Chapter 5
My aunt and uncle are in England, visiting Lili and her fiancé, Charlie, ahead of their upcoming wedding.
Kit is home in Manhattan; Collins posted a photo of him and Dylan exploring the Botanical Garden this afternoon.
My parents have their own house nearby, where Wren is staying.
That only leaves Bash. I have no clue where my youngest cousin currently is, but I’ve only ever seen him in the Hamptons for his grandparents’ Red, White, and Blue party. The Fourth was three weeks ago.
I creep over to the window, heartbeat thundering in my ears. Peer outside, watching a nondescript black sedan roll toward the front door. It’s not a vehicle I recognize.
I glance at my phone screen, which has dimmed. I tap to wake it, and the phone starts ringing.
I hiss a swear.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” The calm voice asking the question doesn’t relax me much.
“I think someone is trying to break into the house I’m staying at,” I reply, whispering like the intruder might be able to hear me as I tiptoe over to grab a poker from the stand next to the fireplace.
The emergency operator asks for my location, still sounding calm.
I rattle off the address as I tiptoe over to the doorway, peering into the front hall. I didn’t reset the alarm after arriving earlier. The green light blinks cheerfully.
I take a step forward, intending to switch it to armed, when there’s commotion outside. A door slams. I hear the scrape of metal against metal, like someone is picking the lock.
“We’re sending a unit over immediately, ma’am.”
I can hardly hear the woman’s voice over the blood pounding in my ears. Should I hide? Try to scare them off? They probably think no one is home, so if I—
The door swings open, revealing a tall figure, backlit by the sinking sun.
I squint, then recognition hits. A disconcerting combination of relief and uncertainty follows, joining the adrenaline streaming through my veins.
The good news: I’m not about to be attacked by a burglar.
The bad news: I’m tipsy, wearing pajamas, and Flynn Parks is here.
“Never mind. Everything’s fine. Thanks.” I hang up quickly.
Flynn’s head jerks left, following the sound of my voice to where I’m standing in the opening that leads straight into the living room. He blinks once, then again, the front door wide open behind him.
I march forward before he can let all the air-conditioning out and allow every mosquito in. Slam it shut. Then turn to face Flynn. “What are you doing here?”
Flynn doesn’t reply right away. He’s staring at the poker I’m holding in addition to my phone, a wrinkle appearing on his forehead. Next, he surveys the silk pajama set I’m wearing—shorts and a tank top, no bra.
“Kind of warm for a fire.”
I spin in place, hiding the heat creeping across my cheeks, so I can return the poker to its proper place in the living room.
“What are you doing here?” I repeat as I approach the fireplace. It’s easier to talk to Flynn when I’m not looking at him.
He answers this time. “Needed a place to crash tonight.”
When I turn around, Flynn has followed me into the living room. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing short strands as he glances around. His eyes linger on the open book and half-empty glass I abandoned to prepare for a break-in.
“Your parents have a house here,” I state.
“So do yours.”
I stiffen. “They weren’t expecting me until tomorrow.”
Flynn’s expression calls my flimsy excuse out for what it is, but he’s uncharacteristically considerate enough not to say so aloud. He nods.
I don’t like him being nice to me. There’s no way he hasn’t heard what Carson did. Everyone else has, and Flynn is popular, adored, and well connected. Someone probably told him what happened before I found out.
“My aunt and uncle said I was welcome to stay here anytime,” I add passive-aggressively.
“I figured,” Flynn drawls. “Since you don’t do anything without permission.”
My eyes narrow. He makes it so easy to dislike him.
A spark of relief joins the annoyance. I’m grateful he’s treating me normally.
Studying for the bar exam was my convenient excuse for avoiding every summer social event so far, but that easy explanation for my absence just expired.
I’ll have to face everyone—everyone who probably thinks I’ve spent the past two months hiding and devastated—soon.
“Kit said it was cool if I stayed here tonight,” he continues, taking a seat at one end of the couch. Knees spread, hands tucked behind his head. “And he didn’t mention anything about you being here.”
There’s a teasing note of chastisement in his tone, and I understand the implication perfectly. I might have an open invitation; he called dibs tonight.
“I’m not leaving,” I state, battling the urge to cross my arms in defiance. “I’ve been drinking.”
“Whoa. Wild night for you.”
I scowl, reaching for the glass and swallowing a generous sip.
Flynn watches me swallow. We wind up in a silent face-off after I set my glass back down on the ceramic coaster with a soft clink.
There’s something … different in his expression. Assessing. Curious even. I can count on one hand the number of times Flynn and I have been alone together, and I’m very aware right now of why it’s a situation I typically avoid. There’s an unsettling awareness that—
Wee-ooo! Wee-ooo! Wee-ooo!
Fuck. My. Life.
Flynn arches one eyebrow, not otherwise moving from his slouched pose on the sofa. “Commit any crimes recently, Counselor?”
Red and blue lights sweep through the living room. If the sirens weren’t so loud, I’d be able to hear the clamshells cracking.
“I thought you were a burglar!” I snap. “No one was supposed to be here tonight.”
Which is exactly why I’m here. I wanted one night to celebrate completing the final test of my academic career. Some sushi, a salt-rimmed drink, a good book, and solitude—before I have to be the jilted almost fiancée who pretends not to hear the gossip about her.
“That explains the poker. Sort of.” Flynn lumbers to his feet, heading for the front door.
“What are you doing?”
“Telling them it was a misunderstanding. Unless you want to?”
I figured that would be the only option. I’m sure it would be highly amusing for Flynn, listening to me explain why I thought a man with a key was breaking into a house in the Hamptons’ safest, most exclusive neighborhood.
“Nope. I’m good.”
“Don’t do anything illegal until the police are gone.” He winks, then continues to the door.
I stick my tongue out after him, then flop down on the couch and drain the rest of my margarita in one gulp.
Ten minutes later, Flynn still hasn’t returned. I smirk as I stand. They must be giving him a hard time about showing up unannounced. My last name is Kensington. That’s a stronger claim to being here, even if he checked with Kit before arriving.
My smugness fades when I reach a window that overlooks the drive.
Flynn is talking to two uniformed officers. Both cops are leaning against the side of their cruiser. Both are … laughing.
Unbelievable.
Typical.
I grab my empty glass and head into the kitchen for a refill. I don’t drink often, rarely enjoying the taste or the lowered inhibitions associated with alcohol, but tonight is supposed to be a celebration.
I’m squeezing limes when the front door opens and slams, followed by, “Rory?”
It’s weird, hearing Flynn say my name like he’s looking for me.
“Kitchen,” I call back.
He appears a few seconds later.
“Want one?” I ask reluctantly, gesturing to the drink ingredients spread across the counter.
I’m slightly better at being impolite to Flynn than anyone else, but my instinct is still inclusion.
He tucks his hands in his pockets, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
I clear my throat as I measure. “All good outside?”
“Yeah. I’d guess they get a lot of calls from hysterical housewives.”
“Since I’m neither hysterical nor a housewife, I fail to see how that’s relevant.”
His head tilts left. “You don’t want to get married?”
“I don’t want to discuss marriage with you. Or anything really.” I down more margarita, knowing it’s a mistake. My head is already muddled. I’m leaning against the island counter for support, not only in an attempt to appear relaxed.
Flynn reclines against the opposite counter, crossing his ankles.
Unlike me, he manages to pull off the casual pose with a cool, unaffected air.
“If that was your polite way of suggesting I sleep elsewhere, I’m good here.
This place has tons of guest rooms. Not like we have to share a bed, Florence. ”
The warmth that has settled in my stomach after each sip is spreading.
He’s trying to rattle me. Paired with tequila, it’s working.
“I wasn’t trying to be polite. And if there were only one bed and you were in it … I’d sleep on the floor.”
Flynn appears entertained. He’s easily amused—like a small child—so it makes no sense that I’m secretly enjoying being the source.
“Were you planning to marry Chester?”
I don’t correct him on Carson’s name this time. “He never asked.”
“He never did a lot of things,” Flynn notes.
“Yep,” I agree, swallowing another large sip.
If he thinks I’m a big enough person to defend Carson the way I used to, he’s wrong.
That well of sympathy ran dry when he cheated on me in the most public way possible.
The cherry on top? His accusatory apology and the two months of subsequent silence.
Not that I wanted to hear from him. But the utter lack of effort stings almost as much as his parting words did. I’m a forgettable, boring bitch.
“Are you dating anyone now?”
The question is more shocking than it should be. No one else has asked, all assuming I’d need more time to recover from Carson’s betrayal. Flynn asking is especially surprising since the extent of his prior interest in my love life was pretending not to know my ex’s name.
I blame alcohol and self-pity for my response. “Are you asking me out?”
Flynn grins, crossing his arms across his chest. I don’t know if he’s aware how the action makes his biceps bulge, but I sure am. He played lacrosse in high school and still appears annoyingly athletic.
“If I were asking you out, you would know.”
I get it. The Flynn Parks appeal? I understand why he’s considered irresistible. He’s the human equivalent of an amusement park. A fun time, easy to escape to and enjoyable to experience.
Reality always returns though, and this is a rare moment where I could use a reminder of that.
Which is probably why I announce, “I went on a date last month.”
“How was it?”
I search his expression, but there’s no sign of surprise or judgment—the two emotions I was most concerned I’d see.
I’m not sure what the appropriate mourning period is for a four-year relationship.
Since Carson didn’t even wait until ours ended to move on, I don’t have any qualms about doing the same.
I could lie, but I answer honestly. “Bad. Awkward. He kept calling himself a physician. Saying, ‘It’s hard to date as a physician,’ and, ‘Since I’m a physician, I hardly have time to try out restaurants.
’ When I asked what kind of doctor he was, he corrected me!
Like I was a kindergartener learning about careers or something. Physicians are doctors!”
Flynn starts laughing before I’ve even made it to the end of the anecdote. “We’re not all that bad,” he tells me.
“I know,” I state dryly. “You’re worse.”
He claps a hand to his chest in a dramatic display of hurt. “I can promise you I’ve never corrected a woman on what my job title is.”
“Duh. That would require you having a job.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” he says, still grinning. “Badgering the witness.”
I keep a straight face, but I want to smile. His ability to always say the most irritating, entertaining thing possible should be studied.
“You never take anything seriously, do you?”
“You deserve better, Florence.”
I want to tell him not to use my full name, but the words remain stuck in my throat. Since he said those four words very seriously.
I swallow more drink, nearly draining the glass. “Do you, uh, think you passed?”
“Yes.” His response is matter-of-fact, his demeanor still unnervingly sober.
Flippant Flynn is magnetic. This attentive, solemn version? Intense.
For once, I’m the one trying to lighten the mood. “You’re not going to ask me?”
“We both know you did. Probably with the highest score the bar committee has ever seen.”
His confidence in my abilities is nice. I should appreciate what I’ve worked so hard for—exceeding expectations. Yet I also resent being seen as so infallible.
“Or maybe I sat for two days and wondered how many other videos there were.” I run a pointer finger around the rim of the glass, collecting the few crystals that remain. “Everyone’s still talking about it, right?”
A question I haven’t been brave enough to ask Wren or anyone else.
I’ve tried to pretend Carson cheating was the private matter it should have been—that my last name doesn’t draw as much attention as it does.
But I will have to face the gossip this weekend.
Flynn is well connected enough to know what’s being said, indifferent enough not to lie to make me feel better, and loyal enough to Kit not to share that I was worried with anyone else.
“Everyone’s still talking about it.”
I nod, resenting the twist in my stomach. That was expected; I knew what he’d say. It still feels so unfair. I did nothing wrong, yet feel as though I’m the one being punished.
“Great.” I say it flippantly, hoping he can’t sense my anxiety.
He smiles, so I’m not sure I succeed. “You should give them something else to talk about.”
“I am not making a sex tape with you.”
Tequila strikes again. I instantly regret what was meant to be funny.
But I’m tipsy enough to imagine it—not the video part, but the sex.
Of the many women I’ve heard brag about being one of his conquests, not a single one has shared a review that’s not glowing.
He’s not otiose or unmotivated in bed, apparently.
“Tempting, but no.”
Tempting? What does he mean, tempting? Making a sex tape, generally speaking, or making a sex tape with me?
I’m so preoccupied, overanalyzing that singular word, that I miss part of what he says next.
“Problem solved. Everyone will be talking about us being together, not what Callum did.”
Us?
Together?
“What are you talking about? You’re suggesting we pretend to date?”
“No,” he replies.
I relax, then cringe. I misheard or misunderstood or—
“I’m suggesting we pretend to be engaged.” Flynn looks … serious.
I start laughing.