11. Chapter 10
Darcy
The Morrison Beach Mansion is dead quiet.
No music pumping, no brothers arguing, no Diego... doing whatever Diego does.
It's just me, my nerves, and the ocean stretching out beyond the gorgeous pool I'm pretty sure I'm about to drown in.
The side gate shuts behind me, and I freeze.
The pool glows turquoise in the early hint of the sunrise peeking out in the distance. I swallow down the fear that's been swirling in my stomach ever since I went shopping with Josie late last night.
I'd never bought a swim suit before. I had no idea what to get.
Lucky for me, Josie had had so many margaritas by then that she'd lost all filter between her brain and her mouth. Which is the only explanation for how I ended up standing on the boardwalk at ten o'clock at night, holding a swimsuit I would never have picked for myself.
My mother considered poolside lounging an activity for "women who didn't have goals," and my father had always booked vacations at resorts with private pools where no one would see me. The Madden family did not do public beaches. We did not do swimwear shopping.
But Josie, bless her drunk heart, had dragged me into a tiny shop off the boardwalk and started pulling things off racks before I could form a protest.
"This one," she'd slurred, shoving a tiny piece of fabric into my hands. "You're gonna look hot. He's gonna lose his mind. Trust me, I know what men want."
I asked her if she was talking about Beck or Declan. She just winked so hard she nearly fell over.
And now I'm standing here, wearing that dark green swimsuit, wondering if Josie's margarita-fueled fashion advice is about to make me the biggest fool in Beachside history.
"Okay. Deep breaths, Darce. You can do this," I tell myself, pausing at the side entrance to check my reflection in an insanely clean window.
The loose white top I threw on flutters in the breeze, barely thick enough to cover where the green swimsuit underneath dares to peek through.
The swimsuit itself is gorgeous, I'll give drunk Josie that.
It hugs my waist, cuts high enough over my hips to make my legs look indecently long, and dips into a deep V between my breasts, pushing enough cleavage into view that I keep tugging uselessly at the fabric.
Josie called it classy hot. I call it one deep breath away from a wardrobe malfunction.
I drag my eyes away from my reflection, round the corner, and immediately forget every reassuring thing I just told myself.
Beck is sitting on the pool steps wrapped in the kind of thick white robe that belongs in one of my father's five-star resorts. He has his feet submerged in the water, his head tipped back like he's posing for something no one asked him to model for.
Steam curls off the heated water, drifting across the deck where I see two white coffee mugs sitting side by side on the edge of a lounger.
“Morning, sunshine.” Beck smirks, his voice carrying that warm gravelly tone that suggests he hasn’t been awake long either.
My insides begin to stir as he looks slowly down my body.
“Is that the swimsuit?”
“Unless you've started giving me a dress code, yes.”
“I specifically requested a small one.”
“And I specifically ignored you.”
His eyes travel over me again. Slowly.
“I'm gonna need more evidence before I believe that.”
“You know… I think it’s unnatural to be this cheerful this early in the morning,” I mutter, dropping my bag onto the nearest lounger. “Did you sleep here, or do you just roll out of bed already looking like this?”
His eyes snap up to mine.
“Like what?” His eyes lock with mine, but I don't even bother explaining myself. “Coffee?”
“Unless you’ve spiked it with tequila, yes.”
Sliding the mug into my hand, Beck casts a look toward the ocean, the sunlight sparking in his eyes. “You’re visibly tense already. What’s up, Darce? Afraid of the water?”
Beck studies me over the rim of his coffee, and I realize he's right.
I am tense, but for once, the pool isn't entirely to blame. Colin's email has been sitting in the back of my mind since last night, those few ominous lines circling every time I let myself think too hard.
Teams are interested. We’re talking numbers. Make it count.
What numbers? What teams? Does Beck know someone’s circling? If Colin’s negotiating trades, surely Beck’s agent would have tipped him off already.
But Beck seems about as concerned as Biscuit, who's currently snoozing on the patio steps without a care in the world.
“I was wondering, Beck, do you talk to your agent much these days?” I ask casually, sipping the coffee even as my stomach tightens.
"Philip?" Beck arches a brow. “No more than usual. Why?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Sure.” He leans closer, resting his elbows on his knees, his robe parting to reveal strong thighs dusted with sun-brushed hair. “Phil’s mainly a golf guy. He lives in Vegas, so stays pretty busy. He only calls to say things like, ‘Stay out of trouble,’ or to tell me about endorsement deals. Why?”
I shake my head. “No reason.”
Beck watches me for a second. “You’re bad at casual, you know that?”
“Stop stalling, Beck. You said you’d teach me to swim, so—”
“Oh no, Darce.” Beck pushes smoothly to his feet, that smug grin already warning me I'm about to hate whatever comes next. He unties the belt of his robe and shrugs it from his shoulders, revealing acres of bare chest, hard stomach and a pair of black board shorts covered in…
"Oh my God, Beck. Are those tiny yellow rubber ducks on your swimmers?" I stare at them. “Seriously?”
“You like them?”
“Well, I'm now reconsidering trusting you with my life.”
“You'll survive.” His gaze settles on the white top covering my swimsuit. “But only if you stop stalling. Now strip. And get in the damn water.”
Heat slides through me so quickly it takes a second to recognize it.
Oh.
Apparently I have feelings about Beck Morrison giving me orders.
That's inconvenient.
“Fine.” I kick off my flip-flops and tug at the hem of my top.
Beck goes completely silent.
I glance over and catch his eyes somewhere around the deep plunge of green between my breasts before they make a leisurely trip down my waist, over my hips, then back to my chest.
“Morrison. My eyes are up here.”
His gaze finally lifts. “Sorry. Were you talking?”
I roll my eyes. “You are supposed to be teaching me how not to die.”
“Yep.” He nods seriously. “Just encountered an unexpected workplace distraction.”
I fold my arms over my chest and pop a hip.
"Okay." His eyebrows rise. “Now you're just making it worse.”
He heads down the pale stone steps into water so clear I can see every tile beneath his feet. Steam drifts across the turquoise surface while the Pacific glitters beyond the infinity edge, turning the entire place into some obscenely expensive private resort even my father would approve of.
Naturally, all I see is death.
I dip one toe in.
Beck looks back. “You know it's heated, right? I'm not putting you through Navy SEAL training.”
“It's not the temperature I'm worried about.”
He comes back up two steps and holds out his hand. “It's okay. Put your hand in mine.”
There's no joke this time.
I slide my fingers through his.
Beck guides me down slowly until the heated water wraps around my legs and climbs toward my waist. His other hand settles lightly against my hip to steady me, and suddenly drowning isn't remotely the thing making my heart pound.
Because Beck Morrison is very, very good at making me feel safe while simultaneously making me want to do spectacularly unsafe things.
“Alright. Well here we are. Darcy Madden is in a swimsuit. In my pool,” he says, sloshing beside me. “This morning just got way better.”
"Please, stop. I'm about to freak out."
“All right,” he murmurs, holding me closer. “How about we float first. I’ve got you. Just push off the floor and lean into my hands.”
“I don’t float.”
“You will.” His grip steadies me, his thumbs brushing against my sides below the waterline. “Trust me, Darce.”
“You’re shirtless, Morrison. Trust me, that’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
Beck chuckles, low in his throat and I hope he can't se my nipples hardening beneath this now-wet fabric. “Darcy, look at me.”
I do, meeting his eyes.
“I’m not letting you sink,” he promises softly.
And somehow, it's enough.
The next ten minutes are tentative, frustrating, and filled with Beck’s unrelenting praise. He encourages me to kick, scolds me for clutching the pool wall, and makes an outrageous bet about whether I can swim ten feet without drowning.
Somehow, by sheer force of Beck’s persistence, and his distracting hands guiding my body, I finally manage to half-paddle, half-sink my way toward him.
The moment my hands grip his shoulders for balance, I’m breathless with relief and an unexpected burst of pride.
“See?” Beck beams as water drips down his body. “You didn’t sink!”
“Did I just…?” I blink at him in disbelief. “Swim?”
“You swam,” he repeats firmly, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “You’re officially a swimmer now. Bring on the beach parties, pools, and cruise ships, sweetheart. You’re ready.”
I laugh as the tension from earlier melts, leaving just Beck and me, chest-deep in the water, sharing the morning sunrise and paddling through the water. In the shallow end, of course.
“I can't believe I just did that. Who knew, Beck Morrison is a good teacher,” I joke lightly. "Next you'll be taking me on a proper date."
Beck stiffens as we drift towards the infinity edge of the pool that overlooks the entire town of Beachside below.
“Wait,” he says suddenly. "You’ve never been on a first date?"
I lean against the glass and look out over the edge, tiptoeing the shallow end still. “I—sure I have. Casual dinners with men count, right? After-party drinks at my mother's galas.”
“No. That doesn't count.” Beck moves closer, his bare chest sliding across my arm. “Not just dinners with men. I'm talking about a real goddamn first date. One that starts messy, ends messy, but somewhere in between feels like the best day of your life.”
My throat dries. "Well, then… no. I guess I haven't."