Page 20 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

ARIANA: The actual temperature. Not you. Obviously.

ARIANA: Though you were hot too

ARIANA: TEMPERATURE-WISE

ARIANA: I’m going to stop texting now.

I stare at my phone, something warm unfurling in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like?—

“Connor!” My father’s voice rings out from the hallway.

I sigh.

Fucking perfect. Just perfect.

My father, Harrison Reeves, strides into my office like he owns it. He doesn’t—but only because I let him keep some dignity after his own company collapsed. Putting him on Clearwater’s board had been a favor, a lifeline, a debt repaid for theyears he spent molding me into his version of success. And he hated that he owed me for it.

"Connor," he says, tone clipped. "Why does maintenance have a work order about coffee-stained cloud optimization reports?"

"Because coffee is a necessary evil," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Kind of like quarterly board meetings."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. "The investors want solid numbers. Your projections have been vague. We can’t afford that this close to the IPO."

We. As if he had built this company. As if Clearwater Tech was his legacy instead of mine.

"They’ll get the numbers," I say smoothly. "And speaking of expectations—don’t call my office twice in one morning like I report to you. You wanted a seat at this table, but don’t mistake it for running the show."

Dad exhales sharply through his nose. "Don’t get cocky, Connor. Clearwater’s success isn’t guaranteed, and if you keep making reckless decisions?—"

"You mean like hiring you?" My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. "Noted."

His expression darkens. "Just clean up your mess. And make sure the board isn’t blindsided by anything else."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

He studies me for another second before turning on his heel and walking out. The door closes behind him, leaving the room colder in his absence.

I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face. This situation is spiraling. I need to get ahead of it before it takes Clearwater—and me—down with it.

I pull out my phone and type a message to Ariana.

ME: We need to talk.

I hesitate, typing again.

ME: Let’s make it a breakfast meeting tomorrow. I’ll have some more ‘un-special’ pancakes for you, if you’d like

A minute passes. Then two.

ARIANA: I can’t tomorrow

ME: Why not?

ARIANA: I have an interview

ME: I thought you were no longer working for Drake PR

ARIANA: Exactly. Which is why I need a job now

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