I grin. ‘So, durable and beautiful. That I can do.’
We walk through the open-plan living room. Everything is white, beige, and more beige. The sea glitters through the huge corner windows like a postcard.
‘The light’s incredible in here,’ I say, running a hand over the back of a sofa. ‘I’d lean into the ocean views more. Maybe lower-profile furniture so nothing obstructs the windows. A soft coastal palette—sage greens, warm neutrals, brushed gold hardware.’ The Coral Reef Suite springs to mind—along with a vision of California’s ripped naked body, hard and ready to ride in my bed. It’s been months, and I still can’t get him out of my head.
‘What about the kitchen?’ Savannah’s voice pulls me back to the present.
I follow her into it. It’s huge. Gleaming. But definitely needs refreshing. ‘Yes, it certainly could do with modernising. Maybe oak or light walnut cabinetry? Pendant lights with texture. And I’d extend this island to add seating. Let’s create zones. This house is begging for personality.’
Savannah practically swoons. ‘I knew you’d get it.’ She leads us upstairs. The girls’ bedrooms are cute, bright, covered in posters of boy bands and sea creatures—normal tween chaos. The primary suite is stunning but under-used.
‘This,’ I say, stepping inside, ‘could be your sanctuary.’ I gesture to the balcony. ‘Imagine billowy linen curtains, a little reading nook overlooking the sea, maybe a modern canopy bed. We can build you something that feels like a retreat.’
Savannah presses a hand to her heart. ‘Ronan willdie. He’s been begging for a space he can decompress in after training.’
I turn to Nico. ‘Will you take some photos and get the measurements?’
‘Of course.’ He gets to work while we head back downstairs to the kitchen.
Savannah flicks on her espresso machine. ‘Coffee?’ she asks.
‘Sure,’ I accept, even though I’ve barely been able to stomach the stuff lately. I haven’t felt right since Paris. I’ve been meaning to book in with our family’s GP. I’m pretty sure I’m deficient in something—and not just hours in the day. Maybe iron? I almost fainted at the Cosmopolitan UK shoot. They wanted photographs to go with the article. The spotlights were so bright and hot I thought I was going to pass out.
Savannah’s eyes track Tate and Felstead hovering politely by the window, surveying the grounds. She murmurs under her breath, ‘Do all your staff look like they walked off the set of a Calvin Klein commercial?’
I try not to choke. ‘They’re not my usual staff. They’re… consultants.’
‘Consultants,’ she echoes, smirking. ‘Right. Sure they are.’
I laugh despite myself and shrug. ‘Okay, they’re security. Occupational hazard of being a Beckett.’
‘I get it.’ She shoots me a sympathetic look as she hands me my coffee. ‘With wealth comes woes. Fame and fortune often equal crazed fans. It’s no joke.’
I cup my hands around the mug and take a sip—and gag internally.
What the hell?
It tastes… bitter. Burnt. Like poison in a cup.
Savannah tilts her head. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I lie brightly, forcing another sip. My stomach lurches in protest.
What is wrong with me?
I used to drink three of these before noon.
Savannah’s sharp, assessing eyes narrow. She studies my face like she’s examining a bank statement for fraud, thenunderstanding dawns in her eyes. A small smile lifts her lips. ‘Ah, I see.’
‘See what?’
She winks knowingly. ‘How far along are you?’ she whispers, low enough that the men can’t hear.
I almost drop the cup. ‘Excuse me?’
She shrugs, feigning innocence. ‘You madetheface.’
‘What face?’ I squeak.
