Arianne
fter sprinting back to my office, I fire off a series of texts to my best friend. No response. I call her.
“Pick up. Please, please, please.” My eyes are glued to the screen. Phoebe acc epts the video call,
and I let out a sigh of relief. “What’s up? You bombarded me with ten text messages.” “You
weren’t responding, so I took the liberty of calling you. I know you’re a night owl.”
“I just got out of the shower,” she says. “Why do you look so freaked out?”
“I have nothing to wear.” She squints at me. “You’re fully clothed,” she says. “Are you drinking on
the job?”
“No, silly. Beckett asked me out and I have nothing to wear.” She tilts her head to the side. “I gather
this isn’t business related?” I tell her the whole story. “That’s exactly what you need,” Phoebe says.
“You won’t be able to spell Chance’s name by the end of the evening. Same for Slut Mariah.”
“I shouldn’t admit this, but I’m dying to do something crazy. I’m tired of being so regimented. Slut
Mariah used to take pleasure in mocking my disciplined life. That’s what gave her the upper leg.
Remember? Chance k ept singing her praises for being so fun, bubbly, and lighthearted. I want to be
the fun one for once... even if it’s only for one night.”
“Puh-lease.” My best friend rolls her eyes. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to
trashy-extension-wearing Mariah. That would be lowering yourself, and I won’t hear of it. She’s
not fun. She’s vapid. And easy. Chance wasn’t talking about her personality. He was talking about
her vagina—her well used vagina.” The way Phoebe stretches out the words is hilarious. The
expression of disgust contorting Phoebe’s face is priceless. “Am I right or am I right?”
“You won’t get an argument from me,” I say. “I need this night out.” “I totally agree.” “I can’t
thank Beckett enough. He’s the perfect man for operation ‘forget Chance and his slut’.”
“Speaking of perfect, what about Rhys?” “What about him?” “Weren’t you considering a ménage
with both attractive men?” “That’s how fake news starts,” I say. She laughs. “They’re my clients.
Beckett is being a gentleman by not allowing me to wallow in self-pity. That’s it.”
“In other words, Beckett is the chosen one.” “Are you not listening?” “Both blue-eyed gods are
scorching hot, but I’m willing to bet every dollar to my name Beckett is edgier, more imperious,
and more domineering. Turbulent, even.”
Leave it to Phoebe to come up with shit like this. “Turbulent? This isn’t a flight on his private jet.”
“Perhaps, but I bet he can get you off. Am I right or am I right?” “Why are we friends again?”
“Hear me out. I’m onto something here.” She’s undeterred. She scares me when she’s like this.
“You don’t have to sle ep with sexy Beckett— although I would fully support you if you did let him
dip his cock into your pussy because God knows you need a good fuck—”
“Seriously, Phoebe?” “Make sure to lands cape before your date—” “It’s not a date. It’s dinner—”
“Whatever you say. My point being, throw caution to the wind. Live a little. Get crazy with the bad
boy.” She stands up. “You know, Livin’ la Vida Loca.” She gyrates her hips.
“What is wrong with you? Is it something they put in the water in Australia? Because I swear to
God, you have a screw loose.”
She laughs as she sits back down. “Sue me for being excited that my bestie is getting some.”
“Which part of he’s my client, don’t you understand?” “You’re exempt from the office
fraternization clause, and if you’re both consenting adults... why should the night end with dinner
and a little bar hopping? I’m just sayin’.”
“Moving right along. To answer your question, Rhys is getting ready to board a private jet to
Vietnam to deal with a production crisis. There’s a strike with no end in sight. Then, he’s heading to
South Korea to source out other r eputable manufacturers. He’ll be gone for a while.”
“God made the decision for you. Sexy Beckett it is—” “Phoebe, enough.” “Okay, okay. No more
clowning around. Going back to the reason you called. You’re right. Your whole wardrobe screams
unapproachable. Same goes for your hairstyle.”
“The look says professional.” She shakes her head. “I disagree. The look says Stay the fuck away,
asshole. I’ve told you that a million times.”
Okay, she has, but I chose to ignore her. “I understand you have zero interest in Beckett, but if you
want to be the fun one—the playful one—you have to dress the part.”