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If I don’t see red.
Chapter 10
Arianne
After peeling out of my clothes, untangling my shoulder-length hair from the tight chignon and taking a long, soothing bath, I make my way to my laptop, a second glass of sauvignon blanc in one hand, the bottle in the other. Nothing screams unprofessional bubblehead like drinking too much in front of clients. I prefer to be in control of my senses at all times. In the refuge of my sublet, it’s a different story. It has been a long day and my brain is a little mush. Wine is a must!
Wrapped in an expensive silk robe I bought on a whim in London, I sit down and hit Google with a vengeance to learn everything I can about SCORE’s two executives.
I start with Rhys, and then, focus on Beckett.
I click on photo after photo as I sip more wine.
I even check their music videos.
Now, I know what spitting means.
Not that I understand a word, but Rhys kicks ass. The crowd in the background at a live performance is freaking out. He exudes such confidence.
Beckett is equally talented. His guitar skills are impressive, he has an incredible voice and his stage presence shines. The way he almost makes love to the microphone when he sings, his eyes closed as if connecting with every word of the song, is mesmerizing.
They’re both tall with thick, brown hair and stunning blue eyes, but they couldn’t be further apart.
Holy. Smoking. Hotness.
Something inappropriate, unseasonable, and very foreign—since it’s been a long while—stirs inside me.
I’m too consumed to fight it or deny it.
I lose track of time, pretending it’s all in the name of research and preparedness.
I may have my walls erected high, but I’m not blind.
Beckett and Rhys have the world at their feet, and by God, they wear their success well. I’ve always had a soft spot for men at the helm of an empire.
As I bask in an ocean of gorgeousness, my phone chimes. With a smile stretching my lips, I accept the video call.
“Hey!” I say when my best friend’s beautiful face comes into view. Her big brown eyes are twinkling with excitement. Her coffee-colored hair is pulled back, but the slick bangs remain.
“Hey, you!”
“It’s ten past eleven here. What time is it in Australia?” I ask.
“It’s ten past two in the afternoon in Perth.” After Hong Kong, she’s in Down Under. “These conferences overseas are brutal. I just about reached my quota. I decided to hide in my hotel room so I could call you to find out how your meeting went this morning.”
Phoebe is the director of manufacturing for the leader of a natural kettle-cooked potato chips company.
“You’re the best. We could’ve texted each other.”
“Not the same,” she says. “So, did they hire you?”
“Yes and no. The first meeting was shit. The second… I still can’t get over it.”
“You had meetings with two different prospects today? You didn’t mention that when we talked yesterday.”
“The second meeting came out of the blue.”
For no apparent reason, I start giggling uncontrollably.
