Chapter Thirteen #2
Whenever I asked him to do something, whenever I tried to communicate what I needed from him to feel better in our relationship, Grant would reply that he wasn’t a mind reader.
That he didn’t ever know what I truly wanted because I’m so closed off.
So emotionless. His exact words, in fact.
I could only ever be happy and laughing around him; anything else, and he would switch off.
He would ignore me until I was back to my ‘normal self,’ as he called it.
It was exhausting.
But this man, the one sitting with me in a town car, wearing a bowtie, just told me I’m an open book to him. An open book.
The car suddenly stops, and the driver’s voice filters through the speakers in the back of the car. “We’re here, Mr. and Mrs. Reed.”
My gaze snaps to the window. Sure enough, the car has stopped outside the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
There are hordes of press waiting for the attendees, camera lights flashing nonstop.
The partition’s up, so I can’t correct the driver on our status—not married, definitely not married—but I narrow my gaze and look back at Flynn.
He’s smiling, shaking his head with a playful grin. “Relax, it’s Hollie’s idea of a joke. She’s stirring the pot.” My shoulders relax a little. Flynn holds out his hand to me. “Ready?”
I bite my bottom lip but nod. I slide my palm against his, and his grip tightens, holding my hand firmly as he opens the door and steps out.
I put the glass back in the ice bucket on the floor of the car and slide across the seat to the open door.
Flynn stands directly in front of me, helping me out of the car and shielding me from the cameras while I adjust my dress.
“You good?”
“Yeah, yes,” I say, doing a last check of myself. “Oh, wait, my phone. It doesn’t fit in my bag—”
Without me asking, Flynn takes my phone from the hand not holding his and slips it into his pocket. I smile gently. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He tugs on my hand and closes the car door behind us. A small man with a headset on asks for our names, and when Flynn tells him, he lets us know that we are scheduled to walk the carpet for the event, and then we can go inside.
The entire event is nothing like I have ever experienced before.
People calling Flynn’s name, people calling my name.
Reporters asking who I’m wearing and which of the many charities we will donate to tonight.
Flynn makes a few comments, talking about charities for men’s mental health and domestic violence survivors that he’ll donate to.
He’s switched on. His persona, the cheeky, charming number forty-nine, is out in full force.
I wonder if the Broncos know just how much the press loves him.
Just how well he represents the team when at events like this.
I hope so, because seeing him right now, in his other element and playing to the public’s whim, even I can tell that he’s not just good at throwing and catching a ball.
I follow him along the carpet, staying silent as he answers questions and smiling as we take pictures. His warm hand doesn’t leave my hip the entire time, and it burns my skin through the satin fabric of the dress.
When we finally make it through the front doors and find our seats, I’m falling into my chair just to get off my feet. Flynn sits down, frowning. I look around, wondering what could have possibly upset him, but then he leans forward and drags my chair closer to his.
Our thighs are pressed against one another, and it’s causing my body to have all sorts of reactions. My stomach is turning, my heart is pounding, but most of all, I start to feel a gentle yet insistent throb between my legs.
Friends. We’re friends.
No matter how many swoony things he does tonight.
Line, drawn, sand.
Remember?
“Do you want a drink?” Flynn murmurs in my ear, his hot breath sliding over my skin and setting me on fire.
“Uh,” I stutter. “Sure. Yes, yes, please.”
I watch him lift a hand and call over a waiter.
He takes two glasses of champagne off the tray and passes one to me.
I eagerly take a sip, but all the bubbly liquid does is fog up my head a little more.
I’m getting overwhelmed. The sounds of the crowd chattering, the feel of his thigh against mine, and his hand on me, now resting on my knee as he sips his own drink.
He’s sitting so close that I can smell his spicy scent. It’s not helping the brain fog.
“You okay?” he asks. I just stare at him.
You’re an open book.
“I—yeah.” I take another sip, the glass shaking in my hand as I bring it to my lips, and I feel his eyes on me, watching me so closely, it’s as if I’m his favorite subject to study.
Judging by what he said in the car, I am.
“Why do you think I’m an open book?” I ask him, turning as much as I can in my chair to face him.
He looks confused at first, but he shakes it off quickly. “You just are. I can read you. Your body language, your facial expressions, the tone of your voice when you say things.” He shrugs like what he’s saying is the most normal thing in the world. “You just are.”
“How long have you thought this about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“How long have you thought I’m an open book? Just while I’ve been living with you?” I press, urgency dripping from my tone.
“I—” He removes the hand resting on my knee to rub the back of his neck before setting it down on my leg again.
I ignore the flare of heat that shoots through my veins from where he touches me.
“Always, I suppose. Since I first saw you at Pat’s, when I came in with Scott.
It’s more noticeable to me now because I’m around you, but I remember thinking that day that you looked like a girl who wears her emotions all over her face.
The way you were glaring at Scott when he asked you to pass on his number. ”
“For so long?” I ask in a whisper. My breath catches in my throat, and I’m finding it difficult to get any air into my lungs.
“Katie? What’s wrong? Should I not have said it? I’m sorry, I—”
Before he can finish, the emotions bubble, and I feel the familiar sting of tears behind my eyes.
No way will I be crying in public, knowing there are about a million cameras pointed at us tonight.
That is not a photo I want spread across gossip pages and on Instagram feeds.
I push my chair back and stand. His hand slips from my leg with the movement.
I look around the room and spot the bathrooms, weaving my way through the tables and chairs toward the hallway that leads to them. I stumble on my heels just as I reach the entrance to the corridor, but a strong arm catches me around the waist and pulls me against their chest.
Strong spice, fresh grass, and vanilla surround me.
“Whoa,” he murmurs, his voice low and strong against my ear.
Of course, he followed me.
“I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I am. I just need a minute, I promise.”
“Tell me what just happened there.” He pulls me deeper into the deserted corridor.
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
Flynn lets out a low noise, something sounding close to a growl, and crowds me.
I take a step back, and my back hits the wall.
He leans a hand against the wall, just above my head, and leans over me.
From the main room, where all the guests are, you wouldn’t be able to tell we were down here, yet when I look down the corridor, I have a good view of anyone coming our way.
Flynn lifts a hand, his fingers grabbing my chin, and gently brings my attention back to him. “I hate that word. Fine. You’re not fine. What just happened?”
“Grant never—” I swallow, blinking back the tears that start to form. “Grant always told me he couldn’t read me. Four years we spent together, and he couldn’t ever pick up on the little things. Yet you, who I’ve only known for a year or so, can read me like an open book, apparently.”
“Not all the time,” he says gently, releasing my chin to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.
“But not never? You can sometimes.”
“Most of the time, yes. I feel like I can figure out what you’re thinking.”
“It makes me mad that he could never do that. That he never tried. And then, I just get sad because I wasted four years with the asshole, just waiting for him to get it.” I sniff and close my eyes.
I feel Flynn’s fingers trace down my cheek, brushing along the lines of my facial features, waiting patiently for me to open my eyes. When I do, I’m met with swirling green-blue storms.
“Sorry,” I whisper, dropping his intense gaze. “You must think I’m insane.”
“No. No, I don’t. It’s a valid feeling.” He smiles a little. “To be honest, makes me pretty fucking happy knowing I can do something that douchebag never could.”
I laugh. It comes out watery and breathless, but my shoulders relax and I sag into the wall.
“You okay now?” he asks, tapping under my chin, prompting me to lift my eyes back to him. We both stare, our bodies going still. I swear, I can hear his heartbeat in the silence that’s fallen around us. It’s in sync with mine.
I lean forward, closing the gap and gently pressing my lips to his. I barely touch them, barely kiss him, before I pull back, meeting his eyes again. I’m trying to read him like he reads me, but I can’t figure out what he’s thinking. He said he wouldn’t kiss me again, but I’ve kissed him.
There’s a beat, and then another. And then, his hands sink into my hair, and he pulls me forward, his mouth covering mine.