Chapter 9
Nine
Max
Barnard doesn’t turn up at breakfast, but each of us has a card on our seats noting the time and location of our appointments with him today. Mine isn’t until four this afternoon, so I have most of the day to prepare.
Of course, how do I prepare when I have no idea what kind of interview this will be? Barnard hasn’t exactly conformed to industry standards with this process so far, so I can’t count on the fact that he’ll ask normal questions about my writing and publishing experience.
My note also invites me to take advantage of the household amenities today. The pool. The private beach. The theater room and the library. Whispers around me confirm the others received the same open invitation .
I glance up from my card to Flynn, who’s once again seated across the table from me. As if we share the same brain, he glances up at me and holds up three fingers.
“Three o’clock. You?” he mouths, and I automatically mouth back the word four with a smile.
Like we’re cohorts, or something. Allies in this competition who share information. Like we’re friends.
Catching myself, I force my eyes to drop to my plate. That was the longest conversation we’ve had in five years. The only one save for that awkward encounter on the veranda last night. That one doesn’t really count because it was forced politeness rather than an actual desire to engage with each other. It’s sad, really.
I shake off the invading memories of when we were still friends. That was a lifetime ago, and it ended painfully.
I peek back up at Flynn from beneath my eyelashes. That was a lifetime ago, wasn’t it? We were still basically kids back then, and I know I’ve changed in the last five years. Has Flynn? He has to have, hasn’t he?
And what if adult-Max and adult-Flynn can find a new path to friendship? Put the anger and hurt of the past behind us and start fresh? Do I even want that?
Having Flynn as an ally in this competition wouldn’t be the most terrible thing that’s happened to me. Even if we only bury the hatchet for this week, it could be beneficial for us both. Trying to ignore and avoid him would require energy and focus that would be better served trying to impress Barnard and secure this job.
Would Flynn be willing to kill the beef between us and work together? There’s only one way to find out.
I take another bite of my scrambled eggs, pumping myself up mentally for what I’m about to do. With a psychic olive branch waving firmly in mind, I look directly at Flynn and wait for him to notice.
His gaze snaps up like he physically felt mine on him. I open my mouth to speak, then snap it shut when someone slides into the previously empty chair beside me.
“Hi, I’m Lars.”
He extends a hand, and I take it, pumping it twice before pulling back. He jerks his head to the side, and the flop of blond hair that was previously covering his eyebrows falls to the right of his forehead.
“Max Nolan,” I say.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Lars says, his gaze moving down to my chest before snapping back up to my eyes.
His hazel orbs are brimming with lust, and I’m slightly taken aback. I don’t know if I’ve ever had someone so overtly proposition me with a single gaze before. Maybe at a bar, or something, when I was just tipsy enough to enjoy it, but over breakfast at a work event? Never.
And it’s kind of giving me the ick.
“What time is your interview?” he asks, his tongue peeking out to wet his full lips.
“Four o’clock,” I reply, shifting my weight to put another inch of space between us. “What about you?”
Yeah, I know I shouldn’t encourage this conversation, but I also don’t want to be rude for no reason. I could be misreading the whole situation. Maybe Lars is just…friendly.
“Mine is at eleven,” he says, and his voice deepens as he adds, “Maybe we could have lunch together afterward…and maybe throw in a little dessert.”
His eyes move back to my breasts with that last bit, then slowly move down to my lap as Lars deeply inhales through his nose like he’s trying to smell…what? My pheromones? My arousal?
Good God. I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Does this shit really work with other women?
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice a little louder than before. “I have plans. I’m…um…having lunch with Flynn.”
I look at the man in question as I say his name, and I catch the frown he’s shooting in Lars’ direction before his face falls blank and he looks at me. I beg him with my eyes to back me up, and he smiles slightly before turning his attention back to Lars.
“Sorry, bro. I already asked,” he says with a casual shrug.
When I look back at Lars, I notice he doesn’t even look disappointed. He just tilts his head and gives me those bedroom eyes again before saying, “If you change your mind, you can find me in room six.”
With one last heated, suggestive look, he stands and strides from the room. I watch him go, my head shaking slightly. That one doesn’t lack confidence, does he? And probably with good reason.
He’s handsome, well-built, and a successful biographer. Women probably flock to him, but then again, they don’t know who he really is and haven’t read his book. I have.
Lars Klein is a sexist pig who thinks a woman’s greatest strength––the only one that matters, really––is her sex appeal. It was evident in his writing, and his actions with me just now proved it in my mind.
He finds me attractive, and that’s all he needed to know before trying to get me into his bed. Like I said, ick .
I glance back over at Flynn with a grateful smile. “Thanks for the backup. That guy’s a douche.”
“Agreed,” he says. “Happy to help.”
He starts to rise, and I panic. “Wait.”
With a shocked expression at my outburst, he plops back into his seat. My heartbeat stutters as I swallow thickly.
“I did actually want to talk to you. Meet me in my room in five minutes?”
I can hear the rush of blood behind my eardrums as he stares at me with unblinking eyes for several beats. Then slowly, he nods.
“Great,” I chirp, flinching at the crack in my voice. “See you in a few, then.”
With that, I scramble out of my own chair and scurry away from the table. My adrenaline is pumping like I’m on a roller coaster, slowly climbing the first big hill while anticipating the drop that will come after.
And the metaphor isn’t far-off. Reconnecting with Flynn is the hill. Not knowing what will happen next is the drop.
But I always did love roller coasters, and I don’t plan to chicken out before this one leaves the station.