13. Chapter 12
Darcy
Ilook up, and my heart sinks through the floor.
"Beck? You can't be serious."
"What?"
"Your team just lost."
"I'm aware. I was there. Front row, actually. Great seats, terrible ending though." He grins across my office. "You look surprised to see me."
The man I just spent two hours being mildly impressed with is dressed up like he's been thinking about this date all night instead of the game he just lost.
He's wearing dark jeans and a shirt that actually has buttons, which might be the most formal thing I've ever seen Beck Morrison wear outside my mother's charity gala. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, because apparently losing a hockey game isn't enough suffering for one evening.
Now I have to deal with those sexy veins too.
He takes one step into my office, smelling amazing.
"I thought you'd want to…" I gesture vaguely at my monitor, where his evaluation file is still open. I've typed up his turnover play about a billion times in the last hour, yet I still can't seem to find a way to keep it in the file. "Cancel."
"Cancel our first date?" He scoffs. "Anyone would think it was you who had just been getting smashed into a wall for two hours. And I don't mean that in a good way."
"Beck—"
"Look, Darcy. The calendar invite was color-coded red. You remember what red means, right?"
"Non-negotiable."
"Correct. Red means non-negotiable. That was the first thing you ever taught me. So come on, let's get out of here before Goldie's shuts. If I've ever needed one of Kai's caramel lattes, it's right after a crushing defeat. And you're getting whipped cream tonight. First-date rules.”
“I don't think that's a rule.”
“You've never been on one. How would you know?”
I stare at him for a breath longer than I probably should before standing. “Okay. Alright. Let's go.”
The words sound ridiculous even as they leave my mouth, but I’m already moving toward the door, because the alternative is sitting behind my desk, overthinking the night to death.
I grab my purse off the edge of my desk, but as I try to pass Beck, his arm snakes around my middle, pulling me flush against him.
“Hold on there, Spreadsheet. Best date ever remember? Starting with—”
His lips meet mine in a fleeting kiss that sends a warm flutter all the way through me, and when he pulls back, his stupidly perfect eyes lock onto mine.
“You look beautiful, by the way.”
Okay. So apparently compliments are included in tonight's itinerary too?
Wonderful.
I'm going to be dead before we reach the parking lot.
Seriously. Is this the same man who blew a game-winning play tonight?
And now here he is, knocking me completely off balance before leading the way to the door.
As he holds it open, I manage to ask, “So that's it? Aren’t you going to ask me what I wrote in the report?”
“Nah.” Beck smirks over his shoulder.
"Beck…"
"You wrote that I fucked up."
My whole body tightens. Because yes. I did.
I hated typing it. Hated watching Beck Morrison play genuinely good hockey all damn night, only to get reduced to the four seconds everyone will remember.
But my job isn't to protect Beck from the truth. Even when I'm starting to desperately want to protect him from everything else.
“Yes,” I admit. “I did.”
“Good.”
I stop walking. “Good?”
“Yeah. Because I did fuck up." He shrugs easily.
Like his life doesn't depend on the next few games.
"I had the smart play sitting right there, and I went for the highlight.
It cost us the game. If you wrote anything else, I'd be worried about the integrity of the analytics department.
Which, as we've established, my tongue has already compromised. "
I stare at him. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"You're not angry?"
"At you? For doing your job?" He tilts his head.
"Darce, I'm furious. Just not at you. I'll be at the rink at six tomorrow watching that film over and over again until my eyes bleed.
But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight I have a date with a woman who's never had one.
" He leans in and kisses me again. "And lucky for you, I take that responsibility extremely seriously. "
Oh my God.
I don't understand this man. I genuinely don't.
I've spent my whole life watching people fall apart over mistakes a tenth this size, and Beck's just absorbed the worst professional night of his season and moved on like it was a parking ticket.
"How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Just... put it down. Push your problems aside and just… keep going."
He considers this. "Well, when you grow up in a family like mine, you kind of get used to moving on quickly. Now, unless your report also says I suck at skee-ball, I'd like to do exactly that."
"Skee-ball?"
He holds out his hand.
"Come on, Spreadsheet. You're about to have the best night of your life."
By the time we load into Beck's Bronco, navigate what's left of the post-game traffic around the arena, and finally reach the boardwalk, Beck is cursing into the wind because Goldie's is dark.
The OPEN sign flipped to CLOSED and the chairs already stacked on the tables. Beck knocks anyway, because apparently NHL players don't believe in operating hours.
"Beck Morrison, you have terrible timing." Luna appears from the back, her face red and flushed as she yanks open the door.
"Luna Reeves, you have a heart of gold and the best brown-butter cookies in the western hemisphere."
He flashes that grin, and my stomach does the stupid little flip it's apparently decided to perform every time Beck Morrison looks pleased with himself.
It's getting embarrassing.
But I am starting to understand how this man has spent most of his adult life getting away with absolute bullshit.
Because he's utterly addictive.
"I'm on a date," Beck continues, casual as hell. "Darcy's first date, actually. So please, I know I'm late, but you're not going to make me explain to this woman that the best coffee shop in Beachside closed before I could prove I have taste."
Luna's eyes flick to me, then back to Beck who's face now looks like Biscuit's did the other day when I was shoving tacos in my mouth by the pool.
Only with less drool. Sort of.
Luna sighs and waves us in. "Five minutes. And only because it's you. You'll have to pick from the leftovers."
She moves toward the pastry case when a voice drifts from the back room. "Babe, did you get the camera to—"
Kai emerges through the curtain separating the front from the back.
And he's wearing nothing but a leather harness.
The fucking thing has straps crossing his chest and a collar around his neck.
His wild hair is tousled, his tan skin gleaming like he's been oiled up all over, and he's holding what I'm fairly sure is a flogger in one hand.
Now, I don't know much about sex toys, but I'm reasonably confident nobody uses that thing to dust the pastry case.
We all fucking stop.
The silence lasts exactly one second before Kai's face splits into the most unbothered grin I've ever seen.
"Oh. Hey, brother. Didn't know we had company."
"Kai." Luna's face has turned the color of a ripe tomato. "The shop. Is closed. I said I'd lock up."
"You did say that." He doesn't move to cover himself. Just stands there, strapped and collared in tight leather underwear, like standing in his café in bondage attire is a completely normal way to greet customers. "My bad."
Beck is absolutely losing it beside me.
His shoulders are shaking, and his hand is clamped over his mouth, covering the strangled sounds of a man trying very hard not to scream-laugh in public.
"Um. We should go," I say quickly.
"No, no." Kai gestures with his hand, sending the tails of the flogger into a frenzy. "Stay. Try the cold brew. I made a new batch this morning and I'm—"
"Kai." Luna's voice could cut glass. "Go. Now."
"Yes, mistress." He winks at her, then turns to me. "See ya, lovebirds. Hope you like the cookies."
He disappears back through the curtain, and I hear him humming. At least, I hope it's him humming. It could be something… vibrating.
Beside me, Beck finally loses it. He doubles over, one hand braced on the counter, laughing so hard no sound comes out.
Luna shoves a paper bag at him. "Take the cookies and never speak of this."
"Never." Beck wheezes. "I'll take it to my grave."
"Thank you."
He points toward the curtain. "Safe word's caramel latte, right?"
"Get out."
We get out before Luna decides to murder us both, stepping back into the warm Beachside night with a paper bag of brown-butter cookies and absolutely no caramel lattes.
The boardwalk is still alive despite the hour.
Strings of carnival lights glow overhead, throwing bright lights across the weathered boards while music drifts from somewhere down the pier.
The Ferris wheel turns against the night sky, every carriage lit in neon pinks and blues, and the air smells like the sea, fried donuts and warm sugar from the cookie Beck has already stolen from the bag.
Beck takes a bite of his cookie, then holds the other half toward my mouth.
I stare at him. "You know I have hands, right?"
"First-date rules."
I roll my eyes, but lean forward and take the bite anyway.
His grin tells me I've just made a terrible mistake.
Annoyingly, the cookie is fucking incredible.
"So. Do you think Luna likes being spanked?" Beck says casually.
"Beck!" I nearly spit out the cookie. "That is not what we saw. We saw a man in a harness. That's it."
Beck laughs up at the night sky. "Right. And where there's a harness, there's a—"
"Beck, please. This is my first date. Do not finish that sentence."
Beck grins and steers us toward the token booth at the mouth of the pier, where a bored teenager hands over a cup of tokens in exchange for a twenty.
The carnival games glow ahead of us, rows upon rows of ring toss games, basketball hoops, and even those rigged claw machines that are of course, absolutely stuffed with Bears merch.
Beck feeds two tokens into the nearest skee-ball machine and rolls his sleeves higher. "So are we talking hockey tonight, or is that off the cards?"