8. Chapter 7
Darcy
“Slow down. This is not helping my sore feet, Morrison!”
Beck is pulling me through a corridor that smells like industrial dish detergent and apparently, this is just something I do now.
This isn't kind of place most people would willingly hang out during one of my mother's galas, but Beck is pulling me through it like it’s a VIP lounge. His hand is warm around mine, his stride long enough that I’m half-jogging in my ridiculous heels to keep up.
“I'll make up for it soon.” He glances over his shoulder. “But, for the record, 'slow' shouldn't appear on my audit now, right?”
I roll my eyes at him as we burst through the double doors at the end of the corridor. I skid to a halt, teetering precariously.
Beck catches me by the elbow, holding me steady as I take in our new surroundings.
The back kitchen is stainless steel perfection: counters gleaming like they’ve been polished within an inch of their lives, racks of dishes stacked neatly, and a faint echo of garlic and butter lingering in the air.
It’s massive, immaculately clean, and aside from the single apron-wearing figure mopping dramatically in the distance, it's completely abandoned too.
“Beck… The kitchen’s closed,” I point out, like he hasn’t noticed already.
"Minor setback." Beck waves my observation off with a lazy flick of his hand, his arm flexing just enough to draw my eyes. “Trust me, no one in this building has ever dreamed of denying me fries.”
“I’m sure the kitchen staff will find that logic airtight.”
As if on cue, Beck whistles, loud enough that the lone chef cleaning whirls around with wide eyes. He’s barely out of his teens, with freckles and endless nervous energy, probably trying to work out how much trouble we’re about to cause.
“Uh, we’re closed for service,” the chef stammers, clutching his mop like he might have to fight us off.
“Relax, dude,” Beck flashes him a smile. “We just need some fries. You got any you can cook up for me and my girl here?”
What the hell did he just say? My girl?!
No man has ever called me their… girl.
The chef shakes his head as I feel my insides slowly melt to the floor. “I’m not supposed to—"
“You look like a hockey fan." Beck cuts him off, moving around the counter and deeper into the kitchen. "Am I right?”
The kid nods sheepishly as Beck leans on the counter. "Yeah. Big fan."
“Tell you what, man. I've been force-feeding myself seafood foam and truffle-flavored pretentiousness all night. So here's the deal. If you can sort some fries out for us, I’ll sign whatever you want and let you tag me on Instagram. Come on, what’s your name?”
The kid gulps. “Porter.”
“Porter. Fantastic name, bro. Very chef-y.” Beck grabs a napkin and a marker off the counter, scribbles his signature like he’s signing a million-dollar check. “You help me out, I’ll make sure your fifteen minutes of fame come with extra salt.”
Porter’s resolve breaks like a cheap plastic fork, and five minutes later, we’re perched on the counter by the industrial oven while he pulls steaming baskets of golden fries from the oil.
We sit back and watch as he sprinkles a generous serve of salt over them. The smell is enough to make my knees weak.
“You do realize you’re breaking roughly three high society rules right now,” I say as Beck reaches for the first fry, burning his fingers.
“Four, if you count bribery.” He blows on it noisily, then hands it to me instead of taking the first bite. “But you're about to see, it’s absolutely worth it. Trust me.”
Of course, Beck's right.
The fry is hot and salty and perfect.
I let out the kind of involuntary sigh I didn’t know food could cause.
“See? Best fries of your life." Beck watches me with overt satisfaction. "I should start charging for my expertise.”
I reach for another handful, soaking in the absence of whitened smiles and polite applause. For a few beautiful minutes, it’s just us, fries, and the noise of Porter the Chef finishing off his days work.
Porter snaps a quick selfie with Beck on his way out the door, grinning as he taps at his phone, and soon, we're all alone.
Beck turns to me, his grin pure trouble.
“Alright, Cinderella, let’s get these death traps off your feet,” he says, plunking down on his knees.
“I’m fine,” I lie, wincing as he unbuckles one shoe and removes it completely.
“You’re fine and lying, which is impressive, but I'm doing this anyway.”
“Beck—" My protest dies the second his hands press into the arch of my foot, firm but careful, like he’s trying to fix the damage. “Oh my God.”
“See?” he says smugly, his thumbs working magic circles into my foot. “Hero without a cape. Hold still, Madden."
I almost groan. He’s insufferably good at this, and he knows it.
"So, tell me. Have you been brainwashed to want what your parents have?
The long marriage, the lighting up when you see each other.
That whole package?" His voice is casual, but his eyes are watching my face carefully.
"Or are you more of a 'love is a chemical reaction that fades after eleven months' kind of person? "
"That's very specific."
He shrugs. "An ex-girlfriend said it to me once."
I study his face, trying to figure out where this is coming from. "Why are you asking?"
"Just curious about the woman who wants me gone. So tell me… any crazy ex's that drove your parents wild?"
I wiggle my toes in his hands. “Crazy exes, huh? Well, there was Charles. But our mother's set us up right after I finished college. He actually proposed after three dates.”
“Three dates?” Beck’s brow shoots up. “Confident move.”
“Yeah, it was part of his five-year plan. I said no, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Beck echoes, leaning closer with a smirk. “What about another one? Give me the worst.”
“Oh…” A smile tugs at my lips. “That’d have to be Edwin.”
“Edwin?” His forehead crinkles approvingly. “Ridiculous fancy name. Go on.”
“Oh, he was very fancy,” I agree. “So fancy, in fact, that conventional sex just didn't cut it. He had a…strong fondness for, uh…" I look down to where I'm currently receiving the best foot massage of my life. "…feet.”
Beck drops my foot like it’s radioactive.
“Wait.” He gapes at me, scandalized and visibly horrified. “Darcy, are you telling me I just followed Edwin's disgusting, creepy foot fetish without knowing?”
I laugh so hard my ribs actually hurt. “The horror!”
“Nope. Never again.” He holds his hands up, dramatically brushing them together before crossing his arms over his chest with an exaggerated huff. “Forget the audit. Screw the Bears. This is a resignation. I quit.”
“Oh, come on.” I inch forward on the counter, swinging my now-free legs to wiggle my toes playfully in his face. “Does this mean you refuse to take part in my undoubtedly toxic foot-related past?”
"Okay, you wanna talk weird. Fine. I’ve had girlfriends who preferred it up the ass because, and I quote, ‘It helps with my alignment,'" Beck announces, counting on his fingers like he's tallying grocery items. "I've been with women who want to smother my chest in caramel sauce.
Oh! And there was this one girl who could only get off if I wore my hockey helmet during sex, which, honestly, was kind of hot.
Hell, I even hooked up with a woman who wanted me to dirty talk exclusively in French, which was a disaster because the only French I know is 'oui oui baguette' and something about cheese. "
He pauses dramatically, pointing an accusatory finger at my bare feet.
"But feet? Feet are where I draw the line, Madden. That's where Beck Morrison says 'absolutely fucking not.' I don't care if Edwin was the Crown Prince of Toe-Sucking Kingdom. My hands have standards."
I'm laughing so hard I'm practically sliding off the counter. "You're being ridiculous."
"Ridiculous? I'm being reasonable. There's a difference."
I’m not even sure what’s happening anymore. Or why I’m laughing so hard I can barely see.
The laughter slowly fades as his voice lowers, face softening as he abandons his scowl and moves closer, his hands now braced against the counter beside me.
“So tell me, Darce,” Beck says, his voice quieter now. “Do you always date men your parents like?”
My laugh comes out thin. “That’s a very dangerous question to ask while you’re standing between my legs.”
“Well, it's true, isn't it?” Beck says, low and certain. “You've been living this life for years. You do what's expected of you. You make the right choices all the time. Don't you ever just get… bored? Like you just want to do something to see what happens?"
I glance down at him, at his stupidly perfect face tilted up toward me.
“I’ve never been allowed to think about it," I say. "Because going outside the lines… in my world… It’s not an option.”
His hands stay braced on either side of me, his body blocking me in.
“What if I gave you a choice?”
My lungs forget how air works.
“What do you mean?”
“Well… do your parents always get to decide who you date?"
“Historically, yes.”
His gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth, and my thighs press together on instinct, heat pooling low in my stomach.
“And what would happen if you chose someone they didn’t?”
My gaze drops to his mouth. “You mean someone like you?”
"Exactly."
Beck leans in, so slowly I could stop him if I wanted to.
But for some reason, tonight, I don't.
I close the gap entirely, tilting forward as his lips brush mine, soft and tentative at first, like he’s giving me a chance to change my mind.
All it does is make me crave more.
My hands grip his shirt to hold him there as he deepens the kiss with his tongue sliding across mine. It’s warm, endlessly addictive, pulling me under like the tide and leaving no room for oxygen.
He tastes like everything I didn’t know I was starving for until right now.
Beck Morrison is wild, careless, and the person I'm supposed to be removing from my life. But the more time I spend with him, the more he's also the man making me feel more free than I've ever felt before.