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“Miss Holy Chic and the Bad Boy CEO!”
She shakes her head. “You’re more than that, Beckett, and you know it. Mariah is marrying a multimillionaire. Whoopty ding-dong!” She rolls her eyes. “I’m hanging out with a badass rock star and the CEO of a company pulling several billion dollars in sales and poised to double, if not triple that. Furthermore, said CEO is pretty easy on the eye. Chance isn’t ugly, but it’s unlikely women will ever drop their panties when he walks into a room. And he’ll never grace multiple covers of men’s fashion, business, or music magazines. And let’s talk about those smoking hot calendars the Dennison brothers produce you’ve been featured in several times. Oof!” She fans herself. “Pigs will fly before that ever happens to my ex.”
I almost blush. Almost.
“Chance lacks your swagger, charisma, cocksureness and perfect white teeth.” I can’t help my smile. “Chance is a joker…” Her eyes bore into mine. “While you, Beckett, you’re a king.”
Your king.
Chapter 33
Arianne
After getting the Chance-slash-Mariah mess off my chest, I had great expectations for the rest of the flight but I kept dozing off. I fought it as much as I could, but eventually, I gave in. My body was in desperate need of rest. Too much boozing and too much wild partying will do that to a girl who tends to color within the lines.
Speaking of fucking mess, I didn’t expect to open up like that. Other than my mom and Phoebe, no one knows of my humiliating story. I never told Easton why I hightailed it out of Silicon Valley in such a rush, but the day Chance’s company got bought out for a ridiculous amount, Easton sent me a short text message that spoke volumes.
Easton: The asshole fucked you over, didn’t he?
I responded with a simple yes.
Easton promised he’d back me up financially to go after what was rightfully mine. I passed, to his chagrin. Fighting Chance was only going to end up killing me inside. The idea of seeing him and Mariah together as a couple was too nauseating. I pray karma will be a bitch when it comes to them.
Arriving in Europe on a private jet is different from arriving on a commercial flight, even when flying business class. The luxury treatment of traveling with a billionaire extends to the mode of transportation when we land—the chauffeured Bentley is a classy touch.
The short ride from the Hannover-Langenhagen Airport into Wedemark is dedicated to soaking up the German countryside. Even though I lived on this continent for two years, I never made it to Germany. Now, I wonder why.
On the flight over, Beckett mentioned Valerie tried to get us a room in one of the handful of hotels, but since we’re last minute, we lucked out. At least, she was able to book us rooms in a quaint inn.
“Guten tag und herzlich willkommen. Good afternoon and welcome to the Lindelglück Gasthaus,” a smiling blue-eyed blonde with noticeable silver streaks says.
“Guten tag und herzlich willkommen,” Beckett says and I follow suit.
“You speak German?!” the woman says.
“Oh, God, no,” Beckett tells her. “So far, those are the only words I’ve mastered.”
“Same here,” I say.
“We had a crash course on the flight over here,” Beckett says. “Thanks for not making fun of us, even if we butchered your language.”
The woman laughs.
“I speak English. So, we are okay,” she says with a pronounced accent. “My name is Astrid, and you are?”
“Beckett Christensen and this is—”
“Herzliche Glückwünsche! Congratulations on your wedding! We have the nuptial suite ready for you. You’re going to love it.”
All cohesive thought comes to a screeching halt.
“The nuptial suite?” Beckett asks.
“Yes,” Astrid says. “Love… so exciting and new!” She clasps her hands in prayer under her chin and sighs dramatically. “I still remember when I married my Günter—my prince—at twenty-three. Thirty wonderful years later… we’re still in love.” Another long sigh.
She’s so busy reliving her life story, she’s oblivious to the way Beckett is staring at her in disbelief. I’m sure I’m sporting the same shocked expression on my face.
She leans forward, a proud smile stretching her lips. “Do you want to know the secret to a long marriage?” Beckett and I are still speechless when she continues. “Tattoos,” Astrid says as her eyes lower to Beckett’s colorful forearms. “Husband and wife tattoos, to be precise. He has my name etched on his chest. I have his on my…”
