16. High Places （And Higher Stakes）
16
HIGH PLACES (AND HIGHER STAKES)
ARIANA
The thing about family dinners is that they rarely go as planned. And if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that adding Connor to the mix is the equivalent of trying to keep a soufflé from collapsing while juggling flaming torches. You think you’ve got it under control, but then—surprise!—chaos.
Especially when your younger sister is interrogating your sorta-kinda-husband about his net worth while your father attempts to explain the nutritional benefits of protein-enhanced garlic bread.
"So," Lily says, twirling pasta around her fork, "do you have, like, a money vault? Like Scrooge McDuck?"
"Lily!" I hiss, but Connor just laughs.
"Sadly no." He accepts more wine from Kat. "Though I did try to convince the board to install a diving board in the office lobby."
"For swimming in money?"
"For dramatic exits from boring meetings."
Dad leans forward. "Speaking of dramatic, is it true you have a panic room?" I flash him a look, and he shrugs. “I Googled you five minutes ago.”
“I have several, actually." Connor's expression sobers slightly. "Though they're more of a precaution these days. The real security is more... subtle."
As if on cue, his watch buzzes. A quick gesture silences it, but not before I catch the flash of a location tracking screen.
"Like Christoph?" I ask, remembering his ever-present driver.
"Among others." He shrugs, but there's tension in his shoulders now. "Most people don't realize how much infrastructure it takes to maintain privacy when you're in the public eye. Security teams, background checks, constant monitoring..."
"Sounds exhausting," Kat notes.
"It can be." Connor sets down his fork. "Though I'm lucky—I'm not famous enough to need the really intense protocols. No paparazzi camping outside my house or trying to hack my phone."
"Yet," Lily adds. "I mean, once the IPO hits..."
"Lily.” I kick her under the table.
"What? I'm just saying, being a tech billionaire is basically like being a Kardashian now. Except with more algorithms and less contouring."
"It's fine." Connor's steely-blue eyes smile. “But I’m sure the Kardashians probably have better security. My team once let a very determined Girl Scout past the lobby."
"Really?" Dad perks up.
"She was very convincing about her cookie sales projections." Connor grins. "Had a whole PowerPoint presentation about market penetration and seasonal demand curves."
"Did you buy any?" Lily demands.
"I bought thirty boxes." He sighs. "And then had to explain to my board why 'tactical cookie acquisition' was a legitimate business expense. "
The table erupts in laughter, and I can feel my shoulders lower, my hands settling softly in my lap.
Maybe because I underestimated Connor Reeves. Maybe because this—the man I’m beginning to know is trading stories with my family, fitting into our chaos like he belongs.
And it feels right. Natural.
And just a little bit careless. Like him.
"So," Kat says as we clear plates, "what other perks come with the billionaire lifestyle? Private jets? Island ownership? Secret underground lairs?"
"The lair's still under construction." Connor helps me load the dishwasher, our hands brushing in a way that's definitely intentional. "Though I do have a helicopter. And a jet.”
Lily drops a plate. "Shut up."
“They’re just for business," he says quickly. "Faster than dealing with traffic when I have meetings across the city. Or across the country.”
"Still." She retrieves the miraculously unbroken plate. "That's pretty rock star."
"It's pretty practical," he corrects. “That view of Mount Rainier at sunset is definitely worth the motion sickness warnings."
I'm about to reply when Dad attempts to demonstrate his new "protein-enhanced" tiramisu recipe, somehow managing to spray mascarpone cheese across three walls and Connor's extremely expensive shirt.
"Oh god." I grab a towel. "Dad, what did we say about experimental desserts?"
"That they're an important part of scientific inquiry?"
"That they're banned after the Great Cannoli Incident six months ago.”
"To be fair," Lily muses, "the fire department said that one wasn't technically his fault."
"The fire department," Kat points out, "also said they're adding 'Bristol family cooking experiments' to their high-risk response protocols."
Connor, who's been suspiciously quiet, finally loses his battle with laughter.
"I'm so sorry." I dab at his shirt. "I swear we're normally more..."
"Functional?" Kat questions.
"Coordinated?" Lily adds.
"Less explosive?" Dad suggests.
"I was going to say ‘reliable,’” I mutter. "But clearly that ship has sailed. Along with your shirt."
Connor catches my hand, stilling my frantic cleaning. “Reliability is overrated.”
“Then I guess you like chaos."
“Depends on who it comes with.”
I stare at him, words failing me.
"Well!" Lily claps her hands. "This seems like a good time for Dad to show Connor his protein powder collection. In the other room. Far away from here."
"Subtle," Kat mutters, but she's already herding them out.
Then it's just us, standing in my father's kitchen, Connor still holding my hand.
"I meant it," he says quietly. "About liking your family."
"Even with the experimental cooking?"
"Especially with the experimental cooking." He tugs me closer. "It's... real. No pretense, no agenda. Just people being themselves."
"Even when ourselves involve half-burnt Italian cuisine.”
“Let’s just say it’s a good thing La Famiglia does delivery.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “I am curious about one thing…”
“And that is?”
“Who helps you with your dad?"
I blink. "What do you mean? "
Connor shrugs, too casual. "You handle a lot—your career, your family, everything in between. I imagine it takes a team."
I let out a short laugh. "A team? Not exactly. It’s mostly me and my sisters, and we make it work."
"But no one else?" His fingers skim my palm, thoughtful. "No extra support?"
"We’ve always managed on our own."
Connor hums, like he's filing that away for later. "That’s a lot to carry."
“I’m used to it.”
I don’t tell him the rest of that sentence.
That I've been here before.
The careful logging of medications. The tracking of good days and bad days. The desperate need to control something, anything, when everything else is slipping away.
I've been handling medical calendars since I was twelve, learned to spell 'acetylcholinesterase inhibitors' before I learned algebra. I know exactly how many steps it is from the kitchen to the bathroom in every house we've lived in because Mom used to get lost, used to need...
"I can handle it," I say instead.
"Of course you can." His voice is soft but firm. "But there are…options. Options that don’t involve doing it all yourself.”
My breath catches. Not ‘you should get help.’ Not ‘you need help.’ Just... a suggestion, a thought that reads as ‘maybe you don’t have to be alone in this.’
And the way he says it—like he’s already decided, like he’s already standing beside me in ways I haven’t figured out how to accept—unsettles something deep inside my chest.
“You certainly have a lot opinions on this,” I tell him, clearing my throat.
“Of course I do. What, you only thought I had really strong feelings about proper pancake technique?”
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "And syrup temperature. "
"And syrup temperature." His lips brush mine. "Come flying with me?"
I pull back. "What?"
"Right now. I got a text.” He holds up his phone. “Need to get my hands on my IPO documents, and the help is fueled.” His stormy blue eyes narrow in my direction. "The city's beautiful at night, and I have a meeting across town anyway..."
"You're crazy."
"Probably. Is that a yes?"
This is exactly another instance when using the word ‘no’ would come in handy. When maintaining any kind of professional boundary would be appropriate.
When I shouldn’t be considering a late-night helicopter ride with my boss who's also technically my husband who's also currently looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted.
Instead I nod. “Yes."
And Connor’s smile is worth every broken rule.
Twenty minutes and several knowing looks from my family later, we're walking toward what appears to be a very sleek, very expensive helicopter waiting in a nearby park.
"Show-off," I mutter, but I can't help grinning.
Connor just smirks, offering me his hand as I step up onto the skids and into the plush leather interior. The scent of polished wood and expensive cologne fills the cabin, mingling with the crisp night air seeping in from the open door. A bottle of something chilled rests in a side compartment, two crystal glasses beside it.
"Wait until you see the view." He slides in beside me, his presence warm, solid—lingering. “A heads up: The height can take some getting used to."
"I'm not afraid of heights."
"No?" He buckles himself in, his stormy-blue eyes catching the dim glow of the instrument panel. "What are you afraid of? "
You, I think. How you make me want things I shouldn't.
But what I say is: "Running out of chocolate cake during emotional emergencies."
His low laugh sends a shiver down my spine. "I'll make sure the office is stocked."
The rotors hum to life, a deep, vibrating energy thrumming through the cabin. A moment later, we're lifting off, rising effortlessly above the city, Seattle unfolding below us in a glittering sea of light. The Space Needle glows in the distance, skyscrapers reflecting the moon, highways weaving luminous rivers through the night.
I inhale sharply. "Wow."
Connor watches me, not the view. "Worth breaking a few rules for, isn’t it?"
The way he says it makes my pulse stutter. I glance sideways, catching the way the city lights flicker across his face, sharpening the cut of his jaw, illuminating the silver strands in his dark hair. There’s something about him in this moment—self-assured, untouchable, yet utterly present—that steals my breath more than the altitude ever could.
He reaches for something, and a soft pop sounds as he opens the bottle from the side compartment. A moment later, he hands me a glass filled with something crisp and golden.
“To late-night adventures,” he murmurs.
I clink my glass against his. “And breaking just a few rules.”
I take a sip, the bubbles dancing on my tongue, but nothing fizzes through me quite like the way Connor leans closer, his voice dropping low.
“Just a few?”
I meet his gaze, and the city isn’t the only thing spinning beneath me.