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On Sunday, we were back on Beckett’s private plane, heading home. Since our time in Germany was jam-packed with presentations and social gatherings—and a hell of a lot of naughtiness—Beckett declared Monday was a day off for both of us. I didn’t argue. I spent most of the day unpacking and running errands.
Phoebe insisted on drinks to celebrate my return, so here we are at Nic’s Martini Lounge in Beverly Hills.
“My bestie is the envy of every woman on the planet,” Phoebe says, dropping her glass on the table.
“I was at the right place at the right time.”
“You’ve been in LA for five weeks and you’re more popular than the most coveted actress in La La Land.” Phoebe’s big brown eyes shine bright. “You weren’t hanging out with one smoking hot musician. Noooooo. You had your pick of three.” She lifts her fingers to drive her point. “Beckett Christensen, Tomas Lazovic, and Anders Benkovic?” Phoebe shakes her head. “No wonder the media won’t shut up. You’re lucky you’re my best friend and I’m madly in love with my Peruvian god. You don’t have to worry about me being jealous. However, if I were you, I’d start walking around with bodyguards because I’m pretty sure there will be many women eager to claw your eyes out.”
Her hilarious comment catches me by surprise and I have to drop my martini glass on the table before spilling its contents.
The press found a million ways to twist a candid moment in time into screaming headlines.
‘MISS HOLY CHIC HAS A NAME! ARIANNE BUCHANAN CAUGHT PARTYING WITH THREE OF THE MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELORS IN THE WORLD.’
‘MISS HOLY CHIC AND CEO ROCK STAR STEP OUT AT SENNHEISER GALA.’
‘IS MISS HOLY CHIC CHANGING BECKETT CHRISTENSEN’S BAD BOY WAYS? STAY TUNED!’
‘MISS HOLY CHIC, THE ROCK STAR AND THE CELLISTS. WHAT A LUCKY GIRL.’
‘HAS HELL FROZEN OVER? IS BECKETT CHRISTENSEN OFF THE MARKET?’
I still can’t get over the tsunami of attention.
“I called it!” Phoebe says, pride washing off her. “I said the city of Angels was your new beginning. I was right.”
“You’re taking a little too much credit for this.”
“I disagree. I’m the one who pushed you to live a little, and after two years of living like a nun, you took my advice. Eat your heart out, Slut Mariah!”
I explode in laughter.
“I couldn’t have predicted I’d end up on the front page of so many publications, but I thank God everything so far has been positive,” I say. “I would’ve been mortified if any of them had criticized my sense of fashion.”
“I take full credit for that as well! Andrea turned you into Cinderella. That dress was so regal looking.”
The press agrees.
‘MISS HOLY CHIC TRADES BEJEWELLED T-SHIRT FOR STUNNING RED DRESS.’
‘MISS HOLY CHIC TRANSFORMS INTO THE LADY IN RED AT SENNHEISER GALA.’
‘MISS HOLY CHIC SETS THE BAR WAY HIGH IN ELEGANT TRAFFIC-STOPPING RED DRESS.’
“I’m still a bit baffled by how a new wardrobe and an updated hairstyle make such a dramatic difference,” I tell her. “I barely recognized myself when I looked in the mirror before Beckett walked into my room.”
“You certainly looked the part of the successful CEO’s date,” Phoebe says.
“Thanks.”
She takes another sip of her espresso martini.
I do the same.
Something wicked flashes in her eyes as she examines me from over the rim of her glass.
“What?” I ask.
