11. The Support System Situation
11
THE SUPPORT SYSTEM SITUATION
ARIANA
The morning after an accidental office make-out session is a special kind of torture.
Especially when said make-out session was against a conference table with your boss. Who also happens to be devastatingly attractive, annoyingly smug, and far too good with his hands.
I groan, dropping my head onto my desk. This is bad. So bad.
Every time I close my eyes, I can still feel the heat of Connor’s mouth on mine, the way his hands had gripped my waist like he couldn’t stand an inch of space between us. My whole body still hums with the memory, my pulse quickening at the mere thought of it.
Nope. Absolutely not. We are not thinking about this.
I sit up with determination, swiping to unlock my phone. Distraction. That’s what I need. Work. Crisis management. Something to shove last night into a mental vault, bury it under a thousand other PR emergencies, and pretend my body does not react to Connor Reeves in any way beyond professional irritation.
Except the first thing on my screen isn’t a work emergency.
It’s an incognito browser tab from my 3 a.m. spiral:
"How long do you have to be married to qualify for an annulment?"
I groan again. Because of course, in my infinite wisdom, I hadn’t just accidentally made out with Connor—I had also accidentally married him in Vegas.
My forehead finds the desk again.
Just as someone knocks on my office door.
I groan into the oak surface. “Come in!”
The door swings open, and I glance up to discover a courier stepping inside carrying yet another suspiciously Elvis-themed package.
He asks me to sign for it, and I instantly lose it.
"No," I tell the uniformed man, rushing to my feet, "I don't want the commemorative 'Love Me Tender' breakfast set."
Because if there’s one thing I really don’t need right now, it’s another reminder that I technically still have a husband.
Or worse—another reminder that I kind of, sort of, maybe enjoyed kissing him.
"But it comes with matching His and Hers coffee mugs!" He holds up two sequined monstrosities. "And a waffle iron that makes heart-shaped?—"
"Absolutely not." I try to close my office door, but he wedges his foot in.
"The chapel really thinks you and Mr. Reeves would appreciate?—"
"The chapel needs to stop sending gifts to my office." I eye the growing pile of Elvis memorabilia in the corner. "And maybe consider a less aggressive marketing strategy."
"But the reality show producers?— "
"No reality show!"
My phone buzzes:
SENATOR THOMPSON'S WIFE: Need crisis management ASAP. More yacht photos surfacing. Drake PR being useless.
Great. Because that's exactly what I need right now. More yacht drama.
But on the plus side…
For every client that Will loses at his firm, I get another potential client stolen for my own. That is, if I ever decide to open one in the first place.
A decision I haven’t made yet. I sigh.
"Fine." I snatch the coffee mugs. "But this is the last delivery, understand? No more singing telegrams, no more sequined tablecloths, and definitely no more?—"
"SURPRISE!"
I whirl to find three Elvis impersonators in my doorway, complete with jumpsuits and pompadours.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes!" Middle Elvis strikes a pose. "We're here to serenade the happy couple with a medley of?—"
"OUT!"
But they're already launching into "Can't Help Falling in Love," complete with synchronized hip thrusts.
My phone buzzes again:
REGINA ST. CLAIRE: Daughter attempted second llama heist. Need damage control before board meeting.
YASMIN: Mr. Reeves asked about strange music coming from PR wing.
I dive for my desk as Left Elvis attempts to present me with what appears to be a bedazzled photo album.
"Wise men say," they harmonize, "only fools rush in..."
My office door opens.
"Ariana, do you have any idea why—“ Connor stops mid-sentence, taking in the scene .
I'm crouched behind my desk, clutching sequined coffee mugs like weapons. Three Elvises are doing coordinated dance moves by my window. And the courier is still trying to demonstrate the heart-shaped waffle iron.
"This isn't what it looks like," I say quickly.
Connor raises an eyebrow. "So you're not being serenaded by an Elvis tribute band at nine in the morning?"
"Technically it's three separate Elvises."
"Ah." The corner of his mouth tips up. "That makes it much better."
"LIKE A RIVER FLOWS," Right Elvis belts, dropping to one knee.
"SURELY TO THE SEA," Left Elvis echoes, shimmying.
"DARLING SO IT GOES..."
Connor looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh. "Productive morning?"
"Shut up." I brandish a coffee mug at him. "This is all your fault."
"My fault?"
"If you hadn't kissed me?—"
The Elvises hit a perfect harmony: "SOME THINGS ARE MEANT TO BE..."
Connor's eyes darken at the mention of the kiss, and suddenly I'm remembering exactly how his hands felt, how his lips?—
My phone buzzes again.
KAT: Found potential annulment loophole
KAT: Call me when you're done avoiding your problems
I definitely don't blush. “Shouldn’t you be in the middle of a meeting or something?"
"Actually." Connor steps fully into my office, closing the door behind him. The Elvises take this as encouragement, their voices rising. "I wanted to invite you to the Tech for Tomorrow charity gala. Tonight. "
"Tonight?" I squeak.
"Important investors will be there." He moves closer, and my pulse decides to do the merengue. “Might help to have my PR crisis manger there, monitoring. Wouldn’t want to accidentally drink too much champagne and say something that jeopardizes the IPO.” He waits a beat. “And…it’s a good networking opportunity. Might be helpful for building your firm.”
"I can't tonight," I say quickly, even as the Elvises continue their performance. "My dad has a doctor's appointment tomorrow morning, and I need to?—"
"Already rescheduled for next week," Connor cuts in smoothly. "Your sister Kat's taking him. I also had Nonna Flora send over enough of her famous lasagna to last him through the weekend."
"You what?"
"I know the Gallos." He shrugs. Like he hasn't just casually dismantled my first excuse. "Nonna Flora and La Famiglia’s been feeding Seattle for forty years. She was thrilled to help."
"But—"
"And before you mention Lily's credit situation," he continues, "I had my financial team look into those parking tickets. They're handled."
"You can't just?—"
"I can. I did."
" TAKE MY HAND ," Middle Elvis croons.
"I'm perfectly capable of?—"
"Of course you are." Connor steps closer. "But capability isn't the point."
"TAKE MY WHOLE LIFE TOO..."
My phone lights up with another client crisis:
MRS. PLATSKY: Son posted TikTok about yacht parties. Again. Need help ASAP.
"You need backup," Connor says quietly.
"I don't need?— "
"Ariana." Something in his voice makes me look up. "Let me help."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. For once.
"FOR I CAN'T HELP," the Elvises build to a crescendo.
My phone buzzes again. And again.
"Fine." I stand, straightening my skirt. "But only because it's good PR."
"Of course." His ashen-blue eyes are now playful. "Nothing to do with my exceptional dance moves."
"FALLING IN LOVE..."
"That was a one-time thing," I remind him. And myself.
"WITH YOU..."
The Elvises strike their final pose.
Connor grins. "I'll pick you up at eight."
He leaves before I can respond, somehow managing to look completely unruffled despite the impromptu concert.
I sink into my chair, staring at the growing collection of Elvis memorabilia, my buzzing phone, and the waffle iron that the courier is still hopefully holding.
Right Elvis winks. "So... encore?"
"Out!" I snort, suppressing a weary smile. "All of you. Out!"
They file away, still humming, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And my texts. And the increasingly uncomfortable realization that Connor Reeves is slowly infiltrating every facet of my bubbled world.
My phone buzzes one final time:
CONNOR: Keep the coffee mugs, by the way
CONNOR: They match your eyes
CONNOR: When they're not glaring at me
ME: My eyes don't glitter
ME: Unlike literally everything else in my office right now
CONNOR: Shame
CONNOR: Though the sequins do bring out your... professional qualitie s
ME: Working for you gets more and more impossible every day, I swear
CONNOR: And you like it that way
And the really impossible thing?
I think I do.