5. Chapter 4
Beck
The bell over Goldie’s door gives one cheerful little jingle as Darcy walks inside ahead of me.
Which feels wildly inappropriate.
There should be a siren. A flashing red light. Maybe Luna diving beneath the counter as every man in the café senses the arrival of the black leggings currently trying to ruin my life.
“Find us a table,” Darcy says over her shoulder. "I'll order our drinks and get a menu."
I drag my eyes upward. “You’ve spent all morning bossing me around, and now you’re dismissing me?”
She ignores me and heads for the counter while I scan the café for a table.
Goldie’s is packed now, every sunlit table crowded with surfers, dog walkers and locals fuelling themselves for the day. Sunshine pours through the skylight, catching on the jungle of plants hanging from the ceiling.
I spot two empty seats at the end of a communal table on the patio and toss my cap onto one before somebody else claims it.
Then I turn back.
And my entire nervous system shuts down.
Darcy is leaning over the counter talking to Luna. Her running crop top has ridden up, exposing a strip of smooth skin above her black leggings.
And one very thin, very bright piece of pink string.
Holy fucking shit.
Spreadsheet wears a G-string.
Even more surprising is the fact that it’s not some delicate silk creation designed to perfectly match some fancy lingerie set from a posh LA boutique. It’s not even champagne-colored.
It's hot pink.
A tiny fluorescent string disappearing between the two perfect curves of her ass like it has been put there specifically to see if I can survive breakfast with an erection.
I scrub a hand down my face and try to look away.
I’m still trying to remember how breathing works when I notice the guy sitting two seats away from my cap looking in the same direction.
Absolutely fucking not.
I don’t think. I just move.
One second I’m glaring daggers at the guy two seats away from my cap, and the next I’m standing directly behind Darcy. Like right behind her, close enough that my chest is brushing her back, cutting off his line of sight.
And anyone else's, for that matter.
Luna raises an eyebrow from behind the counter. “Oh, hi Beck. You ordering? Darcy just—”
“Crowd control,” I say, my voice tighter than I’d like.
“What are you—" Darcy glances back at me, that sharp gaze narrowing. "Why are you standing so close to me?”
I drop my voice. “Because your underwear is currently making a public appearance.”
She jerks upright like I just screamed FIRE, her hand flying to the waistband of her leggings. “What? No, it’s not. Why were you looking at my—oh my God, Beck!”
“It’s hot pink,” I point out. Much to Darcy's disgust. “And it's currently visible from space.”
“It is not.” The color creeping into her cheeks tells a very different story.
The guy by the table glances over again, his gaze lingering as I take a tiny step back to let Darcy see behind me.
I point directly at him, my irritation boiling over. “See? Astronaut.”
The man promptly becomes fascinated by his coffee.
Darcy narrows her eyes. “Did you just threaten a stranger because he was looking at my underwear?”
“I’m a professional athlete. Everything I do has power behind it.”
Luna laughs and taps the screen. “Can I get you two breakfast before Beck challenges someone to a duel?”
“We are not together,” Darcy says far too quickly. "This is purely a work breakfast."
"Yeah." I lean against the counter with my elbow. “We’re in a difficult professional relationship involving betrayal, lust, and possibly my future relocation.”
“There is no lust.” Darcy turns back to Luna. “I'll have the eggs, avocado sourdough and breakfast potatoes, please. And a black coffee.”
Kai fires up the espresso machine, steam hissing through the wand as he locks in the filter. He glances over his shoulder at me, that laid-back, sun-bronzed smile spreading slow.
"Rough morning, brother?"
"You have no idea. Nothing your amazing French toast won't fix though,” I say. “Extra salted caramel butter, bacon, whipped cream and whatever dignity she hasn’t already taken from me.”
Darcy looks at me like this has been the longest morning of her life.
She should try living with me.
Actually, scratch that. Living with me is a blast.
I was the kid who learned to juggle at nine just to get one of my parents to look up from their phones long enough to watch. I made up my first joke at six. Mom laughed so hard she snorted, although Dad missed it entirely because he was already heading for the door.
He was always heading for the door.
Not that it matters now. Turns out none of it was real anyway.
"You can't be serious?" Darcy says. "You already drank, what, an entire gallon of sugar? How are you a professional athlete?"
I lean against the counter, grinning as Kai sets down the biggest, sugariest iced coffee known to mankind in front of me.
It’s a masterpiece.
“Easy,” I say, taking a deep sip and letting out a completely inappropriate moan. “Raw talent, baby. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some fuel their greatness with salted caramel butter.”
That, and the fact that my big brother has apparently carried me his entire life.
Darcy pinches the bridge of her nose like just being near me gives her a migraine. “Remind me to add ‘human biology defies logic’ to your scouting report.”
“Please. You love it.” I tap the straw against my lips and smirk. “Admit it, Madden. Part of you is impressed I haven’t already turned into a human churro.”
“At this stage, I'm just impressed you completed one beach run,” Darcy says.
Luna slides our table marker across the counter. “Number eighteen. Try not to have sex on the patio.”
Kai glances up with that slow, hippie smile of his.
"Hey, don't knock it." He sets down the filter like he's making a very serious point. "Luna and I did it on the beach at sunrise once. Changed my whole perspective on life, man. Highly recommend the open air mating ritual."
I point at him. "See? That's the energy I want for this breakfast."
Darcy picks up the table marker. "Table eighteen. Let's go."
“Keep the G-string inside your leggings this time,” Kai calls after us. “The seagulls get confused.”
Darcy makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a scream and snatches up the cutlery. “That won’t be a problem.”
She stalks toward the patio, checking the back of her shirt twice before she sits. I take the chair opposite her, placing myself between Darcy and the rest of the communal table.
Our food arrives while Darcy is tapping aggressively at her phone, probably organizing her outfit for the gala.
My French toast looks incredible as always, with two thick slabs of brioche buried beneath berries, whipped cream and glossy salted caramel butter, with bacon curling at the edges of the plate.
Darcy looks at it, rolls her eyes, then looks back to her phone.
So I reach across and steal one of her potatoes.
Her fork comes down on the back of my hand.
“Ow!”
She aims the fork at my face. “Touch my breakfast again and lose a finger.”
"Christ." I shake my hand to soothe the pain. “Have you always been this violent?”
“I'll have you know, my ballet teachers called me disciplined. You should try it sometime.”
I stare at her, my gaze dropping to the leggings again. “Wait. You were a ballerina?”
“For eleven years.” She cuts into her eggs like she hasn’t just handed me enough material to derail the rest of my morning. Then she glances up and catches me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
"Sorry." I shake my head. “I’m just trying to picture it.”
“It’s not difficult. I wore a pretty pink leotard and danced majestically.”
My gaze drops to the strip of bare stomach between her crop top and leggings.
Goddamn.
“Nope. Turns out picturing it is extremely difficult.”
“Try picturing me as a child, you pervert.” She calmly takes a bite of avocado. “Anyway, I don't see what the big deal is. I also played piano and learned French. Didn't your parents have you try different hobbies when you were a kid?”
I swallow my food and look across the café.
“Well, yeah. But my hobbies included playing Mario Kart in my underwear while fighting with my brothers about who gets to have first go each day." I lower my fork and drag a piece of bacon through the salted caramel melting across my plate. “Did you actually like any of it? The hobbies, I mean.”
“I liked ballet,” she says with a tilt of her head. "And my mother told me I was good at it."
I wait, but that’s all she gives me.
Not I loved dancing. Not I couldn’t wait to get onstage.
Just I was good at it.
I shove a bite of French toast into my mouth, and for some reason, this conversation feels like the most important thing I’ve done all morning.
“What did you do during school holidays?” I ask. “Perform Swan Lake for foreign diplomats?”
She nearly laughs. “Mostly travelled.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. My father’s company was always opening a hotel or inspecting a resort somewhere. Paris. Vancouver. Geneva.”
“That sounds incredible.”
“It was.” She takes another bite of avocado. “Although the excitement fades after the third week of wearing formal shoes to breakfast.”
“Darcy, I spent my school holidays eating cereal in Spider-Man underwear while fighting Mason and Declan for the Nintendo controller.”
That finally earns me a laugh. “That actually explains quite a lot about your family.”
I grin down at my breakfast, because looking too pleased with myself for making this woman laugh might scare that gorgeous smile away.
It's funny, talking like this with the woman trying to trade me.
I spent twenty-four years believing our family was the one thing that actually worked. Two parents, thirty-one years, four kids who turned out mostly okay.
Now, in the blink of an eye, it's just... gone.
I used to be the guy who believed things worked out. Now I'm not sure what to believe.