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“Gage just arrived,” Anders says, lifting his gaze from his screen.
Beckett turns to me. “Gage Hollingsworth is Jam Session’s executive producer. He’s also the owner and CEO founder of the music streaming service StreamTunes.”
“Didn’t Gage Hollingsworth buy out his early investors eight months ago?” I ask.
“Yes,” Beckett says.
Wow. Beckett rubs elbows with big players. Not that he’s a small fish. Still, I’m impressed.
“I was also on that list, but I requested an early buyout because I was worried about conflict of interest.” Holy shit, Beckett is incredibly wealthy. “It’s the same for my older brother Holt. Once I no longer had financial ties with Gage, it was easier to work together. In Holt’s case, it was to ensure his artists wouldn’t be accused of favoritism.”
“I see.”
“Gage’s company is behind the StreamTunes Music Awards—”
“What a trio!” A short man wearing a forest-green tuxedo jacket with a large camera in hand interrupts Beckett as he approaches us. “I’m Douglas Tovey with The New York Times Style Magazine. Could I get a few photos?”
“Absolutely,” Beckett says.
“I’m always up for a little publicity.” Anders chuckles.
“Christensen, your popularity rating is about to skyrocket because you’ll be seen with us,” Tomas says.
“You need to lay off the cheap booze, Lazovic.” Beckett shakes his head. “You’re talking shit.”
All four men laugh.
I step aside to get out of the way.
“You too!” Douglas points at me.
I hesitate.
“You’re Miss Holy Chic, right?” Douglas asks.
My jaw drops.
“I recognize you from those viral photos,” Douglas says.
Earlier, Beckett and me were accosted by photographers from several media outlets, but none of them seemed to have recognized me.
“You’re right, Douglas.” Beckett answers on my behalf. “That’s the one and only, Miss Holy Chic, aka, Arianne Buchanan.”
I’m stunned.
“That’s what I thought.” Douglas nods, satisfied. “Pleased to meet you, Arianne.”
“Likewise.” I manage that one word with a timid voice.
“I absolutely want you in the photos,” Douglas tells me.
Unbelievable.
When I’m still rooted in stupor, Beckett extends an arm. “Come on, Your Holy Chicness, the photographer is waiting.”
I oblige.
He wraps his arm around me and brings me close to his body.
