10. The Art of Losing Control
10
THE ART OF LOSING CONTROL
CONNOR
The Seattle skyline glows against the March darkness like a string of holiday lights someone forgot to take down. From forty stories up, Clearwater Tech's conference room offers a perfect view of the city dissolving into evening shadow, though right now, all I can focus on is the feather stuck to my tie.
A souvenir from this afternoon's dove invasion.
"No strippers," Grayson warns, interrupting my lobbying for an increasingly elaborate bachelor party for the past hour. "Alex would kill us."
"Boring." I toss a stress ball between my hands. "What's the point of being his best men if we can't traumatize him a little?"
"Because his fiancée Mackenzie would help him hide our bodies?" Luke suggests from his corner of the conference table. Our resident cybersecurity genius looks exactly like someone who spends his nights exposing corporate corruption—dark, low-cut hair and sharp blue eyes behind expensive glasses that do nothing to hide the perpetual shadows beneath them.
"She would," Callum agrees. Luke's opposite in every way, the swaggering Scot has copper curls, green eyes and the kind of old-money posture that comes from twelve generations of Gaelic nobility. "Though I still say we could host it at my villa in Monaco. Much more civilized than Vegas."
I wince at the mention of Vegas, and Grayson's grin turns predatory.
"Speaking of Vegas," he drawls, "Connor, don't you have something to share with the class?"
"No." I adjust my tie, dislodging another feather. "And we're discussing Alex's party. In five weeks. Which, according to you, Mr. Wet Mop, will not involve strippers, international travel, or?—"
"Or accidental marriages?" Grayson supplies.
Luke does a spit-take on his coffee. "What?"
"Nothing." I glare at Grayson. "It's?—"
"Did you say marriage?" Callum's perfect composure cracks. "You?"
"It wasn't legal," I say fast. Too damn fast. "Just a Vegas thing. And now she's helping with PR for the IPO."
"She?" Luke's hacker intensity zeroes in on me. "Who's she?"
"Ariana Bristol," Grayson adds. “Alex's cousin's ex-fiancée. Try to keep up."
"Will Drake's Ariana?" Callum hums low. "The one from the viral posts?"
A knock at the door saves me from having to respond.
"Come in!" I call, probably too eagerly.
Ariana steps in, and my throat goes dry.
She's still in her work clothes—a charcoal pencil skirt and cream silk blouse that shouldn't be distracting but absolutely is. Her dark hair's coming loose from its updo, and there's a smudge of what might be glitter on her cheek.
"Sorry to interrupt," she says, then pauses at the sudden attention. "I can come back?—"
"No, no.” I stand, bumping the table. "I mean…You’re good. You can stay.” I glance around the room. “Ariana Bristol, meet Al ex’s other less-competent groomsmen.” I start motioning as each suit raises a hand. “This here’s Grayson. That one over there that sounds like he should be in a kilt? That’s Callum. And this knucklehead in the corner is Lukas.” He shouts out “hey” but I place my hands in my slacks pockets, turning to Ariana. “It’s okay, if you don’t remember all that. You'll be seeing them at the wedding weekend anyway."
"Aye,” Callum rises smoothly. "The infamous celebration. And I don't suppose anyone would care to explain why I bumped into a singing Elvis telegram at the Clearwater reception desk?”
Ariana winces. “Um, we have a…client who is getting creative with their delivery attempts. But I handled it. Along with the doves, the commemorative chapel pens, and the gold lamé tablecloth they tried to convince maintenance was new office decor."
"Doves?" Luke perks up, pushing his glasses higher. "Is that why Harrison's toupee was trending on Twitter?"
"No comment." She blinks innocently. "Though I will say the birds showed excellent taste in nesting materials."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Her eyes meet mine, warm and amused, and something in my chest does a slow roll.
"Well," Grayson stands, grinning between us, "I think that's our cue. Wouldn't want to interrupt any... PR strategizing."
The others follow, filing out with varying degrees of subtlety. Callum pauses at the door.
"Do try to keep the avian incidents to a minimum at the bachelor weekend. My villa's artwork is rather valuable."
Then it's just us.
Ariana shifts, fidgeting with a folder. "So... that was subtle."
"About as subtle as a dove in a toupee." I lean against the conference table. "Speaking of which, how exactly did you handle our feathered friends? "
"Let's just say my dad’s favorite local Italian restaurant now has some very well-dressed additions to the owner’s courtyard fountain." She steps closer, and I catch a whiff of vanilla. "Though we might need to discuss your father's dry cleaning bill."
"Add it to the company card." I watch her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Along with whatever you need for the wedding.”
She stills. "About that..."
"Problem?"
"Several, actually." She starts pacing, heels clicking against hardwood. "First, Will's latest post has over twenty thousand likes. Second, I haven't been to a formal event since... well, since I was supposed to have one. And third..." She stops, biting her lip. "I can't dance."
I blink. "That's what you're worried about?"
"Among other things! What if I step on someone's feet? What if Will posts more photos? What if?—"
"Ariana." I catch her arms, stilling her. "Breathe."
She inhales shakily. "I am breathing. I'm also panicking. But very professionally."
"I know an excellent dance instructor." The words come out before I can stop them. "She taught my Grandmother. Very discreet.”
"Really?"
"Really." I should let go of her arms. I don't. "Though... maybe a quick demonstration? Just so you know what you're getting into?"
"Now?"
"Why not?" I pull out my phone, setting it on the table. Soft jazz fills the room. "One time only. Strictly professional."
"There's that word again." But she lets me position her hand on my shoulder. "Professional. And to be fair…I haven't danced pr operly since my thirties," she admits as I guide her into position. "Unless you count stress-cleaning to Kenny G.”
"Bold of you to assume I don't." I adjust her grip. “To be clear with you…” My gaze trails lower than I planned, “forty sure looks good on you, Ms. Bristol."
"Forty-two.” But her cheeks flush. "Though I suppose it beats the alternative."
"Getting trapped in a Vegas chapel with an Elvis impersonator old enough to be my father?"
"He did seem very invested in our... what did he call it?"
“‘Mature romance for the modern era,'" I quote, spinning her slowly. "Though I prefer to think of it as experienced decision-making."
"Is that what we're calling drunk marriages now?"
"Better than 'midlife crisis.'" I pull her closer than strictly necessary. "Though my mother's life partner-slash-yoga instructor says we should call it 'midlife awakening.'"
"Speaking from experience?"
"Speaking from many, many unwanted meditation retreats." I dip her slightly, enjoying her surprised gasp. “As for me, forty-five is feeling less and less like an awakening and more like..."
"Like realizing your back hurts and you don't know why?"
"Exactly." I straighten her, but keep her close. "Or understanding why people get excited about good water pressure."
"Or comfortable shoes." Her fingers tighten on my shoulder. "Or... proper leading technique."
"Proper what now?"
"Your dancing." She looks up through her lashes. "It's... surprisingly good."
"Surprisingly?"
"Well, you are ancient."
"Says the woman who just admitted to cleaning to Kenny G.”
"At least I'm age-appropriate for his demographic. "
"Are you calling me old, Mrs. High Roller?"
"Never." But one eyebrow arches. "Though your gray is showing."
"It's distinguished."
"It's sexy." Her eyes widen. "I mean?—"
“I know what you meant.” I hesitate. “And I appreciate the compliment.”
As we move, Ariana starts to relax, her body adjusting to mine with an ease that sends a slow burn through my chest.
The tension from earlier—the nerves, the stress, the panic she tried to brush off—melts with every step, replaced by something else. Something quieter.
Something charged.
"You’re good at this," she murmurs, almost to herself.
I tip my head. "At dancing?"
"At making people forget they’re supposed to be nervous." Her voice is soft, almost thoughtful.
"One of my many talents." My thumb brushes the back of her hand as I adjust our grip. She shivers, and I tell myself it's just the temperature. Not the fact that we're standing too close now, that our breaths are mingling, that my pulse is kicking up like I’m twenty years younger and don't know exactly how bad of an idea this is.
But Ariana doesn’t pull away. If anything, she sways closer.
"You know," she says, "this is almost fun."
"Almost?"
"Give me a minute. I’m adjusting."
Her lips curve, teasing. And God help me, I want to taste that smile.
I should step back. I should make a joke, ease the moment, return to safe, professional territory.
But then she looks up at me through her lashes—warm, amused, just a little unguarded—and I forget every reason why I shouldn't .
The song shifts, something slower now, and before I can think better of it, I let my hand slide lower, settling at the curve of her waist. She doesn’t stop me.
In fact, she exhales—just a small, breathy sound. But it’s enough. Enough to make restraint snap like an over-tightened thread.
I shift forward, dipping my head slightly, giving her time to pull away. She doesn’t.
And that’s all the permission I need.
I kiss her.
She makes a soft sound of surprise, then melts into me, her lips parting. She tastes like mint and something sweeter, and suddenly every ounce of restraint I’ve built since first laying eyes on Ariana Bristol crumbles into dust.
I angle her back slightly, deepening the kiss, savoring the warmth of her mouth, the way she sighs against me like she’s been waiting for this just as much as I have. Her hands slide up my chest, fisting in my shirt, and it’s like a switch flips.
I’m no longer thinking about professional boundaries, about strategies, about the goddamn IPO.
I’m thinking about how good she feels pressed against me. How her scent—vanilla and something even sweeter—clouds my thoughts. How the soft whimper she makes when I brush my thumb over her hip shoots straight to places that have no business reacting right now.
She presses closer, like she can’t get enough, like she doesn’t care that this is reckless and impulsive and a very, very bad idea. My hands skim the curve of her waist, pulling her flush, and she shudders.
I nearly shudder myself.
Fuck.
I don’t do this. I don’t lose control. Not of myself. But with Ariana, I’m unraveling by the second.
Her nails scrape the back of my neck, sending a sharp jolt of heat straight to my spine. I tilt her head back, deepening the kiss, swallowing the soft sound she makes. It’s intoxicating—the way she responds, the way she presses up on her toes like she wants more.
I want more.
Then my phone buzzes, the harsh sound shattering the moment.
Ariana gasps, jerking back like she’s just remembered where we are—who we are. Her pupils are blown, lips kiss-swollen, and my heart pounds like I just finished running stadium stairs.
“I should—” She stumbles slightly. “That was?—”
"Ariana—"
"Professional.” She's already backing away, fingers brushing her kiss-bruised lips. "We're being professional. This is just business. Just... strategy."
"Right." But my voice is rough, betraying just how not professional that kiss was.
"I'll see you tomorrow." She grabs her purse, avoiding my gaze. "For work. Professional work. With appropriate boundaries and—oh god, is that a feather in your hair?"
Before I can answer, she's gone, leaving nothing but the ghost of vanilla and the taste of her and mint on my lips.
I sink into a chair, running a hand through my allegedly distinguished gray-streaked hair. Another feather falls.
My phone buzzes:
GRAYSON: So
GRAYSON: That looked like some intense PR strategy
GRAYSON: Though maybe next time close the blinds?
GRAYSON: Also, your back isn't going to thank you for that dip move tomorrow
I look up to find the conference room's glass walls perfectly showcase the Seattle skyline—and apparently, my dumb spur-of-the-moment decision making .
LUKE: Nice moves for an old man
LUKE: Though you might want to delete the security footage
LUKE: Just saying
CALLUM: I know an excellent chiropractor
CALLUM: For when that dancing catches up with you
CALLUM: Also, the doves send their regards
Wonderful.
Because that's exactly what I need right now. More complications. More witnesses to the recent fumbling and bumbling of my life.
More reasons to remember why I don't do this. Why I can't do this.
My phone lights up one more time:
ARIANA: Your tie was crooked.
ARIANA: During the dancing.
ARIANA: That's why I was looking at your mouth.
ARIANA: I mean, not your mouth specifically.
ARIANA: Just the general... tie area.
ARIANA: Yup, definitely going to stop texting now
I feel myself smile.
I take a minute, letting myself enjoy the moment then I clear my throat.
Ariana Bristol is a walking, talking reminder of why I keep my life in check. Why I don’t make impulsive decisions. Why I don’t kiss women in glass-walled conference rooms like some rookie who doesn’t understand what happens when you mix business with pleasure.
I scrub a hand over my face, exhaling hard.
Back to helping with Alex’s wedding. Back to work that’s gotten me this far.