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Beckett: Is there any other way to live?
Arianne: What if someone catches us?
Beckett: Newsflash. I’m the boss. If my door is closed, no one in their right mind would dare to walk in without knocking. Even Valerie knows better. One of the many perks of signing paychecks.
Arianne: You have an answer for everything.
Beckett: I’m a determined man, Holy Chic.
I grin like a fool.
Arianne: Yes, you are.
Beckett: You. Me. My office. Six-thirty p.m. I want you wet. And don’t be late.
Dear God.
Chapter 22
Beckett
I admire people who go at it alone. I would’ve never been able to do this without my business partner. Today, I’m feeling Rhys’s absence. My day was already packed, but I had to tack on important meetings he couldn’t attend. That not only meant I was away from the office, but it also prevented me from catching a glimpse of my new friend.
As I get out of the chauffeured car and make my way to the garage’s elevators, my phone rings.
“Rhys,” I say, picking up. “Are you dying of heat yet?”
“Don’t get me started. I’m fucking sweating my balls off,” he says. “The humidity in Vietnam is oppressive.”
“Better you than me—”
“Things aren’t looking good for us, Beckett,” he says.
“Talk to me.”
“It’s worse than I thought. This strike has no end in sight.”
“Good thing you planned on heading to South Korea.”
“Our production costs are going to skyrocket over the next few months.”
“It may mean smaller profits for a short period of time, but we can handle it,” I say. “Business has been on fire.”
“That’s the only glimmer of hope preventing me from losing my shit.”
“That bad?”
“Leland waited way too long to warn us. We could’ve had this shit nipped in the bud a week ago.”
“The strike has been going on for a week?”
“Two. Going on three.”
“What?” I’m dumbfounded.
“If our production schedule wasn’t so far ahead, we’d be screwed.”
Jesus.
