Arianne
If I allow myself to forget all about Chance, the betrayal, the lies, and the deceit, I’d be willing to
admit I’m sitting across from the perfect man.
Beckett Christensen is what every woman dreams of—a gentleman, an influencer, a force, and an
Adonis oozing with charm. His devastatingly good looks and those insane blue eyes make him all
the more irresistible.
I gave myself a good talking to before he arrived and I was determined to stand strong in my belief I
was immune to my client’s charms. That’s until I opened the door. He’d ditched the bespoke suit,
but he still looked delicious. The head-to-toe black look is a classic among men. Rare are those who
exude the level of raw masculinity Beckett does.
I don’t know what his cologne is, but it smells like Eau de Pheromone. It didn’t go unnoticed how
women salivated all over themselves as we followed the waiter to our table. I swear, some had
whiplash from craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the tall, sexy man trailing behind me.
Beckett is being a kind soul by preventing me from spending the evening de ep diving in a pint of
Wunderlust ice cream, but I must say, knowing I’m the envy of all these women is pretty thrilling.
I’m not delusional. At the stroke of midnight, it all ends. But for now, I’m willing to st ep into the
fairytale.
We’re at C’est Si Bon inside the Quintus Hotel. It’s upscale dining experience at its best. A lot of
clients wined and dined me at five-star restaurants before, but they all take a backseat to this.
Everything about the Quintus Hotel spells upscale.
Beckett tells me the restaurant is packed with Hollywood’s Who’s Who. I believe him. People here
look like they’re made of money.
“This is exquisite,” I say, finishing the last drop of my drink. “The red wine and the restaurant.”
“Since you’ve never been to Paris—and Rhys made a point of highlighting it this morning—I
thought this would be perfect,” he says.
“The way you say that makes it sounds like you two have a rivalry going on.”
“There’s no rivalry here,” Beckett says. “He’s sweating his balls off somewhere in Vietnam while
I’m sitting across from the hottest woman in the restaurant. I win hands down.”
I laugh. And blush. The man has my head spinning. “Stop it,” I say. Or ke ep going. “Flying to Paris
overnight is a bit of a stretch—even when you own your own private jet.”
I can’t relate to that statement. “C’est Si Bon is the second-best thing.” I’ll take your word for it.
“The food is spectacular, the wine list is refined, and the attentive service is irr eproachable... in
other words, it’s holy incredible.”
“You find clever ways of twisting things around.” “I get that a lot.” Why did that sound borderline
perverted? After tasting some of the most refined champagne in my life at Flûte Champagne Bar,
we made our way to the second French restaurant in the hotel.
“You enjoyed your meal?” Beckett points to my empty plate. “I believe I’ve been quite vocal about
it since the first bite.” “Yes, you have, but it would be ungentlemanly of me not to double check.”
“I enjoyed the meal immensely. So far, this evening rocks.” “And to think it’s only getting started.”
Something I can’t make out veils his eyes. Stop reading too much into things. “Should we order
another bottle of red with dessert or would you prefer white?”
Since Beckett is driving, I’ve been doing most of the drinking. I should hold back a bit, but this
wine is so freaking amazing. Not to mention, the rich French meal serves as a buffer, right?
“Waltzing into work on my third day on a new contract with a massive hangover might send the
wrong message. I wouldn’t want my client to think I’m irresponsible.”
“What kind of tyrant do you work for?” He winks. “What about another glass?”
I hesitate. “You’re going to dance it off,” he says. “Who says we’re going dancing?” “As if a night
of fun would exclude dancing,” he says in a matter-of-fact way.
I arch a brow. “Rock stars can dance?” “Rock stars are invincible. We can do anything.” “Your ego
is huge, Beckett Christensen.” His eyes, which match the iridescent blue of the Ionian Sea, turn
dark. “What did I say?” His half smile should be a precursor. “That’s not the only thing huge about
me.” My cheeks flame up. My lips part in shock. My brain can’t even come up with a response.
“Did I say that out loud?” The amusement in his eyes is evident. “Yes, you did,” I say. A vision of
his naked glory and his hugeness flashes in front of my eyes. I shake the thought away before I
drool all over myself. If I could fan myself in an inconspicuous way, I would, but he’s still staring
straight at me. “A client shouldn’t reveal that much about himself.”
“We’re friends, remember?” “In that case, I know way too much about my new friend.” “You don’t
know nearly enough.” “You’re right, a bottle might be too much. Let’s ke ep it to another glass.”
He laughs. My client is a dangerous man. A part of my brain is cautioning me to ke ep my wits
about me, but another part of me doesn’t care. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed an
evening out with a guy.
Beckett’s sexual track record must be as long as the Mississippi River, but right now, he makes me
feel like I’m the only woman in the world.