Page 11 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"But do you have the right ratio of chocolate chips to batter?" I lean over the counter, probably looking deranged in my Elvis robe. "Because it needs to be exactly?—"

"Connor." Ariana's voice comes from behind me. "Maybe let the professionals handle this?"

I turn to find her in her matching robe, her hair pulled back in what might be the world's messiest bun. She's scrubbed off most of her makeup, and there's still a slightly wild look in her eyes, but somehow this woman is even prettier in the harsh morning light filtering through the restaurant's windows.

It's 9 AM on a Friday in March, and I've been married for approximately eight hours to a woman who makes my chest do weird things even while wearing tacky hotel merchandise.

And I’m absolutely, one-hundred-percent not checking her out…

I think.

"I promised you panic attack pancakes," I remind Ariana Bristol as she slides onto one of the high-backed chairs at our corner table. "Very specific pancakes."

"And I'm sure they're fantastic." She adds sugar to her coffee with slightly shaky hands. "But maybe antagonizing the hotel staff isn't the best start to our annulment proceedings?"

Right. Annulment. Because we got married. By Elvis.

"About that..." I sit across from her, trying not to notice how the robe gaps slightly at her throat. "We should probably discuss?—"

"Oh god." She nearly drops her coffee. "Your IPO."

"My what?"

"Your Initial Public Offering." She sets the cup down carefully. "The one you mentioned last night between tequila shots. The one that's probably going to tank when the press finds out you drunk-married your best friend's cousin's ex-fiancée."

I blink. "You remember that conversation?"

"I remember everything up until bar four." She winces. "After that it gets... creative."

"Creative how?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure at some point you tried to convince me that the solution to all our problems was starting a rival PR firm called 'Better Than Drake.'"

"That's actually not a terrible name."

"It's a horrible name." But she grins. "Almost as horrible as that verse you added to 'Can't Help Falling in Love.'"

"I did what now?"

"Something about crisis management being the new way to say 'I love you.'" She accepts a plate of pancakes from a waiter, definitely not meeting my eyes. "It was very... passionate."

"Please tell me there's no video."

"Just the one the chapel took.” She pours what might be an illegal amount of syrup on her pancakes. "Which that Elvis-impersonating reverend better delete if he knows what's good for him."

I watch her cut into the stack with probably more force than necessary. "You know, for someone who claims to be having a panic attack, you're handling this pretty well."

"Oh, I'm definitely panicking." She takes a bite, then makes a sound that does unfortunate things to my blood pressure. "I'm just very good at compartmentalizing. Also, these are really good pancakes."

"They're not the real panic attack pancakes," I grumble, but accept my own plate. "Those require a very specific?—"

"Chocolate chip ratio, yes." She grins. "You mentioned that. Several times. Along with your very strong opinions about proper maple syrup temperature."

"It's important!"

"Sure it is, honey." She freezes, fork halfway to her mouth. "I mean... not honey. Obviously. That was just a... a thing people say."

"Right." I clear my throat. "Just like 'wife' is just a thing people say. When they're accidentally married. In Vegas."

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