Arianne
urope is Europe, but it has nothing on the breathtaking sight stretching before me—LA at dawn.
The canvas of warm colors painting the skyline in the early morning hour is sublime.
The City of Angels is awakening, and I’ve been standing on the balcony of my sublet for half an
hour in nothing more than a loose-fitting t-shirt— no panties—a first—as I enjoy the view. Since I
couldn’t sle ep, I figured what better way to ease into my day.
When sle ep eludes me, it’s because of my never-ending to-do list on a project, the stress of not
letting people down, the worry of not measuring up to my last stellar performance or the anxiety of
potentially failing.
Not today. My body is still humming from my sizzling-hot encounter with a blueeyed god. As
much as I wanted things to go further, Beckett insists the wait will only make it better. He’s given
me the most thrilling sexual experience of my life. I can’t imagine what better even looks like.
After Beckett slipped out of my apartment, I went to sle ep wet and aching, remembering the feel of
his thick cock between my ass cheeks. God, that was so perverted. I’ve never done anything that
kinky, and I’m not ashamed to say I want more. Pleasuring myself alone isn’t as earthshattering as
pleasuring myself under his watchful eye.
It’s no surprise he’s an insane lover, but I didn’t expect the bad boy to make me feel like I was the
most beautiful woman in the world. Thank you, Beckett Christensen. To add icing on the cake, I
sure as hell never knew a few hours of filthy pleasures with the right guy could make me feel
invincible.
My vulva is good enough. Chance was too much of an idiot to appreciate it or appreciate me. I
know better than to send my ex a snarky text message to inform him that germ-filled bodily fluids
are heavenly, but I’d love nothing more than to rub my newfound brazen-self in his jackass face.
My phone rings. I rush inside to grab it. Since Phoebe is on a plane back to LA, I’m sure it isn’t her
calling. And I doubt it’s Beckett. He sent me a text message when he reached his car after leaving
my place and another one when he reached his home to thank me for an incredible night.
My feet won’t be touching the ground anytime soon. I acc ept the call. “Mom,” “Oh, honey, I didn’t
expect to catch you. Isn’t it a little early for you?” “Good morning, Mom.” “Where are my
manners? Good morning, honey. It’s only five-thirty your time. Why are you up so early?”
“I couldn’t sle ep.” “Too much partying with a hot guy will do that to a lassie,” she says in an
exaggerated Scottish accent.
Huh? “What are you talking about?” “Moira was all up and mighty on her high horse when she
called this morning to tell me off.”
“I thought you weren’t on speaking terms with your estranged sister.” “We aren’t.” “Then why is
she mad at you?” “You usurped her wee baby daughter’s royal wedding announcement. The
youngest Golightly is in town, making the rounds, flashing her gaudy rock. So distasteful.”
“Mariah is in Philadelphia?” Mom makes this sound of disgust. I can see her crossing her arms over
her ample chest, unimpressed.
“Unbelievable.” “You’re telling me. It’s like she’s auditioning for a reality TV show. She arrived
Tuesday morning before her freakin’ publicist pushed the news out about her pending nuptials.
What a farce.”
“Mariah has a publicist?” I’m incredulous. My morning was going so well. “Yes, she’s going to be
a freakin’ princess, don’t you know? So, it’s newsworthy.”
“She’s going to marry a multimillionaire, not a freakin’ prince.” I can’t help but adopt Mom’s
Scottish accent.
“She’s a bloody nitwit, that one,” Mom says. I stifle a laugh. “In her delusional mind, it’s the same
freakin’ thing. I’m surprised she hasn’t taken to walking around with a freakin’ tiara on her
head—not that she’d find one big enough to fit that inflated ego of hers.”
I roll my eyes. “I still don’t understand why Aunt Moira thinks I care enough about stupid Mariah
to give a damn about her wedding announcement.”
“Good for you for not giving a flying fuck,” Mom says. “So, what’s this about me stealing the
limelight from her precious child?”
“You haven’t been online?” “No. It’s still early here.” “That’s why you don’t know.” “You’re not
making sense, Mom.” “From the photos and the in-your-face headlines, you’re the new it girl,
child.”
“What?” “Get on the internet and see for yerself.” “Okay, give me a second.” I rush to my laptop,
open it, and fire it up. “My sister has some nerves,” Mom says. “As Moira was losing her freakin’
shit on the other end of the phone, I reminded her we were done as sisters before hanging up in her
bloody face. I didn’t mince words, I tell ya. Daddy was on his back laughing.”
I still don’t know what this is all about, but I can’t help the laughter bubbling from me.
Daddy is always quick to defend me against the nasty Golightly clan. Aunt Moira and her three
daughters are witches, I swear. I type the URL of a popular celebrity blog to make sense of what my
mom is saying.
I gasp when I catch a glimpse of the headlines.
‘CEO OF SCORE HEADPHONES “SCORES” LAST NIGHT WITH SEXY
MYSTERY WOMAN’
‘BECKETT CHRISTENSEN SMILING FOR THE CAMERA WITH
GORGEOUS MYSTERY WOMAN’
‘BECKETT CHRISTENSEN CAUGHT CANOODLING WITH MYSTERY
HOLY CHICNESS AT REGGAETON KING CESAR NAVARRO’S
ENGAGEMENT PARTY’
‘IS BAD-BOY, BACHELOR-FOREVER BECKETT CHRISTENSEN
WALKING DOWN THE AISLE?’
‘BECKETT CHRISTENSEN, WHO’S THAT “HOLY CHIC” GIRL?’
‘FEVERISH NIGHT OF DIRTY SALSA DANCING FOR BAD BOY
BECKETT CHRISTENSEN’
The candid photos of Cesar, Diana, Beckett, and I smiling at the camera are a reminder of an
enchanting evening. Never in a million years did I think they would go viral.
Holy shit. I scroll through the photos, jaw-dropped. The ones of Beckett and I dancing in an
intimate embrace spark my lady parts.
“It’s about time you es caped from your self-imposed prison sentence.” Her words bring me back to
the moment.
“Huh?” “The handsome lad,” she says. “I guess you were waiting for the one.” I’m stunned. “Your
father isn’t perfect, but Gregor and I have weathered so many storms together. I want that for you.
Every woman needs a good man. Not a spineless moron like Chance. You found yourself a live
one, honey.” She ke eps talking. “This Beckett is quite the looker. A fine fellow, if you ask me.”
Muriel Buchanan is on a roll.
“Mom, you have it all wrong—” “This lad seems to be doing quite well for himself—far better than
Chance could ever dream of.”
She’s right about that. “And he seems quite smitten by you.” “Smitten?” “It’s obvious. Even a blind
man can see it.” “Mom—” “Ari, don’t argue with your mother. Look at the bloody photos. You two
are a glamorous Hollywood couple. What a great match.” Mom blurts that out in one breath. “When
do I get to meet this gorgeous Beckett Christensen?”
And this is where I burst her bubble. “He’s my new boss-slash-client.” “The new company you
started working for?” “Yes.” The silence stretches on the other end. “Mom?” “Oh, honey, do you
want to go down that rabbit hole again?”