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I particularly like the last headline.
It’s not easy to step ahead of a giant.
Since time was of the essence, Arianne sourced a handful of local artists, graffiti artists, and even a badass mechanic—who does insane custom paint and design jobs on vintage bikes. The six artists put their talent to work by coating basic white headphones with top quality paint jobs or standout-art on the prototypes for the unveiling. As a result, pre-orders are coming in massive numbers. That’s why my girl and Rhys have been at Tekknika Audio all week in endless production meetings while I hold the fort down here.
Our public kiss also caused quite the frenzy.
‘ANOTHER BAD BOY OFF THE MARKET. BECKETT CHRISTENSEN IS TAKEN!’
‘ARIANNE BUCHANAN AND BECKETT CHRISTENSEN, LA’S NEWEST POWER COUPLE!’
‘ARIANNE BUCHANAN AND BECKETT CHRISTENSEN LOCK LIPS IN SWOON-WORTHY HOLLYWOOD-STYLE KISS.’
‘BREAKING NEWS: BECKETT CHRISTENSEN NO LONGER FLYING SOLO, LADIES!’
Just like Cesar, a lot of guys in my circle have been giving me a hard time about my new relationship status. My parents and Holt adore Arianne.
Knock, knock, knock.
There’s a rap at the door.
“Come in,” I say, lifting my gaze.
The door opens, and a blonde pokes her head in.
“Beckett Christensen, right?” she asks.
The day after the unveiling, the building was under siege by a swarm of reporters. It’s not like we weren’t expecting a certain level of excitement. We beefed up security accordingly. Things have somewhat died down, but I’m not surprised a sneaky reporter would do just about anything to get a scoop on a story.
“How the hell did you get in here?” I ask.
“Finally,” the blonde says, letting herself in. “I’ve been bouncing all over this floor to find you. Where is everybody?”
It’s lunchtime, which explains why the executive floor is nearly empty, but that’s none of her business.
“You want an interview or information about SCORE Yours, contact our PR agency! As far as I’m concerned, you’re trespassing—”
“I’m not a reporter,” she says.
I arch an eyebrow. “Who are you?”
The blonde approaches, strutting with an exaggerated swing of the hips. She comes to stand right in front of my desk.
I knit my eyebrows together.
Where have I seen her before?
And why is she even wearing a trench coat when it’s hot outside?
“I asked you a question,” I tell her.
Her painted red lips break into a wide smile as her brown eyes—which seem too far apart—hold mine.
“Surely she’s talked about me,” the woman says.
“Who are you talking about?”
“The bane of my existence, that’s who,” she says, as if I’m supposed to clue in.
