Chapter Five #2
“Nope. No way. I am not here for that. I am here for—actually, you know what?” I raise my eyes to the sky and suck in another breath.
“I can’t do this. Forget it. This was a bad idea.
” I turn on my heel, about to make my way down the steps and back to my car so that I can drive away as fast as I can, when I feel a warm, calloused hand wrap around my wrist.
“Wait.” His voice is quiet and soft, pleading. “Come inside.”
I look over my shoulder and, for the first time in months, for the first time since that afternoon in Italy when I watched him flirt with a girl right in front of me after our night together, I look into his eyes.
Flynn Reed is gorgeous. Six foot four. Blond hair. Green eyes. Made of muscle.
Yet it’s the dimple in his cheek when he smiles, and the lines that appear beside his eyes when he laughs, and the way his presence makes you feel comfortable and at ease, that makes him something like a god.
He has charm, yes, but when he speaks to you, he gives you his full attention.
Like you’re the most interesting person in the world and he only ever wants to hear you, and you alone, speak for the rest of time.
He asks questions and is curious, and when you ask him something, he answers with sincerity.
Well, most of the time.
He’s not the person the media makes him out to be.
Not the playful boy that the team portrays him as on their social media every time he’s highlighted.
He’s deeper than that. I saw the depth of him all those nights we stayed out by the pool, staring at the Italian sky, exchanging secrets, and believe me, I’ve experienced just how deep he can go.
It’s not a night I will ever forget. And unlike my relationship with Grant, I don’t think I ever want to.
He’s a man, yet he’s still treated like a boy by everyone in his life. If Ivy’s right, even his mother still doesn't see him like she should. Grown, accomplished, talented.
“Come on, Katie. Just come inside and we can talk.” He lets go of my wrist, and my arm falls limp at my side. He opens the door wider and stands aside. “Just talk. I promise.”
I stare at him, trying to find something I don’t like, don’t trust, in his expression. I sigh when I can only see sincerity and step past him into the house.
His scent completely engulfs me. The walls are painted in dark colors, and the stairs are a walnut wood. It’s moody and emotive. Yet, it’s inviting. I imagine on a sunny day, the light would stream through his front windows and turn it into a bright walkway.
Lining the walls are a few framed records. The Beatles. Queen. Frank Sinatra. Huh. That’s interesting. There’s a mix of different musicians hanging in his hallway. From rock to jazz, and even pop. I reach the end of the hall and smirk at the last record hanging.
“Taylor Swift? Really?”
“She’s a genius. You cannot deny that.” Flynn’s voice is quiet, deep and sensual, and oh so close as he follows me down the hall. I repress a shiver.
“I guess not.” I move into the open living and dining area.
It’s fully furnished, decorated immaculately down to the fresh flowers in the vase on his dining room table.
Across the back of the house on the first floor, with wide open windows looking out into the large back garden, his kitchen matches the dark and moody vibe of the rest of the house.
Yet, the countertop is probably one of the most gorgeous pieces of butcher block I’ve ever seen.
“This is gorgeous,” I say, placing my bag gently down and running a hand on the smooth surface.
“One of a kind. Had it made specially for this kitchen.” He’s still so close, and when I glance back at him, he’s staring at my face like he’s studying one of his playbooks.
“It’s wonderful. The oak was a great choice.”
“You know your woods, Murphy. That surprises me.”
I shrug. “Ivy watches Real Housewives, I watch renovation shows.”
There’s a beat of silence, and like I can feel him before he moves, I look down just in time to see Flynn lift his hand, his fingers inches from brushing along my arm. I suck in a sharp breath between my teeth and step away from him.
“Ivy told me you’re in trouble with the team.”
If he’s shocked, or surprised, or put off by my sudden movement and change of subject, he doesn’t show it. Flynn simply turns his body, facing me even as I move around him and into the center of the room, and leans against the countertop.
“I am.”
“Because you punched someone outside my bar?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me why you punched someone outside my bar?”
“No.”
I narrow my gaze. “You won’t tell me why, but you’re asking for my help?”
“You came to me, Rockstar. I haven’t asked you a thing.
” My heart skips a beat at the nickname and, to avoid looking directly at him, I spin on my heel and take in the room’s décor a bit more.
Oh, how I hate the smug tone he uses and the smug look on his face and the smugness he probably feels just knowing exactly what the nickname does to me.
A giant, C-shaped couch. A fireplace with a TV mounted on the wall above it.
An eight-seater dining set. Artwork on the walls with lighting fixtures illuminating each one.
There’s a plant in the corner, and a buffet set along one wall that houses a stack of what I can only guess are playbooks from Flynn’s years playing football.
It’s all so … him, but in the most unexpected way.
“I hope you realize that a fake girlfriend is a terrible idea and only works in romance novels. There is a high chance they won’t believe us for a single minute,” I say gently when I feel strong enough to turn and face him again.
“I told Hollie this, but she’s insisting.” He runs a hand through his hair, green eyes flashing down my body for a moment. “Does this mean you’re considering it?”
“Ivy told me. Begged me to help you. For the record, I think it’s a terrible idea.”
“I do, too. But Hollie knows her stuff. I trust her enough to try.”
“Flynn,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes track every single one of my movements. “What do you want?”
I can see the misunderstanding of my question fall over his eyes the second I ask it. He’s searching my face, and his hands dive into his pockets. This man—this football god—stumbles to find the right words. “I, well, we—I mean, after Italy, I didn’t think you—”
“No.” I shake my head, stopping his stuttering. “I mean, what do you want from this plan? What do I need to do? If I agree to be your fake girlfriend,” I say, lifting my hands to quote around the fake girlfriend part. It makes me cringe.
This really, really isn’t a good idea. I knew it when Ivy told me about it. I knew it when she begged me to help. I knew it when I was tossing and turning last night before I slipped my finger down the front of my sleep shorts and got myself off to the memories of Flynn Reed.
Fucking hell.
“Hollie said the games, a couple of dinners, some organized paparazzi shots of you coming and going from the house. Maybe a few of us, you know, being a couple …” He trails off.
“Being a couple?” I ask.
“You know, kissing and stuff.”
“Kissing and stuff? What are you, twelve?” I laugh, and for some reason, the sound feels like it’s the pin that bursts the tension bubble we’re stuck in.
“Okay, smartass. Listen, we just need to look like a couple. You can move in here, and—” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Or not. Whatever you want.”
It only takes me a moment before I break.
Moving to the couch, I round the edge and take a seat on the end.
Flynn follows me and sits across from me.
“Listen, I need to get out of my parents’ house.
After Grant—well, I just need some space to figure out what I want.
Being at home with my Irish father and my Italian mother, it’s hard to do that. I have zero privacy.”
“Sounds like a loud household.” He smirks, leaning down to rest his elbows on his knees.
“Louder than it should be with just four of us.” I shake my head.
“Four? I thought you were an only child?”
“I have a younger brother. He’s still in high school.”
“You never mentioned a brother.” He cocks his head to the side, brows furrowing together.
“I never mentioned a lot of things.” The silence engulfs us once again. “Moving in here would help. With getting some space, I mean.”
“Okay. Good. Great, yeah, of course you can,” Flynn mumbles, fingers burying themselves in his hair again.
“We need rules,” I say quickly.
“Rules?”
“Yes.”
“You hate following rules.”
“Not these ones.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What rules do we need?”
I take a deep breath and count them out on my fingers.
“No seeing other people.” He nods, leaning forward with his attention solely on me.
“No acting like it’s real. Even when we have to kiss for a camera, no tongue and no roaming hands.
” I hold up a second finger. “No sex.” Flynn’s eyes roll at that one. “And no catching feelings. Ever.”
“Catching feelings?”
“You cannot fall in love with me. It will only make a mess of everything,” I say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“And what if you fall in love with me?” He raises one brow.
“I won’t.”
He considers me for a moment, holding my gaze and not wavering. After a beat, I break away as he speaks. “I will do my best to stick to your rules.”
“Do your best?” I ask.
“I promise to do my very, very best. But, you and I both know, neither of us are very good with rules, are we?”
Snippets of conversations play in my head. Laughter and games played under the Italian sun. Games with made-up rules that we broke every single time. Friends. We can’t touch one another. We can’t go any further than a kiss. Only once.
All broken.
Every single one.
“Fine,” I agree.
“Katie.” He follows me as I stand from the couch and head for my bag.
It’s time to get the hell out of here. I can text him for the rest of the details I need.
Or, I can go through Ivy. Yes, good plan.
She wanted me to help so badly that she volunteered to ask me for him.
I will put her right back in the middle and have her play messenger.
“Katie,” Flynn says again, catching my wrist as I’m halfway down the hall.
A current runs from the place he makes contact, all the way through my nervous system to my heart.
I still, looking down at his fingers curled around my wrist. “I want to be friends. Whatever I did in Italy to make you hate me after we—after that night, I want to fix it.”
Raising my eyes to meet his, I study him for a moment. Dammit. There’s that unwavering sincerity again. I slowly pull my arm out of his hold and head for the front door, closing it gently behind me without giving Flynn an answer.