Arianne fter peeling out of my clothes, untangling my shoulder-length hair from the tight chignon and taking a long, soothing bath, I make my way to my laptop, a second glass of sauvignon blanc in one hand, the bottle in the other. Nothing screams unprofessional bubblehead like drinking too much in front of clients. I prefer to be in control of my senses at all times. In the refuge of my sublet, it’s a different story. It has been a long day and my brain is a little mush. Wine is a must. Wrapped in an expensive silk robe I bought on a whim in London, I sit down and hit Google with a vengeance to learn everything I can about SCORE’s two executives. My first search is for Rhys, and then, focus on Beckett. I click on photo after photo as I sip more wine. I even check their music videos. Now, I know what spitting means. Not that I understand a word, but Rhys kicks ass. The crowd in the background at a live performance is freaking out. He exudes such confidence. Beckett is equally talented. His guitar skills are impressive, he has an incredible voice and his stage presence shines. The way he almost makes love to the microphone when he sings, his eyes closed as if connecting with every word of the song, is mesmerizing. They’re both tall with thick, brown hair and stunning blue eyes, but they couldn’t be further apart. Holy. Smoking. Hotness. Something inappropriate, unseasonable, and foreign—since it’s been a long while—stirs inside me. I’m too consumed to fight it or deny it. I lose track of time, pretending it’s all in the name of research and pr eparedness. I may have my walls erected high, but I’m not blind. Beckett and Rhys have the world at their feet, and by God, they wear their success well. I’ve always had a soft spot for men at the helm of an empire. As I bask in an ocean of gorgeousness, my phone chimes. With a smile stretching my lips, I acc ept the video call. My best friend’s beautiful face comes into view. Her brown eyes are twinkling with excitement. Her coffee-colored hair is pulled back, but the slick bangs remain. “Hey, you.” “It’s ten past eleven here. What time is it in Australia?” “It’s ten past two in the afternoon in Perth.” After Hong Kong, she’s in Down Under. “These conferences overseas are brutal. I’ve reached my quota. I decided to hide in my hotel room so I could call you to find out how your meeting went this morning.” Phoebe is the director of manufacturing for the leader of a natural kettle-cooked potato chips company. “You’re the best. We could’ve texted each other.” “Not the same,” she says. “So, did they hire you?” “Yes and no. The first meeting was shit. The second... I still can’t get over it.”
“You had meetings with two different prospects today? You didn’t mention that when we talked yesterday.” “The second meeting came out of the blue.” For no apparent reason, I giggle. “Are you drunk?” “Nope. A tad tipsy.” “You’re a lightweight, Ari. A tad tipsy means, you’re drunk.” “I’m not,” I say. “I had a good buffer. I had a huge Italian meal, followed by a decadent dessert with my new bosses-slash-clients.” “Your hazy eyes betray you, but I’ll let it slide. Congratulations on the new clients.” “Thanks.” “I can’t wait to get back to LA so we can celebrate and I can hug the hell out of you.” “Ditto,” I say. With Phoebe in LA and in a new relationship, and me living in Europe, we haven’t seen each other in person in a long time. “On a side note, I love it when you remove your armor.” She laughs. I roll my eyes. “If I could wear my hair pulled back tight and my thre epiece suits to bed, I would. It’s not comfortable sle eping attire.” She shakes her head. “You might get your wish, Phoebe.” “Which one? You opening yourself up to a man again?” “Ha. Ha. Funny. LMAO. But, no. The three-piece suits worked in Silicon Valley, New York and in Europe, but in LA they’re a liability. It’s as hot as Hades in this city.” She laughs. “Well, I can’t say I’ll be complaining to see you wearing something a lot less... guarded. I’ll be back Thursday, middle of the night. Let’s go shopping.” “You’re on.” “I can’t believe you gave me that win so easily.” “It’s not a win, Phoebe. It’s either I get a new wardrobe or I melt in a pool of sweat.” She laughs again. “The tide turns in my favor just when I was losing faith,” she says. “Whatever.” “Tell me more about this new contract.” “Without Easton I’d be drinking for a whole other reason right now.” She frowns. I tell her about my no-show prospects and the phone call from Easton that turned my day from shitty to fantastic. “The man is your savior, Ari,” Phoebe says when I’m done. “He truly is.” “Who will you be working for?” “SCORE headphones.” “That’s a d eparture from your usual roster of clients.” “One I’m enjoying by the minute.” Another fit of giggles. Great. Working with two attractive bosses-slash-clients means I revert to being a teenager again. “What do you mean?” “Are you in front of your laptop?” “I can be.” “I’ll wait.” She squints. “This better be good, Ari.” “Trust me, it is.” She gets up from where she was sitting. The images go blurry as she moves from a couch to a table. “Okay, what’s the deal?” “Open two tabs in a browser. In one of them type, Beckett Christensen. In the other, type Rhys Hartford.” I spell both their names. “Please hold,” she says in her best phone operator voice. “Holding.” I giggle. I should stop drinking, but instead, I take advantage of the moment to sip more wine.
Her facial expression precedes her exclamation. “Mother of God.” Her wide eyes move back to her phone. “I know, right?” “You’re working with those two guys?” “I do.” “Seriously?” “I signed all the papers late this afternoon.” “Better you than me.” “Why do you say that?” “I love Oscar with all my heart, but come on. Your clients are smoking hot. I couldn’t work with them. I’d be drooling all over myself and lose focus.” “I’m a consummate professional.” “Fuck being a professional. Did you see what they look like?” “I sat across from them all day long and well into the evening, so yeah, I know what they look like.” “And you didn’t drool all over yourself?” I offer a one-shoulder shrug. “Puh-lease.” Phoebe doesn’t fall for my bullshit. “The only reason you wouldn’t have a physical reaction to those two men is if you were made of tin foil. Even then.” “Okay, I ogled.”. “So, you do have a pulse.” I flatten my lips into a thin line. “Don’t quit your day job.” “Seriously, Ari. This is a huge st ep for you.” I tend to stick my head in the sand and pretend I don’t see men. “It takes a lot to ruffle my feathers—” “Or flutter your vagina.” “You’re not well in your head.” “Just sayin’.” “I’m immune to men—” “Seems to me like those days are behind you.” Her wide eyes are fixed on her laptop. No doubt, she’s scrolling through a wall of deliciousness. “Oh, videos,” she says. The edgy sound of Random Misconc eption blares in the background. “Holy Jesus, Beckett can sing.” “I can’t say rock music is my thing, but the man has an insane voice—” The wine has mellowed me out, removing my barrier to overshare. “Your new boss has a sexy ass in those jeans.” “Are you sure you’re in love with Oscar?” “Don’t you dare question my love for my man,” she says. “I’m being a good friend by evaluating these two for you.” “They’re clients.” “Whatever helps you sle ep at night,” she says before moving her attention away from me. “Let me check out your other hunky client.” Her fingers fly on the keyboard. Music blares on her end. She nods. “Rhys could get me to listen to rap music.” “You kill me.” “This display of manliness bears the question again. How in the world can you work with—Dear God—” “What?” “These two redefine suit porn.” “I know.” I take another sip of wine. “Did you see the photo of them in a tuxedo?” “Trust me, I did.” “They’re tall?” “I’d say six-one to six-three.” “I approve.” She nods. “And those blue eyes... how can you stare at them without losing yourself?” “I managed.” Barely. “Those dazzling smiles should be on billboards across the country.” “God didn’t skimp the day they were born,” I say. That’s for sure. “Imagine what they’re hiding under the suit or tux.” My cheeks burst into flames. “Oh, someone has been having some naughty thoughts at work,” she says. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion. They weren’t naughty thoughts. They were curious ones.” “Which one makes your pussy flutter the most?” “Phoebe, that’s a horrible word.” “Okay. Quiver, pulsate, palpitate, convulse, tremor, shatter. Pick the word you prefer and pick a guy,” she says.
“All of those words are over-the-top.” “You want to play it like that?” She continues before I can answer. “Which one of those two will you fantasize about tonight while you play with yourself?” “Phoebe.” I’m sure my cheeks are ten shades redder. “You may have given up on cock—because it’s attached to a man—but orgasms? Come on, Ari. A girl needs two to three of those per day.” Unbelievable. “Two to three?” “I hit the jackpot with Oscar.” “Evidently.” “Until you meet your Oscar, I suggest you take matters into your own hands. How long has it been?” “Why do I tell you so much?” I shake my head. “Because I’m your best friend.” “Well, listen here, best friend, there will be no fluttering or quivering pussy,” I say. “The same goes for fantasizing about the men who will be signing my paychecks.” “You say that now, but I’m sure in time, you’ll change your mind.” She seems so certain of herself. I hesitate, weighing if I should give her more ammunition or not. She squints at me. “Are you holding back on me? Did you have a hot make-out session with one of them?” “I started today. What do you take me for?” “Given the chance, there isn’t a single woman in the world who wouldn’t want to get down and dirty with one of those guys... or maybe both. They say ménage romance is the new black.” “I can’t imagine being in a relationship with one man, let alone two.” “Don’t knock it till you try it.” She’s on a roll. “You’ve lost your mind.” “No. I’m excited for you, Ari,” she says. “A week and a half ago, you were going on and on about the infuriating guy you were trapped inside an elevator with. Even though you wouldn’t admit to it, I bet he was hot.” I should’ve k ept my mouth shut. “The old Arianne wouldn’t even have mentioned it because in her world men don’t exist. LA-Arianne takes notice of hot men. You’re making progress.” “Speaking of the hot guy from the elevator—” Damn. I blame Beckett’s mesmerizing eyes and blindingly obnoxious good looks for my slip up. “What about your hot roomie?” I chew the inside of my lip. “Don’t tell me he works at SCORE,” Phoebe says. “No.” “Phew. That would’ve been a freaky coincidence.” “He co-owns the company.” “What?” Phoebe’s brown eyes are the size of saucers. “Yes.” “Which one is it?” “My short-lived elevator roommate is Beckett Christensen.” “So, your dirty wet dream is a reality now and he has a name... one that screams self-assuredness. I like it.” She’s right about Beckett’s almighty confidence. Rhys has it too, but it’s a bit more toned down. “He was never a dirty wet dream.” Lie. “He was a distraction.” “One that reminded you you’re a woman with needs, Ari. It’s okay for your lady parts to flutter again.” “Stop it with that ridiculous word.” She grins wide. “Anyway, you’re getting way too excited—” “There you go—” “There are certain professional conducts I adhere to—” “There should be some leeway when God delivers such irresistible temptations.” I open my mouth to respond, but I freeze when my eyes catch a headline in the column of the USA Today Entertainment page that’s open on my laptop.
“What the fuck,” I say. “What is it?” I blink in disbelief. “What is it, Ari?” I read the headline out loud. ‘GLACH TECH CEO ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO GIRLFRIEND. HOLY MASSIVE ROCK’ “Oh, shit,” Phoebe says. “I can’t believe this farce of a relationship has lasted this long.” “Neither can I.” “I’m so sorry, Ari.” “It’s not your fault.” “I know, but you didn’t need to find out this way.” I let out a disgusted sound. “I didn’t need to find out at all, but it is what it is.” A tidal wave of harsh reality shatters the lighthearted moment I was sharing with my best friend. There it is in black and white. It’s indisputable. I’m assaulted with memories I’d rather forget. The effect is the same as torrential rain dosing a raging California bush fire, leaving behind shards of debris where life once existed. “If this ridiculousness goes through, I’m sure the wedding will be as gaudy as she is,” Phoebe says. “The bitch has zero taste or class.” Phoebe is being a good friend, but that doesn’t change the facts. The bitch got exactly what she wanted. “Talk to me, Ari,” Phoebe says when I remain frozen in silence. “This is why I stay the hell away from men.” No more relationships. No more tears. No more drama. And no more trusting someone who will stomp all over your heart. Love sucks. The pain may have subsided, but the humiliation... it’s still vivid enough to ke ep me steadfastly bound to the promise I made to myself when I got the hell out of Silicon Valley.