Chapter 4
Chapter Four
June
“Where are you going?” my roommate, Ally, asks as I slide into the bathroom while she shaves her legs on the edge of the bathtub.
“Going for ice cream.”
She glances up from her leg as I apply lip gloss. “You have a date?”
“No.” I rub my lips together, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. “It’s just ice cream.”
“With a guy?”
I grin.
“Juju, you can’t drop that on me and then leave. Who is he? How did you meet? Is he cute? Duh. Of course, he’s cute. Is he sexy? Rich? A basketball player?”
I giggle, capping my lip gloss. “I met him at the gallery when I stopped on the tour to use the restroom.”
“Oh, so he’s into art. That means he’s rich.” She flips her sandy blond hair over her shoulder and bats her fake eyelashes at me.
“No. He’s definitely not rich. He was there with his boss.”
“So what’s his job?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, combing my fingers through my hair that’s wavy from being in a braid all day. Ally will ask too many questions about a “muse.” And explaining something I don’t understand yet, will cause me to run late.
“Be safe. I want all the details when you get home. Unless you stay the night at his place.” She rinses her razor.
“I’ll be home by ten thirty. And if I’m not, call the police.”
“Do you have pepper spray?”
“Of course,” I holler as I grab my bag from my room and head to the door. “Byeeee.”
My flip-flops slap the concrete stairs to the exit next to the salon on the ground level below our apartment. When my ride pulls up to the curb, I push open the secured door, then anxiously hop into the back of the vehicle.
Ten minutes later, I arrive at Sebastian Joe’s.
Flynn’s outside, hands in the pockets of his dark blue jeans which look brand-new compared to the ripped, stained jeans he had on earlier.
His dark wavy hair slides into his eyes when he glances up as my driver stops.
He pushes it out of his eyes with a smooth swipe of his hand.
Flynn is sexy in a mysterious way that both intrigues me and feels like a red flag at the same time.
“You didn’t chicken out,” he says when I step out of the car.
“Funny. I was just getting ready to say the same thing to you.” I slip my phone into my crossbody bag, then adjust my black, fitted crop top.
Flynn gives me a slow, appreciative appraisal that makes me blush when his gaze finally settles on my face.
“I only brought enough money for single scoops,” he says, opening the door.
“I can pay.” I giggle at his comment and the way I have to wedge past him to get inside, like it’s his goal to make me brush up against him.
“That would make me a prick,” he says.
“Would it, though?” I turn and playfully squint at him.
He adjusts the collar of his short-sleeved shirt. I reach for the back of it, finding a tag attached with a gold safety pin, the way nicer stores tag their clothes.
“Leave it,” he says, tucking it into the shirt. “My boss took me shopping after I saw you. But if I get fired, I’m returning the clothes. They’re worth at least three months’ rent.”
My smile falters for a second as I realize he’s not joking.
Not about the shirt.
Not about one scoop of ice cream.
“What can I get you?” The teenage girl behind the counter asks.
Flynn gestures for me to order first.
“I’ll have a single scoop of the salty caramel in a cup, please.”
“A scoop of peanut butter,” Flynn says. “In a cone.”
I smile at him, and he smiles back for a second before quickly blurting out, “Please!”
I suppress my laughter as he digs money from his pocket. It’s crumpled and faded like it’s been through the laundry.
She gives him change and scoops our ice cream.
“Thank you,” I say when he holds open the door again so we can sit at a café table outside.
“You’re welcome.” He licks his ice cream.
“Do you live nearby?” I ask.
Flynn shakes his head before taking another lick. “It’s too early to say. I don’t know if I can trust you yet. Ask me again before you head home.”
He’s …
Funny.
Handsome.
And I think unintentionally charming.
Definitely quick-witted.
“Do you have a lot of experience as a muse?”
His eyebrows lift. “Why? Do you need one?”
I shrug, dropping my chin to stare at my ice cream as I sink my spoon into it. “Who doesn’t need a little inspiration?”
“Me.”
“No?” I slant my head to the side.
“I’m not suicidal.”
“I don’t think inspiration is reserved for suicidal people. Artists need inspiration.”
“I don’t think the painting my boss picked up at the gallery was her painting.”
“Well”— June shrugs—“maybe not. Still, sometimes people feel like they’re losing their way, and inspiration can be a roadmap to get back on track. Maybe she feels like she’s lost her way.”
“She’s worth a gazillion dollars. I’m not saying it buys happiness, but what does she possibly have to feel lost about?”
“You know,” I tap my spoon on my lip several times, “money doesn’t solve all the world’s problems.”
“One hundred percent agree,” he says. “But I think the people who hoard most of the money in the world think it solves the world’s problems. Why else would they hoard it?"
“Security, I suppose.” I shrug. “But it doesn’t cure all diseases.”
He bobs his head. “But money buys medical care.”
“Loneliness.”
Another headshake. “Everyone wants to have rich friends. No reason to be lonely.”
“Love.”
He laughs. “Have you seen how many old rich dudes have young, hot girlfriends and wives?”
“That’s not love.”
“I bet the women love the money, and the old dudes love getting …” He clears his throat. “Well, let’s just say they love getting attention in the bedroom.”
“That’s not love. That’s lust. People lust after things in the bedroom. They lust after money. Gratification is not the same as your heart aching in your chest when you miss the ones you love.”
“Does this feel like too deep of conversation for a first date?” he asks.
“Oh?” I widen my eyes. “You think this is a date?” I mumble over the bite of ice cream hitting my sensitive teeth.
“Were you in an accident or a fight?” he asks, pointing to his lip in the same place as I have a scar on mine.
“Neither. I was born with a cleft lip, and that’s the scar from the surgery to repair it.”
“Wow. Monroe was right.” He bites into his cone.
“Who’s Monroe?”
“My roommate.”
“You told your roommate about me?”
“Maybe.” He glances away, but I don’t miss his tiny grin.
“Maybe I should tell people it’s from a fight. That’s cooler, right?” I say, just to see his reaction.
“I mean …” he shrugs. “It’s your scar. You can say whatever you want. I have my own stories.”
“About scars?”
Flynn shoves the rest of the cone into his mouth and lifts his shirt, exposing his chest riddled with scars of different sizes and shapes.
“I was treated like shit in foster care,” he mumbles while chewing.
“But I tell people I was in the military, and their pity turns into gratitude for my service. Way cooler.”
I can’t peel my gaze from his chest until he lowers his shirt. There are so many scars.
“See. You’re giving me that pity look,” he says.
“I don’t pity you. I mean, it sucks that you feel the need to lie about it.” I lift my gaze to his. “But I said yes to meeting you for ice cream. You have no idea how special that makes you.”
His grin swells. It’s a beautiful, genuine smile. And I like the way his eyes shine when he looks at me.
“But”—I glance at my watch, feeling vulnerable, like he can see my attraction to him—“I should go.” There’s nowhere I need to be, but I think playing hard to get, at first, is a good idea.
“We just got here,” he says.
I show him my empty bowl. “We had ice cream. Now it’s gone.” I stand.
“Let me give you a ride home so you don’t have to pay for one.”
“We haven’t established that level of trust yet.” I toss my cup and spoon into the garbage by the corner of the brick building.
“We? I’d let you give me a ride home,” he says, shoving the unused napkins into his pocket.
I follow his hand before looking at his sly grin.
“They’ll throw them away. I’ll use them at home,” he says.
This guy …
“I’ll get a ride this time. But thank you for the ice cream.” I slide my phone from my bag.
“This time means there will be other times.”
Shit.
I said that.
I press my lips together while my thumbs move across my phone’s screen. Then I look up at Flynn and shrug. “We’ll see.”
He has the sexiest grin. “So, should I kiss you now or wait until your ride gets here?”
“Whoa there, bud. I don’t kiss on a first date.”
His face sours as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Then what do you do on a first date?”
“On this first date, I eat ice cream. What do you do on a first date?”
“Dunno. I don’t date. I’m just making this up as I go.”
“You’ve never dated?”
He studies me for a second. It’s a weird pause in conversation. Gah! I wish I could read his mind.
“I have not,” he says with confidence. “Does that make you feel special?”
“You’re twenty-five, and you’ve never dated? Never had a girlfriend? Never …” I stop myself from digging, sounding too desperate to know him.
His head jerks backward. “Never what? I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” I nod to my ride in the approaching black SUV.
Flynn hooks up with girls, and he’s probably a walking STD. Good to know.
“Not even a kiss on the cheek?” he asks.
I chuckle and shake my head, stepping closer to the curb. “Sorry.”
“What about tomorrow? Is it too early for a second date?”
“I think one is enough.” I risk a quick glance at him.
“What? No. What did I do wrong? Is it because I asked about your scar? I don’t give a shit. If anything, it makes you look more beautiful. Special. Not like every other boring girl who never passes up an opportunity to stare at her own reflection and thinks she’s perfect.”
My ride stops at the curb, and I step toward it, turning just before opening the door. “If you don’t date, then why me?”
He narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t understand the question.
“Flynn, you have to be quicker than that,” I say, opening the door.
“Is it really my fault that you leave me speechless?”
I stop and listen, but I don’t look at him.
“Do you think I like feeling weak and fumbling my words? Do you think I want to lose sleep tonight, thinking about you? Do you think a guy who doesn’t date, wants to learn the rules to a game I clearly have never wanted to play?”
“You haven’t answered my question.” I climb into the back seat and shut the door.
Smack!
I jump when Flynn’s palm slaps the window. “It’s just a feeling,” he says, his words muffled on the other side of the window. “And that says a lot coming from me because I shut off my feelings years ago.”
“Want me to wait?” my driver asks.
I stare at Flynn, and my lips twitch, fighting a grin. “No,” I say. Pressing my hand over my heart, I close my eyes. If he’s not the boy my father warned me about my whole life, he might just be the reason I moved to Minneapolis. A fresh start. Endless possibilities.