13. Steps in Time
13
STEPS IN TIME
CONNOR
Patient is supposed to be a virtue.
In my case? Patience is a motherfucker that needs a slap to the face.
It’s been six days. Six.
Technically, it’s been six days, fourteen hours, and approximately twenty-three minutes since the Tech for Tomorrow gala. Not that I'm counting.
In my defense, it's hard not to count when you keep texting your maybe-still-wife every chance you get, both of you pretending last week's kiss never happened while she steals coffee from your company’s break room and critiques your mug organization system.
"You have the company color-code the break room mugs?" She'd texted this morning, sending me a picture of one in Clearwater blue. "That's... actually not surprising."
"Says the woman who alphabetizes her protein bars."
“I told you: it’s a force of habit.” Three dots appeared and then disappeared before she texted. "And don’t judge me. They were on sale. "
Now, staring at another investor presentation, all I can think about is that gala. That car ride. How she'd smelled. And how?—
"Mr. Reeves?" Yasmin appears in my doorway. "The Elvis chapel sent another package."
I don't look up. "Throw it out."
"It's... singing."
That makes me look up. "The package is singing?"
"'Love Me Tender.' But with modified lyrics about social media engagement and viral marketing potential."
For God's sake…
"Also," she continues, "Ms. Bristol asked me to tell you that she's successfully erased all hotel security footage from Vegas, disabled three different traffic cameras, and convinced the chapel's Instagram manager to 'accidentally' delete their entire photo archive from March."
"Thorough." I nod, not finishing the rest of what I want to say.
Because Ariana Bristol is very thorough.
Very thorough in managing PR crises. Very thorough in disposing of Elvis-shaped bribes.
And very thorough in the art of avoiding our "date."
Because she's also been avoiding me.
Not overtly, not in a way I can actually call her out on, but she's mastered the art of slipping away before I can steal her away from her office.
Meetings are stacked back-to-back, and any time I think I might catch her alone, she's already moving on to another crisis, another phone call, another reason not to be in the same room with me.
And I'm losing my goddamn mind.
I tell myself it's fine. The IPO is my focus. My life. The culmination of everything I've built. But every time I catch her laughing with Yasmin over coffee, every time our fingers brush when she hands me a file, every time she texts me some snarky remark about the latest tech scandal, it makes me want to tear up every corporate byline I've ever lived by and drag her into the nearest empty office.
But I don't. Because I'm not that guy. Because I have boundaries for a reason.
At least, I think I do.
Until I find myself at Madame Rousseau's Dance Academy, watching through the studio's glass wall as Ariana attempts to master a waltz with Seattle's most demanding dance instructor.
"Non, non, non!" Madame Rousseau's accent gets thicker with each correction. "The frame must be elegant! Like a swan! You are moving like... how you say... a caffeinated penguin!"
I shouldn't be here. Should be at the office, preparing for tomorrow's investor meeting. But when Yasmin mentioned Ariana was actually attending the private lessons I booked to prepare her for Alex's wedding...
Well, I did promise to help.
"Better to be a caffeinated penguin than step on the best man's feet," Ariana mutters, then stumbles again. "Though at this rate, I might need steel-toed dance shoes."
"Your feet are not the problem," Madame Rousseau sighs. "It is the tension! You must relax!"
"I am relaxed!"
"Your shoulders say otherwise." I step into the studio, shrugging off my jacket. "To be fair, the penguin comparison is inspired."
Ariana whirls, nearly taking out her instructor with the movement. "Connor?"
"Working on your form?" I approach, noticing how her dance clothes cling to curves I'm supposed to be ignoring. “Better than practicing in your living room, isn’t it?”
"Yeah, well, my living room doesn't come with a professional instructor who can prevent me from permanently maiming Alex's groomsmen."
"Ah, Monsieur Reeves!" Madame Rousseau brightens. "Come, come! Show your... friend the proper frame."
The way she says "friend" makes Ariana's cheeks pink.
"I don't think—" she starts.
"Professional dance consultation," I offer, moving closer. "Very appropriate."
"Right." But her breath catches as I take her into frame. “I will warn you: I've already traumatized three different instructors this week."
"Only three?" I guide her into position, my hand spanning her lower back. “That’s progress.”
"Please." She rolls her eyes, but her hand settles on my shoulder. "I'm merely pacing myself. Still have four weeks until the wedding."
"Bon!" Madame Rousseau claps. "Now, from the top. One-two-three, one-two-three..."
We begin to move, and immediately I understand the penguin comparison. Ariana's frame is perfect, her steps precise, but there's a stiffness to her movements that makes it feel more like a military march than a waltz.
"Relax," I murmur, pulling her slightly closer. "Dancing isn't about control."
"Says the man who color-codes his coffee mugs."
"Says the woman who's counting steps under her breath."
"I am not—" She stumbles, and I catch her easily. "Okay, maybe I was."
"Stop thinking so much." I adjust our hold. "Just... feel it."
"Feel it, huh? Did you get that from your mother's meditation app?"
"Actually, I got it from my Grandmother's very expensive dance instructor." I spin her slowly. "Right before she kicked me out of the room for breaking into the Robot. ”
Ariana's laugh is worth every horrible dance lesson memory. "Please tell me there's video."
"Absolutely not. But I’ll have you know that my electric slide was legendary."
"Now that I have to see."
"Maybe after a few more lessons." I dip her slightly, enjoying her surprised gasp. "Can't reveal all my moves at once.”
“All this from a man who won't even let his assistant choose his coffee order?"
"That's different. I’m not a fan of being told what to do.” Then suddenly, a memory surfaces unannounced - Amanda in my childhood kitchen, telling me I was impossible to reach, that my walls were too high. That she couldn't love someone who wouldn't let her in. "Coffee is about standards. Dancing is about..."
I trail off as Ariana relaxes into the movement, trusting me to lead, and something in my chest tightens.
"Dancing is about what?" Ariana prompts.
"Partnership," I say finally.
"Très bien!" Madame Rousseau calls. "Much better! Now you move like swans in love, not penguins with espresso!"
Ariana nearly trips again. "We're not?—"
“Dance partners?”
“Exactly.” But her fingers tighten on my shoulder. “I am curious, though, Mr. Reeves. Any reason in particular you decided to show up here?"
"Because if I have to sit through one more blockchain pitch, I might need dance therapy myself."
She grins. "That bad?"
"Worse." I guide her through another turn. "This morning, someone actually tried to sell me on 'NFTs for enterprise resource planning.'"
"Oh no."
"Oh yes." We move in perfect sync now, her body relaxing into mine. “Personally, I think he was just trying to distract from his company's terrible quarterly earnings."
"By inventing crypto buzzword bingo?"
"By—" I stop as she executes a perfect spin, her body brushing mine as she returns to frame. "By, uh..."
"You okay there, Reeves?"
"Fine." I clear my throat. "Just... assessing your form."
"My form?"
“Yes. I like to keep an eye on your…form.”
“I’m sure you do.” She's close enough now that I catch a hint of vanilla beneath her perfume. "And what's your professional opinion?"
"That you're trying to distract me."
"Is it working?"
I'm about to do something extremely unprofessional when Madame Rousseau claps sharply.
"Magnifique!" She beams. "Though perhaps we save the passionate gazing for after lesson, non?"
We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
“Sure,” Ariana straightens her top. "Very professional gazing. I mean dancing. I mean?—"
"Same time tomorrow?" I cut in smoothly.
"Connor..."
“For dance instruction." I retrieve my jacket. "Can't have you traumatizing any more teachers before the wedding."
"My hero." But her smile is soft. “But my waltz isn't my only problem."
"No?"
"Apparently, my foxtrot looks like 'drunk gazelle attempting parkour.'"
I laugh. "Good thing I have excellent insurance."
"You're going to need it."
We gather our things, say au revoir to an extremely amused Madame Rousseau, and step out into the spring evening. The streets are quiet, cherry blossoms drifting like snow in the gentle breeze.
Beautiful.
And reckless.
"I should probably go," Ariana says eventually. "Early meeting tomorrow. Yasmin has me working on putting out a few potential PR fires in your Marketing department.”
“I know. It’s that damn emoji generation at work. ”I clear my throat. “I’ll walk you home."
She hesitates. "Connor..."
"Professional escort service."
"That's not better."
"Workplace safety protocol?"
"Now you're just making things up."
"Is it working?"
She laughs, the sound doing dangerous things to my pulse. "Fine. But only because it's on your way."
"It's absolutely not on my way."
"Then why?—"
"Because I want to."
Something flickers in her eyes. "Oh."
Silence settles between us. I shove my hands inside my slacks pockets to keep them from doing anything stupid. Like touching Ariana. Again.
"So," I say as we walk, "want to tell me the real reason you're torturing dance instructors on a Tuesday night? Like you said, this is your, what, third time this week?”
She's quiet for a moment. "Dad's latest tests came back."
"And?"
"And... they're not great." She kicks a stray blossom. "Not terrible, but not great. And Lily's having credit issues again, and Kat's firm is downsizing, and..."
"And you're carrying everyone's problems."
"Someone has to. "
"Do they?"
She shoots me a look. "You're one to talk. Mr. I-Handle-Everything-Myself."
"Fair point." I guide her around a puddle. “Not to mince words, but your dancing form suggests some unresolved feelings about that responsibility."
"Says the man over-critiquing my form.”
“We’re in this together, remember? ‘Trauma twins’?” I echo her words from that fateful Vegas night, curling my fingers.
She laughs, then sobers. "It's just... a lot sometimes, you know? Being the one everyone depends on?"
"I do know." I stop walking, turning to face her. "But you don't have to handle it alone."
"Connor..."
"I mean it." I step closer, too close for professional anything. "Let me help."
Her breath catches. "That's dangerous."
"I'm okay with dangerous."
"Are you?" She tilts her head. "Because I’m not an idiot, Mr. Reeves.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means…you’re famous in these Seattle tech circles. I’ve learned enough about you in the last few weeks to know that Connor Reeves doesn't do relationships. Or feelings. Or anything that might compromise what he’s built for himself.”
"Maybe I'm willing to make an exception."
She blinks, brows furrowed. “Why?"
Because you make me laugh. Because you dance like you’ve got two left feet and it’s adorable. Because something about you makes me want to break all my rules.
Before I can answer, her phone buzzes.
FRANK (DOORMAN): Ms. Bristol? You might want to get home soon. There's a... situation.
"What kind of situation?" she types back .
FRANK: I’d rather wait for you to arrive, ma’am
"Oh no." She shows me the screen. "This can't be good."
"Only one way to find out." I hold out my hand. "Coming?"
She looks at it for several seconds before reaching for it. “Okay.”
I tug her gently, and we make a run through the cherry blossom night, laughing like goddamn teenagers, her hand warm in mine. And for the first time in a very long time, I'm not thinking about boundaries at all.
I'm just thinking about her.