Chapter Eleven
Katie
Grant.
His name flashes across my screen for the fifth time today.
I ignore it. I’ve been ignoring a lot of things lately.
Grant’s calls. My mother’s calls. Flynn.
After our kiss in the living room over a week ago, I have been avoiding him like my life depends on it.
On Monday, I snuck out of the house and hid at the bar.
Then he went back to training after their bye week, and I swapped my day shifts at the bar for nights.
I’ve posted four new videos this week on the channel simply because I didn’t want to go home.
Kissing him was … unexpected.
The alcohol helped, but I wanted him, too. The moment he started talking about his parents and his mom’s affair, I had the overwhelming urge to hold him, to comfort him. I moved closer. I put myself right next to him. I wanted him to kiss me, and I let him do it.
It was the after that was the problem. I broke the rules.
I told myself we could never go there again.
I made a promise to myself when I moved into his house and agreed to be his fake girlfriend that I was just using the opportunity to get some space from my family and my past, and figure things out.
I was supposed to be using him just like he was using me to get a contract, to re-sign and help his reputation.
Except, I’m not even sure that’s his reason anymore. Maybe they weren’t his at all to begin with. He wants to be friends. He takes me bowling for a laugh and lets me choose the takeout we eat each night. He even watches my stupid renovation shows.
But, he’s also a playboy. A flirt.
It’s confusing and I hate it.
How am I supposed to figure out what I want with my life when I can’t even figure out an open book like Flynn Reed?
Not to mention, my son of a bitch ex-boyfriend won’t stop blowing up my phone. I should just block his number. But, if I do that, I’m scared he’ll turn up on my doorstep. Or worse, he’ll turn up on Flynn’s.
I wish that when he’d gone radio silent after the game where Flynn and I hard-launched, he would’ve stayed there. Grant is making this so complicated. My finger hovers over the decline button, but there’s no need to press it. It stops ringing, and I let out a breath.
Maybe I should tell someone about what actually happened between Grant and I.
Every time my phone rings, it’s like he’s coming back to haunt me, reminding me that I haven’t dealt with him, that I haven’t really closed that chapter in my life.
I preached therapy and healing to Ivy for so long, yet I can’t take my own advice.
Why can’t I just take my own advice?
My phone vibrates against the bartop, and I glance down at it, dread filling my stomach. Grant was never one to text me before. He preferred a phone call, even for the little things. It was annoying as fuck. He would get so pissed off when I didn’t pick up.
My heart skips when I see the name on my screen.
Flynn: Are you going to come home tonight, or are you still hiding out at the bar?
Instinctively, I look up and around the bar like I’m expecting him to be sitting in a booth in the corner, watching me. He’s not. Am I disappointed? Maybe.
Me: I have a shift.
Flynn: Yeah, yeah. You’re avoiding me. I get it.
Me: I’m working. Not everything is about you, Reed.
I groan and drop my head on the bar. I’m a liar. I’m such a liar.
Flynn: We’re playing in Texas Sunday, so I’ll be flying out tomorrow and will be back on Monday.
Flynn: You can safely return home as I won’t be there.
Me: I’m not avoiding you.
Flynn: You’re making yourself a liar. You good with that?
A smile tweaks at my lips, and I hate that I want to laugh. I hate that without even trying, he’s starting to understand me and read my moods. I don’t even know when I let him in, but he’s in, and he’s not leaving.
Me: It’s football season. The bar is busy.
I tap my fingers on the bartop before replying to him again.
Me: Have a safe flight, and good luck with the game.
Flynn: I know you’ll be watching, being the manager of a sports bar and all. I’ll make sure to give you a shout-out when I score.
I laugh, closing the text chain. The man is ridiculous.
I rest my cheek against my palm and look over the patrons in the bar.
It’s a quiet night, a hockey game is on the TV screens, but it’s not a Boston team, so they’re barely watching.
Before we started this fake dating charade, Flynn would be in here most nights.
He’d order a burger and a beer. He’d sit in a booth with his phone propped up, watching game tapes. He’d also watch me.
I always felt his eyes on me, and now that they’re gone, I’m finding that I miss them. He's only come back to the bar after the fight. I’m not sure if it’s because of Hollie and her directive, or if he simply doesn’t want to. Or, maybe it’s because he sees me at home.
Who knows.
I miss him, though. I didn’t realize how …
special it made me feel, wanted even, when he was here each night.
I ignored him, I avoided eye contact, and I threw him nasty glares, but he kept coming back.
He kept coming up with ways to talk to me.
He kept staring at me. In the four months between Italy and the bar fight, Flynn became a constant in my life, and I didn’t even realize it.
I open the text thread with him, my fingers hovering over the screen as I think about what to say. What is there to say?
I miss you, but I hate that I miss you.
I want you to kiss me again, but I think I’ll have a meltdown if you do.
I swipe up and out of it, going for the YouTube app on my phone.
When it loads, it almost crashes while loading all of the notifications.
I swipe through some of them. My cover of ‘Better Man’ has blown up.
Just over a million views and still counting.
My other, older videos are creeping up as well.
I smile a little and refresh the screen. More subscribe notifications pop up.
This channel started as my release for when I needed to play music. It is a safe space that is mine, and mine alone. Now, according to the comments, it’s others’ safe space too, and I think I’m okay with that.
***
Flynn: Did you see my celebration of the touchdown in the 4th quarter?
Me: You mean the incredibly cheesy wink and the kiss you blew toward the camera?
Flynn: That was all for you.
Me: And everyone else who was watching the game.
Flynn: But you watched, and that celebration was for you.
Me: *eye roll emoji*
Flynn: Are you home?
Me: No, at the bar working, why?
I watch the three dots appear and disappear twice before Flynn goes silent. I tap my nails against the bar and stare at my phone. Nothing.
Damn it.
Ever since he messaged and called me a liar on Friday night, we’ve been texting.
One long, non-stop conversation. Sometimes, when I don’t know what to say and leave him on read for too long, he’ll just text me something random, like What’s your favorite pasta?
and change the subject. It’s been the longest conversation I’ve probably ever had over text, and I’ve been smiling at my damn phone all weekend.
Every time I see his name on my phone, I jump for it.
On Sunday, I leaned on the bar for the entirety of the Broncos game against Texas.
Ivy came by to watch it with me, both of us glued to the game.
I caught the wink. I caught the kiss blown.
Knowing it was for me like he’d said, my face turned the same color as a tomato, and I had to go sit in the walk-in fridge in the kitchen until it went down.
It is becoming very inconvenient because I’m always checking my phone and waiting for his reply.
After Grant, I promised myself never again.
After Italy, I promised myself never again with Flynn.
He was a rebound. I was supposed to look back on my one-night stand with him with fondness, but I was supposed to be realistic.
Smiling at my phone and waiting for his text is so far from realistic.
I frown at my screen, quiet with no reply, and shake my head.
“Get a grip,” I whisper to myself, and I throw it underneath the bar and into my bag.
“Are you talking to yourself now? You know they say it’s one of the first signs of madness,” a deep voice says, amusement laced in his words.
I look up. Flynn Reed, with his bright eyes and bulging muscles, stands in front of me. He is so devastatingly handsome, it hurts. Blond hair, a greeny-blue mix swirling in his eyes. I would never admit it to him, but I could stare at him all day.
I suck in a breath and try to control the smile that is threatening to break out. “Hi.”
“Hey.” He lifts a hand in an awkward wave as he comes over to the bar. He shrugs off his coat and leans down, resting his forearms on the bartop. My gaze follows the deep lines his veins create along the muscle, and I swallow.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. I knew he was flying home today, but I expected to see him at home. Or tomorrow, depending on whether I stay late to play music tonight.
He shrugs. “We ended up leaving later than we thought, and I was getting a ride with Scott. When you said you were working, I thought I’d come keep you company.”
“Oh, I …” I look around for his game bag. “Where’s your stuff if you came straight from the airport?”
“Okay, so I went home first.”
“Uh-huh?”
“I wanted to see you. Sue me.” I roll my eyes, but my stomach is doing somersaults, and my heart is skipping every other beat. Since when did I start losing my cool around this man?
Since he kissed me, probably.
“You’ve seen me. I’m working, like I told you I was. You can go now.”
He just smiles and takes a seat at the bar. “No. We need to talk.”
“I’m busy,” I say, gesturing around me.
Flynn raises a brow. “There isn’t anyone here. You’re dead quiet.”
“I have lots of paperwork to do before tonight. There’s a game on, and we’re doing a two-for-one on steak. It’s going to be busy.”
“So talk to me now. While you’re not busy.”
“I—” I try to think of some other excuse to give him, but I fail.
“Please, Katie? I think we really need to talk.”
My heart sinks at his expression. He looks like a lost puppy, and it pulls at my emotions more than I’d like it to. “Fine, we can talk,” I agree. “Do you want a drink at least?”
“Nah. You’re good.” He shakes his head.
I settle in front of him, my hands clasped together on the bartop, inches from his. He leans further forward. “I’m sorry for kissing you last week.”
My face immediately heats up at the memory. The kiss.
Kissing Flynn had felt like getting rain after months and months of drought. Like I had remembered what it had been like, but my mind had dampened the reality over time. His lips were soft, urgent, molding to mine so perfectly, I thought I might kiss him forever. Yet I could tell he held back.
I look up at him through my lashes. “Oh?”
“Judging by the way you ignored and avoided me all week, you didn’t want me to.”
“No, I—” I take a deep breath and raise my chin. “It’s not that. I just … I just don’t think us getting involved is a good idea.”
He stares at me, his eyes flickering over my face. When his gaze settles back on mine, and we spend a minute just staring at each other, he finally lets out a breath. “Do you regret it?”
“I don’t know.” It’s the most honest answer I can give him right now.
“Do you want to kiss me again?” he asks.
My body lights up at the thought, but my brain screams at me to say no. “I don’t know.”
Flynn simply nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. You don’t know what you want right now, and that’s fine.
I can give you time to figure it out. I won’t kiss you again until you ask me to.
” He looks up, his next words sharp, and there is no way for them to be misinterpreted.
“To be clear, I would very much like to kiss you again. But I’ll wait. ”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I stay silent, gently nodding my head and dropping my gaze. I study my nails. Jesus, they’re looking neglected.
“But I want to be friends.”
My head snaps up. “Friends?”
“Like proper laugh and talk and have a fun time together friends. No more avoiding, no more lying about you working because I know you switched your shifts last week to avoid seeing me.”
I narrow my gaze, challenging him. “I really was working, though. My regular night bartender wanted to do a week of days.”
“Ivy told Scott, who told me.” He smirks smugly.
Goddammit. I am never telling Ivy anything ever again.
Okay, that’s a lie, but she’s definitely going to hear about this from me.
“Please?”
I lean back, studying his face. He looks genuine, and I suppose it would make spending time with him in public a lot easier.
The heat on his drunken bar fight has died right down now, and there probably isn’t much point continuing the charade, but as Hollie told me last week when I called to ask her how much longer this would have to go on, the team still hasn’t committed to re-signing Flynn.
So, we’re in it for as long as it takes.
“Fine.” I hold out my hand to him. “Friends.”
His big hand envelopes mine, swallowing it as he takes hold and grins at me.
I’m so screwed.