Arianne Ido not appreciate your sense of humor this morning, God. I exchange a few words with the big guy up above as I stare bewildered at my new boss-slash-client—the incredibly handsome man I haven’t been able to forget. Of all the companies in a massive city like LA, I had to land here. What are the odds? And this is why I never walk into a meeting unpr epared. Easton said I have nothing to worry about. Judging from the outrageous baby blue eyes looking down at me, I’d venture to say he’s dead wrong. Forget about being caught off guard. I was caught with my panties around my knees. Not good. You’re a professional. No way am I allowing long, dark lashes framing dreamy blue eyes to set me off course. I have a r eputation to maintain, regardless if my boss-slashclient tips the hotness meter on the Richter scale. You’re immune. “It appears I stand corrected,” I say. I take the high road. “I forgive you,” Beckett says. “Excuse me?” “You were wrong. I forgive you,” he says. “I wasn’t asking for forgiveness.” “I forgive you for causing us to get stuck in an elevator for an hour and I can forgive you for misspeaking just now.” “You know as well as I do, I had nothing to do with the power outage.” “I’m playing with you,” he says in a low voice. My cheeks flame. I take a st ep back, but my ass hits the conference table. “Are you two going to be at it all day or can we get started with the meeting?” Rhys reminds us of his presence. I straighten my jacket and my vest. “That’s a great idea.” “What she said,” Beckett says. Cocky bastard. I ready myself to sit down, but Beckett pulls my chair out. I didn’t expect the gallantry. “Thank you.” When I look up, Rhys is observing us with the same curiosity he would two rare pink dolphins. I gather Beckett picks up on that because he rushes to a seat next to his business partner. Both men stare at me with different shades of piercing blue eyes for a long beat. I blush under the observation. Is it warm in here? Worried I might suffocate, I undo the first button of my blouse and fan myself as discreetly as possible. Breathe. Beckett’s head tilted to the side is making me feel self-conscious. I fumble with the buttons, but he stops me with a few words. “It looks better undone.” I must’ve undergone a lobotomy when I crossed the threshold of the building because I drop my hands to the table like a docile child. He flashes me a blinding smile. My cheeks burst into flames all over again. Rhys clears his throat. “Maybe we should start with our background since it’s linked to the creation of this company.” Beckett points a finger at his partner. “Yes, let’s start from the beginning.”
“That’s a great idea,” I say, slipping back into the shoes of the intelligent woman I am. I open my notebook and click on my trusted pen, ready to take copious notes. “Are you going to write everything down?” Beckett’s brows arch. I stare at him confused. “This is an unusual situation for me.” I shift in my seat. “I’m normally well versed on a company before I st ep into a meeting. Easton mentioned you wanted to get the ball rolling, and I agreed, but I’m not about to let you down. I have standards.” “You’re hard on yourself,” Beckett says. “Time is money, Mr. Christensen,” I r eply. He arches an eyebrow and his lips form a lopsided grin. What did I say? “Touché, Miss Buchanan...” My name has never sounded so sexy. “Given what Easton had to say about you, you shouldn’t worry about letting us down,” Beckett says. “I have to agree with Beckett,” Rhys says. “You’re exactly what we need. This meeting is just us talking.” Beckett nods. “You’ll have plenty of time to dazzle us.” “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, holding his gaze. “If you two need a moment, let me know...” Rhys chuckles. “Idiot,” Beckett says. “Do you want me to start?” Rhys runs a hand through his hair. “Run with it,” Beckett says. “Beckett and I met in rehab.” Rhys launches into story mode. “Oh, wow,” I say. “It’s a cliché given our first careers,” Rhys says. “What do you mean?” “Have you ever heard of Random Misconc eption?” “No. Never.” “What about Hijinks?” “I’m afraid not,” I say. “God, this is so embarrassing. I should know these things—” Beckett reaches across the table and places his large hand over mine. A jolting electric shock had run through my body when we shook hands, but now... holy volcano. “Relax.” The simple word passes Beckett’s beautiful lips like a soft caress. “It’s not like you’re going to fail a test, Arianne,” he says. The mention of my name slaps me back to reality. What the hell is wrong with me? He’s a client. And the boss. I snap out of it. “You’re hired.” He offers a warm and reassuring smile. “Rhys and I are putting things into context.” “Thank you for saying that.” He nods, that seductive smile still stretching his lips. “Beckett was, slash is, Random Misconc eption’s lead singer,” Rhys says. I furrow my eyebrows. “Random Misconc eption had a comeback six months ago as the backup band for Stasia van Gameren.” “I see,” I say. “Back in the day, the four guys behind the band dominated the charts. The exposure from the band’s recent comeback exploded our business. We couldn’t ke ep up. Beckett acquired a whole new generation of fans overnight. His guest appearance as a co-judge on Jam Session—a popular entertainment talent show—also helped boost sales—” When does this guy sle ep? “So, you’re juggling all three—the business, the TV show, and your rock star career?” “The TV show isn’t a full-time gig,” Beckett says. “The comeback was a favor to my cousin Jagger. His girlfriend needed a band, so the four of us reunited. Random Misconc eption no longer goes on the road, but we’ll do the occasional late-night show appearance.”
This is fascinating. “Who are the other members?” “Rod Wolfe is on drums, my older brother Holt—who heads a successful record label in his spare time—is on bass, and my cousin Jace is on guitar,” Beckett says. “I’m also on guitar and I’m the lead singer, as Rhys pointed out.” “I’m not into rock music, which explains why I’ve never heard of you,” I say. “I’ve never met a professional musician before. That’s impressive.” “Beckett isn’t a professional musician. He’s a rock god—same for the other three members of the group,” Rhys says. “We used to be.” Beckett chuckles. “Past tense. We traded our instruments for business suits. We’re all busy execs now, hence why I’m running this small business with you.” Beckett points to his business partner. “Small?” Rhys laughs. “It’s all relative,” Beckett says with a smile. “A lot of companies would like to be as small as you,” I say. They both laugh. “What about you, Rhys? Are you a musician?” “I used to be a rapper. My stage name was Hijinks.” “What does that mean?” “Hijinks–all one word, is the less common spelling of high jinks. It was a popular eighteenth-century drinking game in Scotland. It’s another way of saying mischievous.” “Cool name.” I bounce a little in my seat. “Cool name for a short-lived career.” “Oh.” “I’m what you call a one-hit wonder. I skyrocketed to the top of the charts overnight and then, I crashed and burned.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “There’s a handful of well-known white rappers who have name recognition. I had the rhymes, but I wasn’t street enough.” My brows meet. “Street?” “I didn’t grow up in poverty—we were middle class. I was never part of a gang, I never sold drugs, I never shot anyone, I wasn’t part of any driveby shootings, my face wasn’t—and still isn’t—covered with tattoos, and my teeth aren’t stapled with diamonds or plated in gold.” “Oh God, that sounds painful.” “It’s all part of having a shtick—something that makes you memorable, unique, and edgy. I thought my strong emceeing skills were my ticket to fame... for a while, they were. With hours of practice, I could out-rhyme anyone who challenged me. My flow was smooth. The delivery, impeccable—” “You should hear him spit,” Beckett says. I’m confused. “Spit?” “It’s when rappers drop clever verses or rap ridiculously fast,” Beckett says. “I see.” I nod. I know nothing about rap music. “That’s how I caught the attention of a producer,” Rhys says. “That kind of verbal speed is an art form. Still, the music industry chewed me up and spat me out.” “That’s horrible,” I say. “That’s show business.” I let his words sink in. “You didn’t know each other before rehab?” “I knew who Beckett Christensen was—everyone knew who he was— but it wasn’t reciprocal,” Rhys says.
“I’ll make sure to Google both of you after the meeting.” “I guess it’s game over for you, Christensen, once Arianne discovers your skeletons,” Rhys says. “My former life is an open book,” Beckett says. “There isn’t much I can do about it.” The glee in his eyes is dangerous. “Former life?” Rhys’s tone is incredulous. “You made headlines two weeks ago.” “Whatever.” Beckett rolls his eyes. Rhys’s jab piques my curiosity. I guess Beckett’s expensive tailored suit hides more than meets the eye. Not that it matters, but it’s a good thing I’ve always steered far away from reckless bad boys. They’re too unpredictable. I value order and frown upon chaos. Walking into a meeting unpr epared is my idea of living on the edge. “Rehab connected you.” I veer the conversation back on track. “That’s where we became fast friends,” Beckett says. “That’s also where the company started—” “They encourage business startups in rehab?” I interrupt Rhys. Beckett and Rhys laugh. I blush. “I guess my inexperience shows.” “Don’t apologize for not knowing how rehab works,” Rhys says. “Not everyone develops an addiction to drugs like we did.” “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done drugs,” I say. “Never?” “Never.” “Wow,” Beckett says. His expression is unreadable. “Not even marijuana?” I meet Rhys’s gaze, my eyes widening in horror. “Oh, God, no.” They both cock a surprised eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I interrupted you, Rhys.” I’m eager to move the spotlight away from me. “This guy here”—he points to Beckett—“was complaining about the nonexistent bass on the four-hundred-dollar headphones he bought.” Rhys grabs a pair of well-worn headphones from the tray of samples in the middle of the table and lifts them up. “Beckett fell for the glitzy marketing.” “The multimillion-dollar marketing campaign for those was omnipresent,” I say, recognizing the brand made famous by a rapper turned billionaire. “Every big shot celebrity, singer, and athlete was photographed wearing them.” “I’m surprised they weren’t able to get the Pope to deliver the Easter sermon with them wrapped around his neck,” Beckett says. We all laugh. “Their reach was phenomenal,” I say. “Aesthetically, the headphones are perfect,” Rhys says. “If you’re a music lover, they don’t offer the best audio experience. I should know. I bought a pair of each model to test. In fact, we have a sample room with our competitors’ products.” “You do?” “The bass makes or breaks a song,” Beckett says. I’m impressed. I draw my eyebrows together. “Forgive my naïveté, but how does a former rapper and a rock star who met in rehab create a company that rivals that one.” I point to the headphones Rhys is still holding. “I assume a certain level of sound engineering knowledge is required, and then there’s the whole production and manufacturing side. Those things can’t be easy to figure out.” “You’re right on the money,” Rhys says. “She’s sharp.” Beckett smiles wide. “I’m a good listener,” I say. “Easton said you have a sexy brain... I see why,” Beckett says. My cheeks burst into flames. A sexy brain? “To answer your question.” Rhys gets my attention. “I was in and out of rehab as my
career slid into an abyss. I was surprised Beckett Christensen talked to me, let alone hung out with me. He wouldn’t stop complaining about the headphones. He had his brother buy him new ones with each visit, but none of them measured up. Jokingly, I told him my dad created the perfect headphones. In fact, a few of his prototypes were kicking around at the house, collecting dust. That got his attention.” “So, your dad is the creative genius?” “Was,” Rhys says. “He died of a sudden heart attack. I couldn’t cope without drugs. Heck, I couldn’t cope with the drugs. Mom implored me to go back to rehab. That’s when I met Beckett.” Great. I just put my foot in it. “I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be,” Rhys says. “You didn’t know.” “To your comment”—Beckett forces my attention to him—“Rhys’s dad was a talented sound engineer with a knack for tinkering with any piece of equipment until he could bring out the bottom end, aka the perfect de ep, low-pitch range in a song. Before he died, he came up with the technology that’s become the foundation of our business. He secured the patent and the trademark, but the investment required to bring the product to market was equivalent to the GDP of a less developed country.” “My dad was risk averse,” Rhys says. “But he was willing to dish out money for a few prototypes—with an element of pride. I got my mom to bring me a pair of his headphones when she came to visit me in rehab. I still remember Beckett’s shocked expression when he listened to one of his songs.” “I told him it was wrong for this kind of technology to sit dormant in a closet,” Beckett says. “It wasn’t my first time in rehab either. Random Misconc eption had decided as a group to st ep out of the limelight while we were still on top. I didn’t handle retirement well. In the first few weeks of the program, I wondered what the hell I was going to do with myself once I was done. It’s never a good thing when my mind is idle—” “Same here,” I say. “I can’t believe we have something in common, Miss Buchanan,” Beckett says. “I suspect we don’t find joy in the same things, Mr. Christensen.” He squints his ocean-blue eyes, staring at me through a sliver of determination as his nostrils flare. “I’m sure, in time, we’ll find more things we share in common... perhaps things that bring us mutual joy.” Oh, shit, the temperature in the room rises again. “I can st ep out of the room if you two need a moment.” Rhys r epeats his offer. “You were saying, Beckett?” I’m grateful Rhys’s question breaks the spell I’m under. “When I listened to music with Rhys’s headphones, I knew without a shadow of a doubt what the next phase of my life was going to look like. I just had to convince this guy to join forces with me.” He pats his business partner’s shoulder. “I was clueless about my own future,” Rhys says. “I was happy to jump on board.” “That’s an amazing story.” Wow. “And you were able to figure out the ins and outs of the business side on your own?” They both laugh. “Hell, no,” Rhys says. “We’re musicians. We’re not like you. We stopped learning after high school. One plus one equals two, I think—”
“No.” Beckett shakes his head. I’m confused. This is pretty basic math. “It’s three. You have to account for inflation.” I laugh. “See what I mean?” Rhys says. “We can’t handle big numbers.” They chuckle. I look around the room, extending my arms open. “You’re exaggerating, gentlemen.” “Careful, Hartford, we can’t pull the wool over her eyes,” Beckett says. “You understand that means she won’t fall for your bullshit, Christensen?” Beckett rolls his eyes. Their constant banter is making me blush. “My dad has had a string of companies in his lifetime—some successes, some busts,” Beckett says. “The same applies to many of my uncles. Rhys and I relied on their expertise. They became investors early on and they were rewarded with handsome buyouts. For the marketing, I figured why fix it if it ain’t broke. We copied what worked. I approached musicians I knew and asked them to give us some feedback. They were blown away. In no time, their hordes of fans were rushing to buy SCORE audio bass headphones, propelling us to the number two spot. Five years later... here we are.”