7. Chapter 6 #2
And drinking cocktails on a cliffside mansion all weekend does not sound professional.
“You know…" Josie leans in, her expression sharper now. She nudges my elbow, her tone laced with wicked intent. "If you do come, it means more time to… evaluate Mr. Morrison. You'd just be doing your job, babe.”
I hold up a hand, cutting her off. "Alright, fine. But for the record, I’m agreeing to this weekend solely to support you. Not for… any other reason.”
“Solely for me," she repeats, nudging me again. "Got it."
Josie's smile breaks across her face like sunrise, and for a second, I forget why I ever let us drift apart in the first place.
"Darling, there you are." My mother appears at my elbow, ice-blue silk and elegant purpose radiating off her like a perfume.
She looks between Josie and me with obvious delight.
"Are you ready? Your father's been working his magic again.
These hockey friends of yours appear to have been volunteered. "
I follow her gaze across the ballroom just in time to see Beck being handed an auction paddle by a laughing Charles Madden.
Beck catches my eye and winks.
Oh God.
"Volunteered for what?" I ask weakly.
Mom's smile turns positively predatory. "The auction, of course."
The auction stage sits beneath a projection of the Madden Foundation logo, and my mother has clearly spent all week on the lighting, because the whole thing glows perfectly.
The room gathers around, some in seats, some standing with champagne held in their hands. By the time the auctioneer calls for the main prize, I've been standing in the same spot in heels, and my toes have officially gone numb.
"And finally, our biggest prize for the evening. Lot fourteen," the auctioneer announces. "The Beachside Bears Ultimate Experience. Private suite for this weekend's home game, signed jerseys, rink-side access—"
"And," my father cuts in smoothly from the front row, "a two-night stay in the Presidential Suite at the Madden Coastal, with a private chef and a car service. Because after such a wonderful gesture from the Beachside Bears, it seemed rude to send our guests home."
The room applauds like it always does. My father has never once let a good marketing opportunity stay merely good. That's why he's become so successful.
Onstage, the Morrison brothers file up the side stairs, and I'm certain everything my mother has spent eight months planning is about to go gloriously off the rails.
Declan looks like he's being marched to an execution. Mason waves to the older women at table nine and they scream. And Beck—
Beck just takes the microphone before bidding can even begin.
"Before we start," he says, "I think it's important the bidders understand what they're getting."
Oh no. This isn't good.
"Beck." Declan's murderous tone carries perfectly. "Not now."
Beck ignores him.
"Ladies and gentlemen… first things first. I'm worth two thousand dollars on personality alone. That's a conservative estimate. Declan's only included because every luxury experience needs one guy who knows where the exits to basic human decency are."
The ballroom laughs with amusement, and the woman beside me spits champagne into her napkin.
"And Mason. He comes with excellent hair," Beck continues, "but he's emotionally unavailable, so manage your expectations on that one, ladies."
"That's not true," Mason says, smiling straight down the barrel of three phone cameras. "Don't listen to him."
Josie is filming everything for content, her phone held high. And just as the bidding begins, Rose appears beside her with a proper camera and a lens the size of my forearm.
The bidding climbs quickly. Forty thousand. Sixty.
With every increase, Beck keeps sweetening the deal.
"Christ! What an offer! For that, I'll even cook dinner," he offers, smile beaming. "Shirtless!"
"Absolutely not," Declan says.
"Seventy-five thousand," calls a woman in gold, winking at Mason.
Eventually, the Bears Game Day package sells for one hundred and twelve thousand dollars. My mother is nearly crying she's that excited.
And standing here with champagne going warm in my hand, I finally see the thing my spreadsheets have never once been able to hold.
Beck Morrison wasn't just standing up there being ridiculous. He was working. The whole room feels lighter than it did an hour ago, and he did that.
I've been in this world my entire life. I've been to endless society galas and fancy events where money doesn't matter. I've watched a thousand men try to command a room like that and fail.
But Beck Morrison is the one I put on the trade list of a dying franchise.
Shit. Have I made a huge mistake?
Beck comes down the steps to a swarm of camera flashes and booming voices, and a man with a press badge and a recorder cuts him off before he reaches the bottom.
"Morrison. Any truth to the trade rumors? Are you really leaving the Bears so soon?"
I stop breathing.
Beck doesn't miss a beat.
"I hear I'm devastatingly handsome and a delight in the locker room." He shrugs. "Can't confirm either, but for now, I'm just looking forward to the game on the weekend."
The journalist laughs, jots something down, and moves off toward Declan.
Beck's eyes find mine as the crowd sweeps around him, offering a handshake or kind word until he's finally beside me.
"Sorry if I took too long." He leans in close, before his gaze drops to my feet and splits into a frown. "You getting blisters, Spreadsheet?"
"Please. I'm high society. I'm used to wearing these kind of shoes."
"Those are not shoes," he laughs, his eyes sparkling before me. "Those are tiny torture devices with a designer label."
I laugh before I can stop it, and he looks unreasonably pleased about it.
Then his attention drifts past me, and something in his face changes.
Across the room, my parents stand near the winning bidder's table, my mother mid-thanks to all the winners, all warmth and diamonds. My father is behind her, one hand resting at her waist, the other shaking hands.
Mom leans back into him without looking. She doesn't need to look, she's known where he is for thirty-one years, but when she finishes speaking, he bends and kisses her hair.
Beck watches them. He doesn't say anything, which for Beck Morrison is practically an alarm bell.
I think about what Josie said, about how the mansion feels tense and dangerous at the moment. So I move in closer.
"You all good?" I ask.
"Yeah. Tonight's been fun. Your parents are cool, Madden," he finally says. "Totally in love. It's sweet."
"They're certainly not afraid to show it."
"Nah." He shakes his head slowly, still watching them cross the room. "That's just… what happens when two people keep loving each other for that long. That's why it's so special."
His voice has gone quiet, and suddenly, there's no punchline like there was up on stage.
"Beck—"
"Mine used to do that." He flashes a look at me. "Or I thought they did, anyway. Turns out it was all just one big lie."
My throat goes tight.
I want to say something useful. Something a friend would say.
But before I can, he looks down at my feet again, then back to my face. The shadow's gone like it was never there, replaced by the grin that keeps pulling me in, closer and closer.
"Come on," he says, tugging at my arm.
"Wh-what?" I cry out while being dragged by a enormous man across the room. "Beck! Where are we going?"
"Somewhere you can stop pretending you're not in pain."
His hand closes around mine, and he pulls me through the crowd toward the service corridor behind the ballroom.