Page 44 of Double Puck

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.