12. The Art of Letting Go
12
THE ART OF LETTING GO
CONNOR
Seattle's March rain has turned the city into a glittering mirror, streetlights reflecting off wet pavement as my town car glides through downtown's crowded streets. I adjust my bow tie for the third time, ignoring my driver-slash-chief-bodyguard’s knowing look in the rearview mirror.
"Nervous, Mr. Reeves?"
“Christoph, you’ve known me for how long now?”
“Five years, Mr. Reeves.”
“Right. Then you know I don’t get nervous.” I check my phone again. 7:58 PM. "I get... “
“Strategically focused. But of course, sir." But he's definitely smirking. "And I suppose that's why we've circled Ms. Bristol's building twice?"
I glare at him in the rearview mirror. "The investors?—"
“Like stability. And like you said, a date communicates stability.” He pulls up to the modern high-rise overlooking Lake Union, its glass facade reflecting the city lights like stars. "Though perhaps stability is not the best?—“
"That's enough commentary from the driver's seat. "
"Yes, sir." He puts the car in park. “And I won’t even mention that you've adjusted that tie four times now.”
“Christoph, you seem to be fond of the idea of being fired.”
"Of course, sir. Would you like me to wait until after I've driven you home to clean out my locker?"
Before I can respond, the building's front doors open.
And every witty retort dies in my throat.
Because Ariana Bristol in formal wear is a weapon of mass destruction.
The midnight blue gown hugs every curve like it was engineered specifically to short-circuit my brain. Her dark hair falls in waves over one bare shoulder, and even from here, I can see the mischief in her smile as she juggles what appears to be an oversized bag, three binders, and?—
"Is that the Elvis waffle iron?" I mutter.
"Among other things," Christoph notes, already moving to help her. "Though I believe that particular sequined object is a photo album."
I exit the car, catching up to them just as Ariana tries to explain why she's bringing office supplies to a charity gala.
"Just a few essentials," she's telling Christoph. "And the chapel keeps sending things to the office, so I thought maybe if I returned some items?—"
"You're bringing Elvis memorabilia to a tech investor event?"
As she takes a step towards me in her heels, she stumbles. I catch her elbow, steadying her just she glances up at me, brown eyes wide.
“Um, sorry,” she exhales. “I was just explaining?—"
"Why you're armed with a bedazzled waffle iron?"
"It's evidence."
"Of what? Suspicious breakfast activities?"
"Of our..." She glances at Christoph, lowering her voice. "You know. "
"Our tendency to acquire kitchen appliances while intoxicated?"
"Our marriage," she hisses.
Christoph very carefully doesn't react, but I see his shoulders shake.
"Ah." I take the waffle iron, handing it back to Christoph. "And you thought tonight was the perfect time to return it?"
"I snagged the wedding video." She brandishes a USB drive triumphantly. "And let me tell you, your singing voice is... interesting."
I freeze. "My what now?"
"Oh yes." Her grin turns wicked. "Apparently you have very strong feelings about 'Love Me Tender.' And hip gyrating.”
"There's no video."
"There's definitely a video."
"You're bluffing."
"Want to watch it together? I particularly enjoy the part where you try to convince the Elvis impersonator that PR crisis management is the new way to say 'I love you.'"
"Please tell me you're joking."
"You even added a verse about proper file management."
"Get in the car."
"Make me."
The words hang between us, landing with a dare I’m thinking about making good on.
Christoph clears his throat. "Should I... give you two a moment?"
"No!" we both say.
Ariana slides into the car first, the dress doing impossible things as she moves. I follow, trying not to watch the way the silk clings to her hips.
"So," she says once we're moving, "about that video?—"
"About that waffle iron?—"
"Truce?" She offers her hand .
I take it, but instead of shaking, I use it to pull her closer. "Depends. Are there backup copies of this alleged video?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"I would, actually."
"Too bad." But she doesn't pull away. "A good PR executive never reveals her sources."
"Or her evidence?"
"Especially not her evidence."
We're close enough now that I can smell her perfume—that caramelized and decadent scent that makes me want to bury my face in her neck.
"Connor?"
"Hmm?"
"You're still holding my hand."
I am. And she's still letting me.
Christoph takes a turn, sending her sliding against me. My free hand catches her waist, steadying her.
"Sorry!" Christoph calls, not sounding sorry at all. "These roads are treacherous in the rain."
"Very treacherous," I agree, not moving my hand.
Ariana's breath catches. "Very..."
My phone buzzes, shattering the moment.
DAD VADER: Where are you? Investors asking questions.
DAD VADER: Don't screw this up.
Reality crashes back.
I release Ariana, straightening my dark suit jacket. "We should discuss strategy for tonight."
"Right." She shifts away. "Strategy."
But her hand still tingles against mine, and I can't help wondering what would happen if—just once—I let myself forget about strategy altogether.
By the time we arrive to the Tech of Tomorrow gala, The Seattle Art Museum is glowing against the night sky, its modern facade transformed into something almost magical by strategically placed lighting and too much money.
"Ready?" I offer Ariana my arm as we exit the car.
"To charm tech billionaires while pretending we didn't get married by Elvis?" She takes it, her touch sending electricity through my sleeve. "Absolutely."
"Connor!" A familiar voice rings out just as we reach the entrance. "There you are, darling!"
I close my eyes briefly. "Incoming."
"What—"
“RYLAND CONNOR REEVES!" My Grandmother sweeps toward us, resplendent in designer purple and enough diamonds to fund a small country. "You're late! And who is this vision you're trying to sneak past me?"
"Grams—"
"Mrs. Reeves," Ariana extends her hand, "I'm Ariana Bristol, Clearwater's new?—"
"Head of PR, yes, yes." Grams waves away the introduction, pulling Ariana into a hug instead. "But more importantly, you're the one who finally got my Grandson to stop bringing his phone to dinner as his plus one."
"I never?—"
"Last Christmas," Grams tells Ariana, "he tried to convince me his smartwatch counted as a date."
Ariana's lips quirk. "Did it have a good personality?"
"Terrible." Grams links arms with her. "Though its time management skills were impressive."
"If you're quite finished," I try to cut in, but they're already moving toward the ballroom, heads together like old friends.
"Is it true," I hear Grams ask, "that he once tried to expense his friend Grayson’s dating app as 'market research'?"
For fuck’s sake.
"Connor." My father materializes at my elbow, his disapproval a tangible thing. "The Morrison group is waiting. "
“Dad.” I straighten my jacket. "Lovely to see you too."
His jaw tightens. "This isn't a game. The IPO?—"
"Is fine." I scan the crowd, spotting Ariana and Grams by the bar. "Everything's under control."
"Like your brother would have had it under control?"
The words make my teeth grind together. Twenty-plus years, and he still can't resist the comparison.
"James isn't here." My voice turns arctic. "And neither of us is him."
I stride away before he can respond, making my way to where Ariana and Grams appear to be critiquing the appetizer selection.
“And did you know,” Grams is saying, "that he once wrote a ten-page PowerPoint presentation to ask a girl to prom?"
Ariana stops in her tracks, eyes wide with delight. "Oh, please tell me that’s true."
"Grams," I grit out, but she’s already nodding.
"Complete with data analysis and pie charts. He even had a Q&A slide." She pats my arm. "Such a romantic, my Connor."
Ariana is visibly struggling to hold back laughter. "And? Did she say yes?"
Grams sighs. "Poor dear was so flustered, she panicked and ran in the opposite direction."
"She fled?"
"Like a gazelle, darling. He had to chase her down the hall."
Ariana turns to me. “You chased her?"
"I didn’t chase her," I mutter. "I—walked briskly."
"With the PowerPoint in hand," Grams declares.
Ariana actually leans into her for support as she wheezes out a laugh. "Oh, this is gold. I need to see this presentation."
"It’s classified," I say flatly.
"My dear," Grams tells Ariana, "if I ever find it, I’ll send it to you. "
"Connor," Ariana says, still breathless, "this might be the best thing I’ve ever heard."
“That’s enough of that,” I practically shout as the opening notes of a waltz fill the room. “Last time I checked, this event had a dance floor. And a dance floor is for dancing. Right, Ariana?"
She's fighting laughter, but takes my offered hand. "Don't think this gets you out of explaining the prom incident.” Her voice lowers so only I can hear. “Or that wedding video.”
I pull her onto the dance floor. "I thought we agreed not to discuss Vegas."
"No, you agreed. I'm still collecting evidence." Her hand slides to my shoulder as we begin to move. "For business reasons, of course."
"Of course." I draw her closer. "Nothing to do with how good I look in sequins."
"Purely PR-related research." But her breath catches as my hand spreads across her lower back. "Though that cape you were wearing that night was... interesting."
"Interesting?"
"Professionally speaking."
We're barely moving now, just swaying together as the music washes over us. Her body fits against mine like it was designed to be there, like every curve and angle was precisely created to drive me insane.
And Ariana isn’t withdrawing from me.
She should be. Should be pushing back with some sharp remark, reminding me that this is a bad idea, that I’m a bad idea. But she isn’t.
Her hand is in mine, her other resting lightly on my shoulder, and she’s following my lead like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She’s trusting me.
I don’t know what the hell to do with that .
“I don’t waltz,” she mutters, but there’s no bite in her voice. Just the faintest hint of breathlessness.
I smirk, guiding her into an easy turn. “Lucky for you, I do.”
She huffs, rolling her eyes like I’ve said something ridiculous, but she doesn’t step away. Doesn’t pull back.
Doesn’t let go.
I keep her close, probably closer than I should, but she doesn’t call me on it. She just watches me, brown eyes sharp, like she’s trying to figure something out.
“You know,” she remarks, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed.”
“You’ve seen me after three too many whiskeys.”
“Is that the secret? I need to get you drunk to see you loosen up?”
My grip tightens at her waist before I even think about it. Not much. Just enough. Enough to tell her I’m here, that I hear her, that?—
I shake the thought away. “Whiskey’s overrated.”
Her lips curve. “I’ll take your word for it.”
The music swells around us, and for a moment, it’s just us. No curious glances from across the room.
No expectations, no past, no future.
Just this. Just her.
She lets out a breath, something softer than usual, and says, “Did I mention it’s pretty interesting seeing you like this?”
“You like seeing me waltzing?”
“I mean, letting go.”
I don’t react. Not outwardly. But something in my chest tightens, just enough to make me notice.
She doesn’t press. Just stays there, close, her hand warm against my shoulder. Like it belongs there. Like I belong there.
It’s a dangerous thought. One I shouldn’t entertain.
Her phone buzzes.
I glance down at her, and Ariana groans. “Don’t. ”
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m about to ruin the moment.”
I smirk, but there’s something else there now, something I don’t have the energy to analyze. “Are you?”
She hesitates. That’s new.
Then her phone buzzes again, and just like that, the moment is over.
She pulls back, but her hand lingers at my sleeve. Just for a second. Just long enough to make me feel the absence of her when she finally steps away.
“I have to handle this,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.
“That’s a shame.”
And for the first time in a long time, I mean it.
"I should?—“
"Check it," I sigh, releasing her. "Before you spontaneously combust from PR withdrawal."
She pulls out her phone, then freezes.
"Oh no."
"What?"
"Remember Regina St. Claire's daughter?"
"The llama enthusiast?"
"She's graduated to camels." Ariana shows me the screen. "Three of them. Currently loose in Pike Place Market."
I blink at the photo of what appears to be several very disgruntled camels investigating the fish-throwing station.
"I have to go." She's already gathering her things. "The files I need are at my apartment, and?—"
"I'll take you."
"You don't have to?—"
"I want to."
She stills, something growing warm in her gaze. "Connor... "
"Let me help." I step closer, close enough to see the golden hues in her chocolate-brown eyes. "Please."
A heartbeat passes.
Then another.
"Okay," she whispers.
I signal Christoph, who appears with suspicious speed.
"Leaving so soon?" Grams calls as we head for the door.
"Camel emergency.” Ariana hugs her and hurries away. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Reeves.”
I kiss my Grandmother’s cheek. “I’ll be over for poker night soon.”
We turn and head out before my Grams can start calling out poker night buy-in numbers.
The ride to Ariana's building is surprisingly silent. The proximity. The vanilla scent of her skin. The closeness tonight.
The air feels squeezed out of my own lugs, by the time the car slows to a stop outside her building.
Neither of us moves.
Rain drums against the roof, creating a cocoon of sound that makes the rest of the world feel very far away.
"So," she says softly.
"So."
"I should go." She doesn't move. "Those files..."
"The camels can wait."
"That's not very professional of you."
"I'm not feeling very professional right now."
Her breath catches as I lean closer. "Connor..."
“Fuck. Don’t listen to me. You should go ahead and go.”
"What if I don't want to?"
Christoph very deliberately raises the privacy screen.
And I'm done fighting this.
Done pretending I don't want her.
I kiss her.
She melts against me the instant we make contact, her breasts pressing against my chest, then she's in my lap, dress hiked up around her thighs, hands in my hair. I grip her hips, pulling her closer, closer, never close enough.
"This is a terrible idea," she gasps as my mouth finds her neck.
"Terrible," I agree, but my hands are already sliding up her sides.
"We shouldn't?—"
"Probably not."
"The camels?—"
"Will survive."
Her laugh turns into a moan as I find a particularly delicious spot below her ear. "Connor..."
My phone buzzes. Then hers.
Then both at once.
"Don't," I murmur against her skin.
But she's already reaching for her phone, though she doesn't leave my lap.
"Oh god."
"What now? More camels?"
"Worse." She shows me the screen. "The camels found the coffee shop."
I look at the photo of three very caffeinated camels attempting to stage what appears to be a sit-in at the original Starbucks.
"That's..." I can't help it. I laugh. "That's actually impressive."
"This isn't funny!" But she's fighting a smile. "Do you know how much paperwork a coffee-addicted camel creates?"
"No, but I'm sure you'll tell me." I brush hair from her face. "Probably with color-coded tabs."
“Again with the organizational systems?”
“They’re effective.” I pull her closer. "Though I do have some suggestions about file management..."
"If you start singing that verse again, I'm leaving. "
"But it's such a good verse." I nip at her ear. "Very thorough instructions about proper folder hierarchy..."
She silences me with another kiss, and for a long moment, there are no camels, no crisis.
Her phone buzzes again.
"I really do have to go." She pulls back, lips swollen, eyes bright. "Unless you want to explain to Regina why her daughter's emotional support camels are freaking out?”
"That's not a sentence I ever expected to hear."
"Welcome to my world." She straightens her dress, but makes no move to leave my lap. “You're handling it better than most."
"I'm handling you just fine."
Her eyes darken. "There’s that ‘charm’ again.”
“Admit it. You’re fond of my charm.”
“Or maybe I’m just fond of you,” she says softly.
And there it is.
The truth we've both been dancing around.
"Ariana..."
"I know." She finally slides off my lap. "We can't. The IPO, the marriage thing, the?—"
I catch her hand. "Have dinner with me."
"What?"
“Next week.” I snort. “I know. That’s not exactly soon, but the rest of my week is full of meetings. And I’m sure you have enough on your plate to handle, too.”
She groans. “God, I wish that weren’t true.”
“Right. But next week…” I swallow thickly, tempted to run a thumb across her lower lip. “No investors, no crisis, no Elvis memorabilia. No working so hard to keep Vegas under wraps.” I bring her fingers to my lips. "Just…a meal. Without either of us rushing to put a band-aid over some crisis.”
She hesitates. "Connor..."
"Say yes. "
A smile tugs at her mouth. "What happened to maintaining professional distance?"
“I’m thinking an inch or two could qualify.”
Her laugh is worth every investor I’ve neglected tonight. "Well, when you put it that way..."
Another text lights up her phone.
"Go." I release her hand. "Before Seattle's coffee supply is permanently compromised."
She gathers her things, then pauses at the door. "Connor?"
"Yes?"
"That verse about file management?"
"What about it?"
"It was kind of hot."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving nothing but the ghost of her perfume.