Page 52 of Double Puck

"Nothing's wrong—"

"You've got the face."

"I have one face. This is it."

"He had therapy today," Declan calls from the kitchen, not even looking up from the cutting board where he's slicing limes.

"Ah yes. Thank you, Captain Confidentiality."

Zoey spins as I shut the door and toss my keys into the bowl. "Therapy?"

"Team mandated," Declan says. "Part of the assessment."

Zoey turns back and squeezes my arm, eyes gone all soft and big-sister. "Oh, honey. Was it awful? Please tell me it was better than Mom's."

"What's wrong with Mom's?"

"Uncle Beck!"

Before Zoey can reply, a tiny thundering voice echoes down the stairs. Morgan Morrison's ten years old and has absolutely zero indoor voice. She's also the smartest little brat I've ever met.

She barrels down the steps and crashes into me for a hug.

I hoist her up and spin a full circle. "There's my favorite niece."

"Mom's right," Morgan says, grinning in my arms. "Ever since Grandma went to the shrink, she's started putting posters of shirtless men in my old bedroom. It's kinda gross."

"That is gross," I agree.

"Grandma says the posters are her healing journey," Morgan informs me, deadly serious. "One of them has a cowboy hat covering his man bits—"

"Okay, we're done with this topic," Zoey announces, steering me toward the kitchen. "Come on. Diego went insane with the welcome party. There's a spread on the deck."

She steers me through the open glass doors toward the deck, where the afternoon sun is turning the pool into a sheet of blue glass. The ocean stretches beyond the infinity edge like we've somehow bought the horizon too.

She wasn't exaggerating.

The outdoor table looks like a margarita commercial with an unlimited budget. A woven basket of corn chips, salted like they were blessed by someone who loves me. Bowls of guacamole, green and chunky with little lakes of lime juice glistening on top. Even the salsa is piled high with tomato and fresh herbs.

Mason's pouring the margaritas into frosted glasses with salt-crusted rims, ice sweating down the sides in the sun like the whole tray just got back from a swim.

"Trust you to show up just as the drinks are ready," Mason says, smirking across from the table.

Diego's standing over it all in his spotless black polo, adjusting a lime wheel with actual tweezers.

"Nobody touches anything until I photograph it," he says. "And nobody double-dips. That is specifically aimed at you, Beck."

"Your faith in me is healing, Diego."

Then Zoey goes all weird beside me. Does this little wince-smile thing. "So. Quick heads up. Josie sort of… invited people."

I look past her.

Josie's kicked back on a lounger, sunglasses on as Declan rumps over to hand her a cocktail the color of a flamingo. Sitting out here she looks like a woman who has never once been stressed in her life.

But next to her—

Oh, come on.