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Great.
“‘Where the hell is Prince Charming? That douchebag is severely late!’” Beckett reads out loud.
“No one was supposed to see that,” I say.
“Walt Disney fucked you over from the grave, huh?” He’s still laughing.
I give him a onceover.
Of course, he has to look fucking hot.
So far, I’ve only seen him wearing pristine bespoke suits or a dangerously sexy black-on-black look. This is a departure… one I approve of. Beckett is wearing a fitted white t-shirt that exposes his full-sleeve of colorful tattoos.
His forearms are so. . . defined.
My eyes travel to his legs.
His muscles are so thick.
I’m sure his casual outfit cost a fortune. He’s sporting fitted dark wash jeans and navy suede leather-trimmed sneakers with a bronze tag on the tongue that reads the name of an Italian designer.
He has such impeccable taste and style.
I have no doubt this man’s mouthwatering body is a combination of great genes, a kickass personal trainer, and hours of dedication at the gym, but damn.
Our eyes lock, our gazes lingering on one another for several beats.
“You’re done with your inspection?” he asks, a sly grin lifting the side of his mouth.
“You drove all the way here before heading to the office to wake me from my sleep, make fun of me, and give me attitude?”
“No.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“Germany. Remember?”
I blink.
And blink.
Huh?
“We have a flight to catch.”
“That’s tomorrow—”
My eyes widen in horror, as a panic attack threatens.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Did I oversleep?! What time is it? I’m so sorry.”
“Calm down. It’s okay,” Beckett says. “I got here early. I thought we could enjoy a nice breakfast at one of my favorite eateries before heading to the airport, but judging by the look of things, we’ll be cutting it short.”
“Shit, shit, shit.” How did I allow this to happen?
“I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer,” Beckett says.
I’m dumbfounded.
