Page 45 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

Christoph clears his throat. "Should I... give you two a moment?"

"No!" we both say.

Ariana slides into the car first, the dress doing impossible things as she moves. I follow, trying not to watch the way the silk clings to her hips.

"So," she says once we're moving, "about that video?—"

"About that waffle iron?—"

"Truce?" She offers her hand.

I take it, but instead of shaking, I use it to pull her closer. "Depends. Are there backup copies of this alleged video?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would, actually."

"Too bad." But she doesn't pull away. "A good PR executive never reveals her sources."

"Or her evidence?"

"Especially not her evidence."

We're close enough now that I can smell her perfume—that caramelized and decadent scent that makes me want to bury my face in her neck.

"Connor?"

"Hmm?"

"You're still holding my hand."

I am. And she's still letting me.

Christoph takes a turn, sending her sliding against me. My free hand catches her waist, steadying her.

"Sorry!" Christoph calls, not sounding sorry at all. "These roads are treacherous in the rain."

"Very treacherous," I agree, not moving my hand.

Ariana's breath catches. "Very..."

My phone buzzes, shattering the moment.

DAD VADER: Where are you? Investors asking questions.

DAD VADER: Don't screw this up.

Reality crashes back.

I release Ariana, straightening my dark suit jacket. "We should discuss strategy for tonight."

"Right." She shifts away. "Strategy."

But her hand still tingles against mine, and I can't help wondering what would happen if—just once—I let myself forget about strategy altogether.

By the time we arrive to the Tech of Tomorrow gala, The Seattle Art Museum is glowing against the night sky, its modern facade transformed into something almostmagical by strategically placed lighting and too much money.

"Ready?" I offer Ariana my arm as we exit the car.

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