Page 74 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

ARIANA

Dawn breaks over Seattle like a watercolor painting, all soft pinks and golds bleeding into the spring sky. I watch it from Connor's absurdly large bed, wrapped in sheets that are likely ten-thousand thread count, trying to convince myself that last night was just another PR situation to manage.

It's not working.

Because Connor—my technically-still-husband, definitely-my-boss, absolutely-off-limits Reeves—is currently making pancakes in his secret penthouse kitchen wearing nothing but low-slung pajama pants and that irritatingly perfect bedhead.

And I'm wearing his shirt.

I pad across the plush, heated floors, my bare feet sinking into them as I take in the sheer excess of it all. The floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire skyline, bathing the sleek modern space in golden light. The living room alone is bigger than my entire apartment, decorated in a minimalist yet impossibly expensive way—the kind of aesthetic that screams, "I have a designer on speed dial."

And then there’s the kitchen.

It's massive. A chef’s dream, all marble countertops and top-of-the-line appliances that gleam under the recessed lighting. A gas range with six burners. A built-in espresso machine that I’m sure cost more than my last car. The kind of fridge that requires biometric access—because of course it does.

And yet, here Connor is, flipping pancakes like he does this every morning instead of having a private chef prepare Michelin-starred meals for him.

“You look like you’re having an existential crisis,” he says without turning around. “Coffee’s ready, by the way. The good kind. I made it myself.”

I blink, still absorbing the impossibility of the scene. “You? Made coffee?” I arch a brow, crossing my arms as I lean against the cool marble. “Did your house manager call in sick? Your private chef abandon you in your time of need?”

He flips a pancake with practiced finesse. “I gave them the morning off. Thought I’d handle breakfast myself.”

I squint at him. “So what you’re saying is that we’re both in uncharted territory right now.”

Connor smirks, grabbing two plates. “It’s not that shocking, Ms. Bristol. I do know how to cook.”

I gesture to the pristine countertops. “Uh-huh. And yet, everything in this kitchen looks like it’s never been touched. Are you sure you didn’t have someone sneak in here and prep everything before I woke up?”

He places a plate of perfectly golden pancakes in front of me, arching a brow. “You wound me.”

“Just stating facts.” I pick up my fork, eyeing the precision of the chocolate chips. “This kitchen is ridiculously clean. Too clean. Like a showroom at a high-end home store.” I glance around, noticing the impeccably aligned spice rack, the matching sets of cookware hanging in perfect symmetry. “There’s no way you actually use this space.”

Connor leans against the counter, watching me with amusement. “I use it more than you think.”

I pop a bite of pancake into my mouth and nearly groan. Damn it. Of course, they’re perfect. Light, fluffy, and just the right amount of sweet. “I guess you get points for execution.”

His smirk widens. “And here I thought you’d appreciate the effort more.”

“Oh, I do. I’m just struggling to process the image of billionaire Connor Reeves willingly making breakfast in his own kitchen. Should I be concerned? Are you having an identity crisis?”

He chuckles, pouring me a cup of coffee before sliding it across the counter. “Maybe I just wanted to impress my wife.”

The word washes over me—warm and dangerous. It’s amazing how familiar it’s starting to become.

I wrap my hands around the mug, trying not to let it affect me. Trying not to let him affect me. “Mission accomplished,” I say lightly. “One question, though: Do all billionaires have backup plans in case of breakfast emergencies? Or am I just special?”

Connor leans in slightly, his voice lower. “You’re definitely special.”

And just like that, I’m in trouble.

“And stop your ruminating, Ms. Bristol,” he calls, turning back to the stove. "I can hear the crisis management from here."

"I am not crisis managing." I am absolutely crisis managing. "I'm just... considering logistics."

"Logistics?"

"Like how I'm going to get to my morning meeting without looking like I just had a very unprofessional sleepover with my boss."

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