Page 23 of Double Puck

He looks back at me over one broad, sunlit shoulder, and God help me, he's right. I am. Those joggers are clinging to him in a way that is going to require my own personal review in my office later today.

"For the record," he calls, "you can look. I'm extremely comfortable being objectified before breakfast."

"I was assessing your posture!"

"You were assessing my ass, and I want that on the report."

I chase after him along the boardwalk with the sun coming up over the water, and for the first time since Josie called our friendship a temporary ceasefire, I feel myself smile so wide it aches.

Which is a catastrophe.

Because in seven weeks, I have to stand in a room full of men who already suspect I'm only here because of my surname. I have to tell them the numbers haven't changed.

Because I’m Darcy Madden, and I don’t get to make mistakes.

Especially not one with blue eyes, a filthy mouth, and a habit of making me forget why I’m supposed to say no.

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.