Page 25 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"Shit." He checks the screen. "Board meeting. I have to?—"

"Go." I step back. "We can discuss details later."

"Dinner?"

"Professional dinner," I clarify.

"Of course." But his eyes are dancing. "Nothing but strictly professional discussions about our strictly professional marriage."

"Ex-marriage."

"Right." He grabs his jacket. "Though you might want to take off the ring before the board sees it."

I look down to find I'm still wearing the poker chip. Heat floods my face.

"I was just?—"

"Keeping it for evidence?"

"Exactly."

"Uh-huh." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Ariana?"

"Yes?"

"The earring was a nice touch."

He's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with my racing pulse and the weight of an increasingly complicated lie.

8

THE EX FILES

CONNOR

The Summit's private boxing ring sits forty stories above Seattle, a glass-enclosed sanctuary where the city's elite come to punch their problems away. At half a million dollars a year in membership fees, it's the kind of place that billionaires pay to be just because they can.

But right now, a week after officially hiring Ariana, watching the March sunset paint the Olympics in gold, all I can think about is control.

"Again," I tell Alex, raising my gloves. The ring echoes with the sound of impact as he obliges, his left hook catching me slightly off-guard.

I'm distracted – a state I’ve never been a fan of.

"Your head's not in it," Alex notes, dancing back. Sweat darkens his custom Summit gear – the kind they only give to its elite members. "Board meeting issues?"

I throw a combination that makes him stumble. "The IPO's fine."

"Didn't mention the IPO." He grins, blocking my next jab. "Though I hear you hired some interesting new PR talent."

"Don't."

"What? I'm just saying, hiring your Vegas ‘non-wife’ seems?—"

My next punch catches him in the shoulder.

"Touched a nerve there," Grayson calls from where he's wrapping his hands by the ring. The Summit's smart glass windows automatically dim against the setting sun behind him, a hundred thousand dollars of engineering just to keep the glare off Seattle's most expensive boxing ring.

"Less commentary, more boxing." I adjust my stance, the familiar routine centering me.

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