Page 26 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

Control the breath. Control the movement. Control everything.

"Speaking of control issues," Grayson steps into the ring, "when exactly were you planning to tell us about your latest attempt to avoid emotional entanglement?"

"There's nothing to tell." I duck Alex's swing, muscle memory taking over. "It's a business arrangement."

"Everything's business with you when it comes to women.” Gray’s bourbon-brown eyes narrow. “Come to think of it, when’s the last time you’ve in a relationship?”

“I have…dates.”

“No. You have sex.”

“Which is probably why I don’t have relationships.”

“Ah, and what do you call Amanda?”

Just the mention of her name makes my chest tighten.

“I call her old news.”

“From what you used to mention about her, she was a pretty big deal for you back in college. In fact, you once said that you thought she was the love of your?—“

“Alright. Fuck it. Since we’re not paying attention to the sparring…" I step back, stripping off my gloves.

"He's right though," Alex says, following me to the bench. "You’re not just a person who doesn’t ‘do relationships’, Con. Your ass is practically allergic to them.”

“Building a business required a lot of sacrifice.” I grab my water bottle, the cool leather of The Summit's custom seating grounding me. “Excuse me for not laying my company at the altar of some body chemistry that makes me people feel like idiots.”

“Is that how you categorize love?” Alex laughs, running a hand through his sweaty, sandy-brown hair. “And what about happened in Vegas?” He waits a beat, eyeing me. “Ariana?”

“What about her? She was an…anomaly in Vegas. And now, she's simply an asset to the company while I fix this mess.”

"Right." Alex exchanges looks with Grayson. "Because you always hire assets that make you forget your combination sequences."

"I didn't?—"

"Three missed blocks," Grayson counts off. "Two telegraphed jabs. And you actually let your guard drop on that last exchange."

"I'm not having this conversation." I head for the locker room, the Italian marble cool under my bare feet. "Especially not with two love-sick fools sacrificing themselves at the altar of some antiquated infatuation ritual known as marriage.”

Their laughter follows me through The Summit's pristine facilities, past the cryptocurrency mining rigs that power the building's heat, past the meditation room where Seattle's elite pretend to find inner peace between hostile takeovers.

The Summit spares no expense. Italian marble beneath my feet. Climate-controlled air that never carries the scent of sweat. Private showers stocked with high-end products I barely notice but still use.

I strip down, stepping under the spray, letting scalding water pound against my shoulders. I roll my neck, but the tension doesn’t ease. I grab my shampoo, working it throughmy dark blond hair—now streaked with silver more than ever. Another reminder that time doesn’t negotiate.

By the time I’m out, dressed in a crisp, tailored black suit, I look like the man I need to be. The one who knows love is a cosmic trick. Nothing more.

My reflection stares back from the mirror—gray-blue eyes sharp, jaw freshly shaved, hair neatly styled.

Two hours later, I step into Violette, the kind of restaurant where the wine list costs more than most people's monthly mortgages. The maitre d' greets me by name, leading me to my usual corner table where the acoustics are perfect for private conversations.

Everything is in order. Everything planned.

Until Ariana walks in.

My pulse kicks hard.

She’s wearing a deep red dress that clings in all the right places, elegant yet sharp enough to remind anyone who underestimates her that she’s not just a pretty face.

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