Page 35 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

Though honestly? At this point, that might be the least ridiculous part of my week.

And it's only Wednesday.

10

THE ART OF LOSING CONTROL

CONNOR

The Seattle skyline glows against the March darkness like a string of holiday lights someone forgot to take down. From forty stories up, Clearwater Tech's conference room offers a perfect view of the city dissolving into evening shadow, though right now, all I can focus on is the feather stuck to my tie.

A souvenir from this afternoon's dove invasion.

"No strippers," Grayson warns, interrupting my lobbying for an increasingly elaborate bachelor party for the past hour. "Alex would kill us."

"Boring." I toss a stress ball between my hands. "What's the point of being his best men if we can't traumatize him a little?"

"Because his fiancée Mackenzie would help him hide our bodies?" Luke suggests from his corner of the conference table. Our resident cybersecurity genius looks exactly like someone who spends his nights exposing corporate corruption—dark, low-cut hair and sharp blue eyes behind expensive glasses that do nothing to hide the perpetual shadows beneath them.

"She would," Callum agrees. Luke's opposite in every way, the swaggering Scot has copper curls, green eyes and the kindof old-money posture that comes from twelve generations of Gaelic nobility. "Though I still say we could host it at my villa in Monaco. Much more civilized than Vegas."

I wince at the mention of Vegas, and Grayson's grin turns predatory.

"Speaking of Vegas," he drawls, "Connor, don't you have something to share with the class?"

"No." I adjust my tie, dislodging another feather. "And we're discussing Alex's party. In five weeks. Which, according to you, Mr. Wet Mop, will not involve strippers, international travel, or?—"

"Or accidental marriages?" Grayson supplies.

Luke does a spit-take on his coffee. "What?"

"Nothing." I glare at Grayson. "It's?—"

"Did you say marriage?" Callum's perfect composure cracks. "You?"

"It wasn't legal," I say fast. Too damn fast. "Just a Vegas thing. And now she's helping with PR for the IPO."

"She?" Luke's hacker intensity zeroes in on me. "Who's she?"

"Ariana Bristol," Grayson adds. “Alex's cousin's ex-fiancée. Try to keep up."

"Will Drake's Ariana?" Callum hums low. "The one from the viral posts?"

A knock at the door saves me from having to respond.

"Come in!" I call, probably too eagerly.

Ariana steps in, and my throat goes dry.

She's still in her work clothes—a charcoal pencil skirt and cream silk blouse that shouldn't be distracting but absolutely is. Her dark hair's coming loose from its updo, and there's a smudge of what might be glitter on her cheek.

"Sorry to interrupt," she says, then pauses at the sudden attention. "I can come back?—"

"No, no.” I stand, bumping the table. "I mean…You’re good. You can stay.” I glance around the room. “Ariana Bristol, meet Alex’s other less-competent groomsmen.” I start motioning as each suit raises a hand. “This here’s Grayson. That one over there that sounds like he should be in a kilt? That’s Callum. And this knucklehead in the corner is Lukas.” He shouts out “hey” but I place my hands in my slacks pockets, turning to Ariana. “It’s okay, if you don’t remember all that. You'll be seeing them at the wedding weekend anyway."

"Aye,” Callum rises smoothly. "The infamous celebration. And I don't suppose anyone would care to explain why I bumped into a singing Elvis telegram at the Clearwater reception desk?”

Ariana winces. “Um, we have a…client who is getting creative with their delivery attempts. But I handled it. Along with the doves, the commemorative chapel pens, and the gold lamé tablecloth they tried to convince maintenance was new office decor."

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