7. Something Blue （and Slightly Hungover）
7
SOMETHING BLUE (AND SLIGHTLY HUNGOVER)
ARIANA
Clearwater Tech's headquarters looks exactly like you'd expect a multibillion dollar cloud computing company’s lair to look: forty stories of glass and steel rising into Seattle's rainy skyline like some architectural middle finger to gravity. It's the kind of building that makes you feel underdressed just looking at it.
Though technically, I'm not sure what the proper dress code is for showing up to interview for PR Director at Clearwater Tech right after you’ve been involved in your own royal public relations fuck-up.
I adjust my blazer in Clearwater's gleaming lobby mirror, checking for any evidence of my recent life choices.
My hand instinctively goes to my pocket where the poker chip ring sits like a guilty secret. I should have thrown it away. I definitely shouldn't have brought it to this meeting.
"Ms. Bristol?" The receptionist appears. "Mr. Franklin will be with you shortly."
I nod, reviewing what I know about Dustin Franklin, Clearwater's COO. His LinkedIn profile had been impressively thorough—Yale MBA, former McKinsey consultant, known for aggressive expansion strategies. The kind of executive who'd appreciate my crisis management experience.
My phone buzzes.
CONNOR: How's the professional distance working out?
CONNOR: Still maintaining those boundaries?
CONNOR: By the way, your coffee choice this morning is very questionable...
I blink at the screen. How does he know about my coffee?
Before I can respond, the receptionist returns. "Ms. Bristol? Mr. Reeves will see you now."
I frown. "Mr. Reeves? I thought I was meeting with Dustin Franklin?"
"Change of plans." She gestures to the elevator. "Top floor."
Something niggles at the back of my mind as the elevator rises. I'd researched Clearwater weeks ago—their IPO preparations, their executive team, their... wait.
Wasn't the CEO's name Ryland Reeves?
The elevator opens directly into a corner office with views that would make real estate agents weep. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase Seattle's skyline, the rain creating a moody backdrop for what's clearly meant to be an intimidating power play.
Then I see who's behind the desk.
"Hello, wife."
Somehow, in the harsh fluorescent lights of Vegas, I'd forgotten just how devastating he is in a proper suit. All broad shoulders and storm-cloud eyes and that hint of silver at his temples that should be illegal.
"You're not Dustin Franklin," I say carefully.
"No. I’m not.” He leans back, completely at ease. “Watching you Google him this morning on the lobby security cameras was entertaining, though.”
"You're...You're Ryland Reeves. "
"Ryland Connor Reeves, actually. Though most people call me Connor."
"Most people aren't accidentally married to you."
"True." He gestures to a chair. "Coffee? Though perhaps something less questionable than that overpriced place you visited this morning?"
I stay standing. "You knew. This whole time, you knew who I was."
"To be fair, I didn't know you were interviewing until after Vegas." He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. “It was all a coincidence. A pretty delightful one, if you ask me.”
“I’m sure.” I’m proud that my voice stays steady as my gaze wanders over the room’s gigantic windows. "Nice view."
His mouth quirks up. "The skyline's not bad either."
"I meant?—"
"I know what you meant." His gaze goes again to the chair. “Maybe I should have ordered the pancakes to set the mood. You seem anxious.”
"Tempting," I say, settling into the chair. "But I think we both know you have a questionable understanding of appropriate chocolate chip ratios."
His gray eyes glint. "I only accept perfection. And I did win that argument."
"You wore down the chef through sheer stubbornness."
"Same skill set , different application." He leans over handing me a steaming mug, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "Speaking of applications, I want to hire you."
I nearly drop the coffee he just placed into my hands. "What?"
"I want to hire you." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like he hasn't just upended everything I expected from this meeting. "Double whatever Drake PR was paying, plus benefits. You can keep any clients you want to bring over. "
I blink at him. "This is a joke, right? If it is, it isn’t funny.”
"This isn't funny."
"No?" He stands, moving around the desk. "Because from where I'm standing, the universe has an excellent sense of humor. PR executive accidentally marries tech CEO right before his IPO? It's practically destiny.”
"It's a potential PR nightmare."
"Or," he steps closer, "it's an opportunity."
"For what?"
"For both of us." His voice drops lower. "You need a fresh start. I need someone who understands crisis management. And we both need to figure out what happened in Vegas."
He’s got a point. But…
"This is a terrible idea."
"Probably." But he's smiling. "Though I have to say, your terrible ideas have worked out pretty well for me so far."
“I see. So, this is all some elaborate revenge plot for the pancakes?"
"I don’t waste time on revenge." His gaze sharpens. "You're good, Ariana. Very good. Yasmin pulled your past PR crisis cases. Your track record is impeccable. No leaks, no disasters, no unresolved messes. You don’t just put out fires—you make sure no one ever sees the smoke."
"You actually researched me?"
"I don’t make blind investments. And if I’m bringing someone in this close to the company—someone who, let’s be honest, has firsthand experience managing... unexpected situations—I need the best. That’s you."
My pulse skips, but I force myself to play it cool. "And this has nothing to do with Vegas?"
"Not nothing," he admits, and damn him, he looks entertained by my skepticism. "The IPO is in eight weeks. We can't afford any... distractions."
"And I'm a distraction? "
"You're a solution." He turns back, and something in his expression makes my pulse skip. "The Elvis chapel is already pushing for reality show rights. Who knows what else might come up."
"So you want to hire me to... what? Make our drunken mistake disappear?"
"It's not like it was legal anyway."
My stomach drops. Because it was legal. Very legal. I'd checked the marriage certificate myself, had my sister Kat (who, thank god, doesn't know it's mine) review the paperwork. But Connor doesn't need to know that. Not when he's offering exactly what I need to start my own firm.
"Right," I say carefully. "Just a funny Vegas story."
"Exactly." He moves closer, and suddenly the office feels too small. "So what do you say? Want to join the Clearwater team?"
I should say no. I should tell him the truth. I should definitely not be noticing how good he smells or how his voice does that thing that makes my skin feel too tight.
"What exactly would this job entail?"
"Whatever's necessary." Another step closer. "We'd work... closely together."
"How closely?"
"Very." His eyes drop to my lips, then back up. "Though obviously keeping things professional."
"Obviously." I resist the urge to touch the earring he'd returned, my eyes going to the table in the corner with a stack of pancakes. “And what are those?”
"A signing bonus. That, and the Elvis robes. I still have yours, if you’d like to get it.”
“You keep it. Anything looks better than that robe."
"I don't know." He's definitely too close now. "You made gold lamé work."
“Does this usually work on your new hires?”
“What do you mean? ”
“The charm you turn on, full blast.”
He steeples his fingers. “This isn’t charm. This is a conversation, Ms. Bristol.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to be charmed into a job. I want to be convinced. Leaving Drake PR after all these years and starting over is no small feat.” I lift my mug, taking a sip. “And you’re not as charming as you think are, Mr. Reeves.”
"No?" He leans forward, gray-blue eyes trained on my face and then my neck. “So, why are you blushing?"
"Because it's hot in here."
"Is it?"
"You know it is."
He grins. "Temperature issues again?"
"You're impossible."
"Is that a yes to the job?"
Here comes the “no” I expect to say…
Any day now.
"What about Will?"
"What about him?"
"He's your best friend's cousin. Won't this be... complicated?"
"Everything's complicated." His hand is still on my arm. "But you deserve better than hiding in his shadow. Better than cleaning up his messes."
"And instead I'd be cleaning up yours?"
"Our messes." He reaches over, his thumb traces circles on my skin. "We did get married together, after all."
I step back before I do something stupid. Again.
"Fine."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Fine?"
"I'll take the job." I straighten my pencil skirt. "But we need ground rules."
"Such as?"
"No more temperature comments. "
His mouth purses. "I'll try."
"And no more..." I gesture between us. "Whatever this is."
"Define 'this.'"
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?" He steps closer again. "Because I remember someone moaning over pancakes."
"That was?—"
"Appreciation for proper syrup temperature. Right."
I glare at him. "Are you always this infuriating?"
"Only with my wife."
The word lodges deep in my chest. I need to tell him. I need to?—
His phone buzzes, breaking the moment.
"Shit." He checks the screen. "Board meeting. I have to?—"
"Go." I step back. "We can discuss details later."
"Dinner?"
"Professional dinner," I clarify.
"Of course." But his eyes are dancing. "Nothing but strictly professional discussions about our strictly professional marriage."
"Ex-marriage."
"Right." He grabs his jacket. "Though you might want to take off the ring before the board sees it."
I look down to find I'm still wearing the poker chip. Heat floods my face.
"I was just?—"
"Keeping it for evidence?"
"Exactly."
"Uh-huh." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Ariana?"
"Yes?"
"The earring was a nice touch."
He's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with my racing pulse and the weight of an increasingly complicated lie.