6. The Rules of Engagement
6
THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
CONNOR
Monday mornings in Seattle are always gray. But this particular Monday morning—three days after Vegas, two months before Clearwater Tech's IPO, and approximately ten seconds after spilling coffee all over our cloud optimization projections—feels especially bleak.
I stare at the rapidly spreading stain, feeling the same sinking sensation I had the moment I stepped off the plane. Like I was back in a reality I wasn’t ready to face.
Vegas was a fever dream.
A reckless, whiskey-fueled, logic-defying fever dream. And yet, it had been real enough to land me in the middle of an impending PR nightmare, an unresolved marriage, and a shitstorm of corporate expectations waiting for me the second I walked through Clearwater’s doors.
But before all of that—before the consequences and the emails and my father’s inevitable disapproval—there had been the moment I woke up.
I hadn’t meant to look at her. But the second my eyes opened, I was caught .
Ariana had been sprawled out in bed beside me, dark waves of hair tumbling over bare shoulders, the sheet barely clinging to curves that had haunted my hands even in sleep. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over smooth, golden skin. And her lips—parted, just slightly, like she was still caught in some dream of her own.
My first thought had been that she was stunning.
My second thought had been that I needed to get out of there immediately.
Attraction to gorgeous women has never been my problem.
I can appreciate beauty, indulge in it even—but only on my terms. Only when I control the parameters.
And Ariana, with her sharp wit and softer edges, her infuriating way of calling me out and making me like it?
A woman like that is a complication I can’t afford. The kind that makes a man forget his own rules.
And I have rules for a reason.
"Real smooth, boss." Yasmin appears in my doorway with her tablet, one eyebrow slightly raised at the coffee carnage. "The Q1 revenue models needed work, but I’m not sure this was the solution."
"Very funny." I give up on the papers. "Any messages?"
"Your father called. Twice. He wants the updated cloud cost analysis for tomorrow’s board meeting. Grayson sent an email about bachelor party logistics. And..." She pauses, professional mask slipping slightly. "Someone from the Graceland Wedding Chapel wants to discuss reality show rights?"
The coffee mug slips from my hand, adding to the growing puddle.
"I’ll get maintenance," she says smoothly, already typing on her tablet. "And I’ll hold your calls until you’ve had time to... handle whatever that last one is about."
My phone buzzes as she exits:
GRAYSON: S o
GRAYSON: Heard you had an interesting weekend in Vegas
GRAYSON: I assume this means I win the yacht after all…
GRAYSON: Accidental marriage seems like an unnecessarily elaborate way for me to lose out on our bachelor pact prize
I ignore him and open my email, where my father’s message sits like a digital time bomb:
FROM: Harrison Reeves
TO: Connor Reeves
SUBJECT: Tomorrow’s Board Meeting
Connor,
The investors want concrete numbers on how Clearwater’s optimization algorithm reduces AWS costs. Your last presentation was too theoretical. Fix it.
Don’t disappoint me again.
Dad
P.S. Your mother called. Something about crystal healing for the server rooms? Handle it.
I close my eyes, counting backward from ten. When that doesn’t work, I try counting the ways this week could get worse:
The board could find out about Vegas.
The Elvis chapel could sell their story.
Ariana could?—
No. Not thinking about Ariana. Not thinking about warm brown eyes or sharp wit or the way she looked in that ridiculous Elvis robe or ? —
My phone buzzes:
GRAYSON: Though I must say
GRAYSON: As your fellow Stanford MBA
GRAYSON: The risk assessment on this particular venture seems questionable
GRAYSON: Have you run the cost-benefit analysis on accidental matrimony?
Before I can respond, another email pops up :
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Your Special Night!
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Reeves,
Your love story has captured hearts! Several major networks are interested in featuring your whirlwind romance in their reality programming. The tech CEO and the PR executive? It’s ratings gold!
Please contact us ASAP to discuss rights and filming schedules.
P.S. Your Elvis cape and commemorative shot glasses are in the mail!
Perfect. Because nothing says "serious tech CEO" like Elvis memorabilia arriving at your office two months before your company goes public.
My phone lights up with another message:
ARIANA: Got your messages. Thanks for having my back.
ARIANA: But please don’t text about the marriage thing. I have nosy sisters.
ARIANA: Also, I definitely did not leave that earring on purpose. Not good for plausible deniability.
Despite everything, I feel myself smile. Then I remember I’m supposed to be focusing on the IPO, not on how my accidental wife’s text messages make my chest do weird things.
Yasmin returns with maintenance, her expression carefully neutral. "The chapel has called twice more. Should I have legal look into it?"
"Yes. No. I don’t know." I run a hand through my hair. "Just... give me a minute to think."
"Of course." She glances at my phone, which is lighting up again. "Though you might want to make it a quick minute. Your father’s on his way up."
I curse out loud, still reading from myself screen.
GRAYSON: Speaking of wedding logistics
GRAYSON: You do realize Luke and Cal are going to have a field day with this, right ?
GRAYSON: Luke’s already suspicious when you stopped answering in the “DOOM GROOMSMEN” group chat over the weekend. And you know how Cal loves international scandal.
GRAYSON: You might want to start preparing your defense now
Fantastic. As if my father, the IPO, and an impending reality TV offer weren’t enough, now I had to deal with my best friend’s groomsmen—a cybersecurity prodigy with a grudge, a clean energy billionaire who probably has MI6 on speed dial, and Grayson himself, who was loving this way too much.
My phone lights up with another message:
ARIANA: P.S. Those pancakes weren’t that special.
ME: Lies. You moaned.
ARIANA: I did not!
ME: You definitely did. The whole restaurant heard.
ARIANA: That was... appreciation for proper syrup temperature.
ME: Sure it was
ARIANA: Also, that thing about the syrup temperature? Kind of hot.
ARIANA: The actual temperature. Not you. Obviously.
ARIANA: Though you were hot too
ARIANA: TEMPERATURE-WISE
ARIANA: I’m going to stop texting now.
I stare at my phone, something warm unfurling in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like?—
“Connor!” My father’s voice rings out from the hallway.
I sigh.
Fucking perfect. Just perfect.
My father, Harrison Reeves, strides into my office like he owns it. He doesn’t—but only because I let him keep some dignity after his own company collapsed. Putting him on Clearwater’s board had been a favor, a lifeline, a debt repaid for the years he spent molding me into his version of success. And he hated that he owed me for it.
"Connor," he says, tone clipped. "Why does maintenance have a work order about coffee-stained cloud optimization reports?"
"Because coffee is a necessary evil," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Kind of like quarterly board meetings."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. "The investors want solid numbers. Your projections have been vague. We can’t afford that this close to the IPO."
We. As if he had built this company. As if Clearwater Tech was his legacy instead of mine.
"They’ll get the numbers," I say smoothly. "And speaking of expectations—don’t call my office twice in one morning like I report to you. You wanted a seat at this table, but don’t mistake it for running the show."
Dad exhales sharply through his nose. "Don’t get cocky, Connor. Clearwater’s success isn’t guaranteed, and if you keep making reckless decisions?—"
"You mean like hiring you?" My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. "Noted."
His expression darkens. "Just clean up your mess. And make sure the board isn’t blindsided by anything else."
"Wouldn’t dream of it."
He studies me for another second before turning on his heel and walking out. The door closes behind him, leaving the room colder in his absence.
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face. This situation is spiraling. I need to get ahead of it before it takes Clearwater—and me—down with it.
I pull out my phone and type a message to Ariana.
ME: We need to talk.
I hesitate, typing again .
ME: Let’s make it a breakfast meeting tomorrow. I’ll have some more ‘un-special’ pancakes for you, if you’d like
A minute passes. Then two.
ARIANA: I can’t tomorrow
ME: Why not?
ARIANA: I have an interview
ME: I thought you were no longer working for Drake PR
ARIANA: Exactly. Which is why I need a job now
ARIANA: We can discuss you and your un-special pancakes after I determine whether or not I can still pay my rent, Mr. Reeves
ARIANA: For now, let’s just maintain some professional distance, okay?
Within seconds, I see that she’s silenced her notifications.
I blink.
No one has delivered me a “no” this fast before. Then again, no one else in the world could call themselves “my wife.”
I slide a hand down my face, wondering just what the hell I’m going to do about Ariana Bristol. About this whole Vegas debacle.
My jaw clenches as I go over the options in my head.
I’ve never backed down from a challenge. And I’m not going to start now.
Time to do a little research on Ms. Bristol.
Time to re-take control.