Page 96 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

Despite everything, I smile.

ME: Come to Monaco

ME: We’re all weird here anyway

"Texting yer lass?" Callum peers over my shoulder with predatory grace. "How domestic. Though perhaps less romance, more logistics?”

"Says the man who spent twenty minutes arguing about yacht placement."

"The villa," he says with exaggerated patience, "has very specific requirements. Not all of us dock our vessels between social media servers and startup incubators."

“Aaaaand,” Mac sing-songs. “Moving on to sleeping arrangements.”

The next hour dissolves into increasingly ridiculous party logistics. Somewhere between debating helicopter landing zones and whether Will’s new girlfriend-slash-fellow-piece-of-shit requires her own suite, I find myself actually relaxing.

Because this chaotic planning session, complete with twenty-something years of friendship and rivalry and terrible jokes, reminds me that these guys—Connor and Grayson, and hell, even Luke and Cal’s crazy ass are about close to family as I’ve ever gotten after James.

They’re a reminder that even when I feel untethered, I have people who know me. People who give a shit.

I have a place.

My thoughts stray to Ariana, to the space we’ve built just between us two. A place that in its own strange way has become its own home.

"Connor?" Mac's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You okay with sharing the east wing suite?"

I clear my throat. “What?"

"With Ariana," she clarifies. "Since you're each other’s plus-ones. Unless that’s too…”

Too much. Too intimate.

Too familiar.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Ariana and I are familiar. The opposite of everything I've built my single CEO life to be.

And yet...

"It’s fine." I ignore Grayson’s knowing look. “Question for the class: Why the hell Will get the west wing?"

"Because," Callum’s voice drops to that aristocratic purr that means he’s about to be insufferable, "some of us actually understand proper villa etiquette. The east wing has better views. And a private pool."

"And soundproof walls," Luke mutters.

"Very soundproof," Callum adds with a smirk. "Tested personally. Multiple times."

I throw a pocket square at his head. He catches it without looking.

“Alright,” Mac sighs again, and this one sounds happy. For once. “The private jet leaves in forty-eight hours, and we still haven't discussed the yacht party dress code."

My phone buzzes again:

ARIANA: Also

Fair warning

Lily may have helped pack my suitcase

Which means everything is either sequined or stolen from a Kardashian's closet

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