug.
I hoist her up and spin a full circle. "There's my favorite niece."
"Mom's right," Morgan says, grinning in my arms. "Ever since Grandma went to the shrink, she's started putting posters of shirtless men in my old bedroom. It's kinda gross."
"That is gross," I agree.
"Grandma says the posters are her healing journey," Morgan informs me, deadly serious. "One of them has a cowboy hat covering his man bits—"
"Okay, we're done with this topic," Zoey announces, steering me toward the kitchen. "Come on. Diego went insane with the welcome party. There's a spread on the deck."
She steers me through the open glass doors toward the deck, where the afternoon sun is turning the pool into a sheet of blue glass. The ocean stretches beyond the infinity edge like we've somehow bought the horizon too.
She wasn't exaggerating.
The outdoor table looks like a margarita commercial with an unlimited budget.
A woven basket of corn chips, salted like they were blessed by someone who loves me.
Bowls of guacamole, green and chunky with little lakes of lime juice glistening on top.
Even the salsa is piled high with tomato and fresh herbs.
Mason's pouring the margaritas into frosted glasses with salt-crusted rims, ice sweating down the sides in the sun like the whole tray just got back from a swim.
"Trust you to show up just as the drinks are ready," Mason says, smirking across from the table.
Diego's standing over it all in his spotless black polo, adjusting a lime wheel with actual tweezers.
"Nobody touches anything until I photograph it," he says. "And nobody double-dips. That is specifically aimed at you, Beck."
"Your faith in me is healing, Diego."
Then Zoey goes all weird beside me. Does this little wince-smile thing. "So. Quick heads up. Josie sort of… invited people."
I look past her.
Josie's kicked back on a lounger, sunglasses on as Declan rumps over to hand her a cocktail the color of a flamingo. Sitting out here she looks like a woman who has never once been stressed in her life.
But next to her—
Oh, come on.
Darcy Madden is on my deck.
But more than that…
She's in tiny denim shorts and a little white top her parents would stage an intervention over. She has sunglasses pushed up into that sleek dark bob, those tempting, smooth legs going on for actual miles as she taps at a tablet resting on her lap in the afternoon sunshine.
This is a woman whose regular attire consists of immaculate work blazers. Now she's sitting in my backyard with sun on her skin, looking like the entire reason summer was invented.
I've spent the entire fucking morning trying not to tell a licensed therapist I've become clinically obsessed with this woman.
And now, just like that, Dad's convertible, Mom's Chardonnay and every other Morrison family disaster has disappeared from my head.
Because I'm staring at Darcy Madden.
Sitting on my deck.
Poppy's words drift through my head.
You're allowed to enjoy something good happening in your life.
Well.
That, I can do.