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“Wear whatever you want,” Beck replies in the indifferent tone most men have when it comes to fashion.
“Well, I only have one outfit, so it shouldn’t be too hard of a choice,” I respond, hopping off the bed to pull the dress I wore here back on.
I get dressed and follow Beck out of his apartment into the hallway. His apartment that’s twice the square footage of the house I grew up in. Beck’s door is the only one in the hallway. He has the top floor all to himself.
We enter the elevator, and as soon as Beck taps the down button, we drop rapidly. I expect to see the marble lobby, but the door opens to a garage instead. I follow him over to his car, which is parked in a prime spot to the left of the elevator doors.
“So, anything I should know?” I ask, as he pulls out of the garage.
“Hmm?” He keeps his eyes on the road, which I guess is a good thing.
“You said you’d brought girls home before. How did they act? Am I supposed to mention soccer, not mention soccer? Is there a?—”
“Just be yourself.”
I eye him dubiously. That’s one thing no one has ever said before. I’m used to being told to tone it down.
“And if you bring up soccer, call it football,” he tells me.
I roll my eyes before glancing out the window.
The drive takes about an hour. I don’t say anything as we roll through the open gate and along a cobblestone driveway, too busy gaping at the estate we’re driving toward. I shouldn’t be this shocked. Beck’s apartment slash penthouse must have cost several million dollars. I know he and his family have money. Lots of it. But I’m used to modest buildings. The three-bedroom bungalow my parents bought when they got married, a dorm room, and the house I share with Cressida, Anne, and Emma that seems to need repairs constantly.
Not…this.
The Scholenberg house I’m staying in is designed in what I’ve come to recognize as traditional German style: brightly colored and half-timbered. But the mansion before me is much more dignified looking, both symmetrical and stately. There’s a courtyard of topiaries and statues that wouldn’t look out of place at a royal residence cradled between the two wings of the house that jut out to the left and right. Beck parks at the very edge of the cobblestones.
“So, is your house behind the palace?” I ask, only half kidding.
He grins. “Come on. We’re late.”
I follow him through the courtyard and glass-paneled doors into the marble entryway, feeling very out of place. One major I tried out before settling on public relations was architecture, and I feel like I’ve stepped inside one of the chateaus or palazzos we studied floor plans of.
There’s a flurry of German, and a statuesque blonde girl who looks to be a few years younger appears, stopping at the bottom of the staircase.
“Hi, Sophia,” Beck replies.
The blonde switches to flawless English. “You brought another girl to brunch?” She sounds thoroughly displeased about it.
At least Beck wasn’t lying about his past plus ones.
“I thought you said you weren’t coming,” Beck replies.
“Plans change. People don’t, apparently.” She huffs out an annoyed sigh before holding a hand out to me. “Hi, I’m Sophia Beck.”
I see the family resemblance. She has the same pronounced cheekbones and blue eyes as her older brother.
“Saylor Scott,” I respond, shaking her firm grip.
“You’re American,” she states.
I nod. “Yep.”
“Are you a model?” she asks me.
I laugh. “Ha. No. I play soccer. I mean, football.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Really?”
