Page 62 of Double Puck

Beck studies me over the rim of his coffee, and I realize he's right.

I am tense, but for once, the pool isn't entirely to blame. Colin's email has been sitting in the back of my mind since last night, those few ominous lines circling every time I let myself think too hard.

Teams are interested. We’re talking numbers. Make it count.

What numbers? What teams? Does Beck know someone’s circling? If Colin’s negotiating trades, surely Beck’s agent would have tipped him off already.

But Beck seems about as concerned as Biscuit, who's currently snoozing on the patio steps without a care in the world.

“I was wondering, Beck, do you talk to your agent much these days?” I ask casually, sipping the coffee even as my stomach tightens.

"Philip?" Beck arches a brow. “No more than usual. Why?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Sure.” He leans closer, resting his elbows on his knees, his robe parting to reveal strong thighs dusted with sun-brushed hair. “Phil’s mainly a golf guy. He lives in Vegas, so stays pretty busy. He only calls to say things like, ‘Stay out of trouble,’ or to tell me about endorsement deals. Why?”

I shake my head. “No reason.”

Beck watches me for a second. “You’re bad at casual, you know that?”

“Stop stalling, Beck. You said you’d teach me to swim, so—”

“Oh no, Darce.” Beck pushes smoothly to his feet, that smug grin already warning me I'm about to hate whatever comes next. He unties the belt of his robe and shrugs it from his shoulders, revealing acres of bare chest, hard stomach and a pair of black board shorts covered in…

"Oh my God, Beck. Are those tiny yellow rubber ducks on your swimmers?" I stare at them. “Seriously?”

“You like them?”

“Well, I'm now reconsidering trusting you with my life.”

“You'll survive.” His gaze settles on the white top covering my swimsuit. “But only if you stop stalling. Now strip. And get in the damn water.”

Heat slides through me so quickly it takes a second to recognize it.

Oh.

Apparently I have feelings about Beck Morrison giving me orders.

That's inconvenient.

“Fine.” I kick off my flip-flops and tug at the hem of my top.

Beck goes completely silent.

I glance over and catch his eyes somewhere around the deep plunge of green between my breasts before they make a leisurely trip down my waist, over my hips, then back to my chest.

“Morrison. My eyes are up here.”

His gaze finally lifts. “Sorry. Were you talking?”

I roll my eyes. “You are supposed to be teaching me how not to die.”

“Yep.” He nods seriously. “Just encountered an unexpected workplace distraction.”

I fold my arms over my chest and pop a hip.

"Okay." His eyebrows rise. “Now you're just making it worse.”