18. The Morning After Truth
18
THE MORNING AFTER TRUTH
ARIANA
Dawn breaks over Seattle like a watercolor painting, all soft pinks and golds bleeding into the spring sky. I watch it from Connor's absurdly large bed, wrapped in sheets that are likely ten-thousand thread count, trying to convince myself that last night was just another PR situation to manage.
It's not working.
Because Connor—my technically-still-husband, definitely-my-boss, absolutely-off-limits Reeves—is currently making pancakes in his secret penthouse kitchen wearing nothing but low-slung pajama pants and that irritatingly perfect bedhead.
And I'm wearing his shirt.
I pad across the plush, heated floors, my bare feet sinking into them as I take in the sheer excess of it all. The floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire skyline, bathing the sleek modern space in golden light. The living room alone is bigger than my entire apartment, decorated in a minimalist yet impossibly expensive way—the kind of aesthetic that screams, "I have a designer on speed dial."
And then there’s the kitchen .
It's massive. A chef’s dream, all marble countertops and top-of-the-line appliances that gleam under the recessed lighting. A gas range with six burners. A built-in espresso machine that I’m sure cost more than my last car. The kind of fridge that requires biometric access—because of course it does.
And yet, here Connor is, flipping pancakes like he does this every morning instead of having a private chef prepare Michelin-starred meals for him.
“You look like you’re having an existential crisis,” he says without turning around. “Coffee’s ready, by the way. The good kind. I made it myself.”
I blink, still absorbing the impossibility of the scene. “You? Made coffee?” I arch a brow, crossing my arms as I lean against the cool marble. “Did your house manager call in sick? Your private chef abandon you in your time of need?”
He flips a pancake with practiced finesse. “I gave them the morning off. Thought I’d handle breakfast myself.”
I squint at him. “So what you’re saying is that we’re both in uncharted territory right now.”
Connor smirks, grabbing two plates. “It’s not that shocking, Ms. Bristol. I do know how to cook.”
I gesture to the pristine countertops. “Uh-huh. And yet, everything in this kitchen looks like it’s never been touched. Are you sure you didn’t have someone sneak in here and prep everything before I woke up?”
He places a plate of perfectly golden pancakes in front of me, arching a brow. “You wound me.”
“Just stating facts.” I pick up my fork, eyeing the precision of the chocolate chips. “This kitchen is ridiculously clean. Too clean. Like a showroom at a high-end home store.” I glance around, noticing the impeccably aligned spice rack, the matching sets of cookware hanging in perfect symmetry. “There’s no way you actually use this space. ”
Connor leans against the counter, watching me with amusement. “I use it more than you think.”
I pop a bite of pancake into my mouth and nearly groan. Damn it. Of course, they’re perfect. Light, fluffy, and just the right amount of sweet. “I guess you get points for execution.”
His smirk widens. “And here I thought you’d appreciate the effort more.”
“Oh, I do. I’m just struggling to process the image of billionaire Connor Reeves willingly making breakfast in his own kitchen. Should I be concerned? Are you having an identity crisis?”
He chuckles, pouring me a cup of coffee before sliding it across the counter. “Maybe I just wanted to impress my wife.”
The word washes over me—warm and dangerous. It’s amazing how familiar it’s starting to become.
I wrap my hands around the mug, trying not to let it affect me. Trying not to let him affect me. “Mission accomplished,” I say lightly. “One question, though: Do all billionaires have backup plans in case of breakfast emergencies? Or am I just special?”
Connor leans in slightly, his voice lower. “You’re definitely special.”
And just like that, I’m in trouble.
“And stop your ruminating, Ms. Bristol,” he calls, turning back to the stove. "I can hear the crisis management from here."
"I am not crisis managing." I am absolutely crisis managing. "I'm just... considering logistics."
"Logistics?"
"Like how I'm going to get to my morning meeting without looking like I just had a very unprofessional sleepover with my boss."
He turns, spatula in hand, and damn him for looking this good. "I could have Christoph bring you clothes."
"Absolutely not." I slide onto one of the kitchen island stools. "Your driver-slash-bodyguard does not need to know about my walk of shame."
"Trust me, Christoph already knows everything." He plates another stack of perfect pancakes. "He's very observant."
"Observant about what exactly?"
"About how I keep finding excuses to drive past your apartment. About how I reorganized three board meetings just to run into you buying coffee from that overpriced place you like."
"You what now?"
"Also, apparently I smile differently when you text me."
"I'm sorry, you what?"
"His words, not mine." But teeth dig into his bottom lip. He sighs. "Though he might have a point about the coffee thing."
"Connor..."
"The pancakes are getting cold." He kisses my temple as he passes. “And from watching you sleep, I’ve started to understand your stance on proper syrup temperature."
"Excuse me?"
"You talk in your sleep. Very passionate opinions about breakfast foods."
"I do not?—"
My phone buzzes. Then his.
Then both at once.
YASMIN: Emergency board meeting in 30 minutes.
YASMIN: Mr. Reeves Sr. is already here.
YASMIN: With PowerPoint slides.
"Oh god." I check the time. "We're late."
"We have time."
"Your father is there."
"Fuck."
We scramble into action, a chaos of clothes and coffee and trying to look like we haven't just spent the night breaking every HR rule in existence .
"Here." Connor tosses me something soft. "Emergency outfit."
I catch what appears to be very expensive yoga clothes. "Why do you have women's workout gear?"
"My mother keeps trying to get me into hot yoga." He straightens his tie. "Says it will help align my chakras."
"Of course she does." I duck into the bathroom to change. “To be honest, I think this is a step up from my usual morning-after outfit."
"Do you have many morning-after outfits?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
He appears in the doorway as I'm trying to tame my hair. "Actually, I would."
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and suddenly getting to the board meeting doesn't seem so urgent.
"Connor..."
He steps closer, hands sliding to my waist. "Yes?"
"We're going to be late."
"Worth it." His lips find my neck. “I am curious about how many other CEOs have emergency yoga clothes for you, by the way.”
I elbow him. "Didn't realize CEOs could be so jealous."
"I'm not jealous." He definitely sounds jealous. "I'm professionally inquisitive about your crisis management techniques."
"My techniques?"
"Very thorough techniques." His hands slip under the borrowed top. “But, um, I’m sure your form could use work..."
My phone buzzes again:
KAT: Dad's not answering his phone
KAT: Please tell me he's not experimenting with protein smoothies again
KAT: The blender is still recovering from last time
Reality crashes back .
I step away from Connor, reality slowly starting to seep in.
Dammit, I almost forgot.
I have responsibilities. A family that needs me. A marriage I need to fix before it ruins both our careers.
"Ariana?" Connor's voice is soft. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I straighten my borrowed clothes. "Just... remembering real life."
"This is real life."
"Is it?" I turn to face him. "Because from where I'm standing, this looks a lot like a fantasy. One that doesn't include family emergencies or protein powder disasters or..."
"Or what?"
Or the fact that I'm lying to you about our marriage. That I'm supposed to be the strong one, the responsible one, the one who fixes everything.
But I can't fix this without breaking something else.
"Or board meetings," I say instead. "Which we're very late for."
He studies me for a long moment. "We should talk about this."
"About being late?"
"About whatever's making you semi-panicky.”
“This is not panic.” I grab my phone. “This is being realistic.”
“And you’re saying last night wasn’t?”
I can hear the heat in Connor’s voice, the rumble of dissent.
I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “I don’t want to argue. I just want to get to work. On time.”
His frosty-blue eyes turn into glaciers. “Right. Work.”
"Connor..."
"No, you're right." He grabs his jacket. "We should be professional. Never mind the fact that we’re both way past that goddamned point… ”
He’s right. Last night, we obliterated anything professional between us.
But now...
Now it’s becoming too easy to want something else entirely. Something terrifying and wonderful and absolutely impossible.
My phone buzzes again:
LILY: Dad's trying to organize a protein powder MLM scheme
LILY: With his kidney support group
LILY: SEND REINFORCEMENTS
I close my eyes briefly. “We have to go. You have a meeting to get to. I do, too, in case anything strange might affect the IPO, and?—“
"Of course." Connor's voice is carefully neutral. "Duty calls."
“I’m just saying…”
"The board meeting's in twenty minutes." He's already moving away. "We should take separate elevators. Maintain that professional distance."
The words feel like a door closing.
I want to stop him. Want to explain that it's not him I'm running from—it's me. The me who's supposed to have everything under control. The me who's lying to him. The me who's terrifying close to falling in love with a man so soon after getting my heart stomped on by another.
But I don't.
Instead, I watch him leave, the ghost of last night's happiness fading like morning mist.
My phone buzzes one final time:
DAD: Don't worry sweetheart! Everything's fine!
DAD: Though hypothetically...
DAD: How do you feel about being the face of Bristol's Protein Paradise ?
I drop my head into my hands, Connor's words echoing in my mind.
Professional distance.
Right.
Because that's working out so well for everyone.