Page 95 of Double Puck

Three dots appear instantly.

Beck: And you're evaluating my performance, right? Consider this supplemental material.

I shove the phone under my thigh and pick up my burger with both hands, taking a bite so large just so I have to think about chewing and not his massive—

"So the team flies out Wednesday morning," Rose says, tucking her auburn braid over one shoulder. They both exchange a glance as I take another bite. "Game Thursday night. Colin booked us rooms at—"

My phone vibrates against my thigh again.

Beck: Miss me yet?

Attached this time, is a fifteen-second video I will not be opening at this table.

"—the Bellagio, which is honestly insane for this franchise's budget, but I think Colin's trying to impress the league reps who'll be at the game, and—Darcy, are you listening?"

"One hundred percent."

"What did I just say?"

"Bellagio. Budget. League reps. Impressive."

Josie narrows her eyes. She sets down her drink with the precision of a woman about to conduct an interrogation.

"Are you sexting?"

"No."

Rose looks at me. "Darcy."

"I'm receiving sexts. Technically that's different."

Josie's jaw drops. Rose lets out a sound that's half gasp, half laugh, and then both of them lean forward with the synchronized intensity of detectives who just found the murder weapon.

I take a long sip of my drink, and my free hand drifts to my neck without thinking. My fingers brush the spot where Beck's thumb pressed against my pulse last night, where his grip tightened exactly the way I wanted, and a shiver rolls through me despite the warm air.

Josie's green eyes widen.

Then Rose's gaze slides past me toward the parking lot, where my black convertible sits in its usual spot. Her face changes. Because there, buckled into the passenger seat like a very important guest, is a giant blue stuffed bear.

Beartholomew.

"Oh my God." Rose grabs Josie's arm, both of their jaws dropping. "Oh my God. She fucked him."

"I didn't—"

"YOU FUCKED BECK MORRISON."

"Rose! Volume!"

"Was it good?" Josie demands.

"I'm not answering that."

"Your hand is literally on your throat right now, Darcy. You already answered."

I drop my hand, but it's too late.

Because what follows is the most relentless cross-examination I've endured since my father quizzed me on European hotel contract laws at age fourteen.