Page 19 of Double Puck

“Maybe that’s your problem.” He follows after me. “You’re always so serious. Have you ever tried to just… not be?”

“I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”

“Excellent.” Beck grins as he falls into step beside me and we start a slow jog along the boardwalk. “Hostility noted. Let’s run.”

I press the timer on my watch and launch forward before he can say anything else, my sneakers sinking into the cool sand at the edge of the boardwalk before finding traction on the timber.

Beachside at sunrise is unfairly beautiful.

Surfers are just starting to drift across the boardwalk in loose packs, their wetsuits peeled down to their waists, boards tucked beneath bronzed arms as they head toward the glittering water for the first time today.

A pair of women roll open the shutters of a tiny breakfast kiosk ahead, releasing the smell of warm pastries and freshly ground coffee into the salty morning air. White café tables are being carried onto the pavement, little glass vases of flowers placed in the middle of each one, ready for the crowds who will arrive once the rest of Beachside decides to wake up.

It is peaceful.

Perfect.

Or it would be, if the shirtless man jogging beside me wasn’t making enough noise with his breathing to suggest he is being hunted for sport.

“Are you dying?” I ask.

“Maybe.” Beck puffs out another dramatic breath. “But I want it noted that I’m dying handsomely.”

“You’ve been running for forty seconds. Aren't you a professional athlete?”

“An athlete who normally wears skates to move my body.”

I roll my eyes as a golden retriever trots past us in the opposite direction, barely panting, despite carrying a thick branch twice the length of its body.

“The dog is fitter than you.”

Beck points after it. “That dog has four legs. That's clearly an advantage.”

I try to focus on the even rhythm of my stride, but Beck is proving alarmingly difficult to ignore. He runs with the same loose, careless confidence he brings to everything else, his long legs eating up the boardwalk beside me.

His skin is already glowing with the first faint sheen of sweat, and each time his arms pump, the muscles across his shoulders shift beneath that golden skin.

I've never met a man like Beck Morrison before.

Someone who can juggle cocky charm and complete chaos yet somehow make it seem… effortless.

My last boyfriend, according to my mother, was a “perfect match.” Which basically meant he was boring, predictable, and safe.

Beck is none of those things, and that’s exactly why he’s dangerous.

I increase my pace.

Purely for assessment purposes, and absolutely not to make him sweat more.

“So,” he says, somehow still talking. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That must have been unsettling.”

“It was awful. But I pushed through.” He adjusts his stride until he is running close enough that his arm brushes mine. “If you’re auditing my life, I should be allowed to audit yours. You know, get to know each other a bit better.”

"No, that's absolutely not happening."

“Question one. Who is your emergency contact?”