Chapter 10
Flynn slides into the booth across from me, sporting a baseball cap and a pair of aviator sunglasses.
“What are you wearing?”
He casts a furtive glance around, like we’re starring in a spy thriller, before slipping the sunglasses off. “I thought we weren’t supposed to be seen together?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well”—he surveys the bustling diner again—“you suggested meeting here.”
“It’s close to my apartment,” I inform him. “And someone seeing us together would be helpful, if we’re about to announce our engagement.”
I can hardly believe those words just came out of my mouth.
Flynn pulls the cap off, tossing it on the table and running both hands through his thick hair.
I experience a brief urge to do the same. I always assumed it was styled, but based on his rough treatment, his hair just naturally looks that way. So unfair.
“You said be discreet when you sent the address,” he mutters, picking up a laminated menu.
I’m irritated and secretly amused—my usual state around Flynn Parks. He’s the most exasperating, entertaining person I’ve ever met.
“I was talking about other women.”
He raises one eyebrow. “What about other women?”
“Our serious and loving relationship is not going to be very believable if you’ve been up to your usual shenanigans.”
“Shenanigans?” He grins. “Do you use euphemisms for everything or just sex?”
“Our serious and loving relationship is not going to be very believable if you’ve been having sex with other women.”
Flynn continues smirking. Like I said—exasperating. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
Translation: He got laid last night.
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” I retort. “This was your idea.”
“Let’s save the negotiations until after we eat. I’m starving.” His attention returns to the menu. “What’s good here?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never been here before.”
Flynn stretches one arm along the back of the booth as he continues to scan the options. His idea of incognito apparel was a short-sleeved Knicks T-shirt. The blue cotton looks really comfortable, like it’s been washed many times. The fabric is thin, clinging to his biceps and broad shoulders.
I shift, wishing they’d turn up the air-conditioning in here.
Flynn glances up in response to the unfortunate squelch that followed the movement. Rather than make fun, he asks, “You getting the Reuben?”
“Uh, yeah,” I reply, startled into honesty.
How did he know what I was ordering?
He glances back down at the menu before I can ask. The hand not draped along the red vinyl lifts from the table, and he absently scratches his stubbled jaw.
I’m staring.
Stop staring, Rory.
“Afternoon! What can I get for ya?” is what I think the waitress who appears beside our table asks between her gum snapping.
She appears college-aged, her hair dyed a vibrant blue and cut choppily an inch above her shoulders.
She appears bored until she spots Flynn, and her eyes alight with interest.
“Any recommendations?” Flynn asks, flipping to the back of the menu.
“Most of it’s rubbish,” the waitress stage-whispers conspiratorially, leaning over his shoulder. She taps an item with the tip of her pen. “The BLT isn’t bad.”
“Great. I’ll go with that.” Flynn hands her his menu. “And a Coke.”
“You”—snap—“got”—snap—“it.”
“My girlfriend’s going to get the Reuben,” Flynn continues. “No sauerkraut. And a Sprite.”
I gape at him, rendered speechless by him, one, casually calling me his girlfriend; two, ordering for me; and three, being completely correct about my order. Predicting the Reuben was random. He also knows I avoid pickled foods and love lemon-lime soda?
“That everything?” the waitress asks.
“Yes. Thanks.” I hand her my menu too.
“Any allergies?”
Flynn answers, “Peanut,” before I can, and now I’m really impressed—I mean, confused. I’m really confused.
“Mm-kay,” the waitress mumbles, scribbling and strolling away without a single look back.
Flynn sharing our relationship status definitely dimmed her earlier enthusiasm about taking his order.
I don’t bother to check if the waitress is out of earshot before I hiss, “What the hell was that?”
“What the hell was what?” Either Flynn is an excellent actor—which bodes well for us possibly pulling this off—or he’s genuinely baffled by the question.
“You ordering for me.”
“You said you wanted the Reuben.”
“Not without sauerkraut and minus the peanut exposure!”
His lips twitch. I know I sound ridiculous. What I don’t know is how Flynn Parks, of all people, figured out my exact order. He’s not known for being observant or considerate. He prioritizes himself, which I suppose is what most people do and are less up front about it.
“Remember the first time we met?” he asks.
“Uh, no,” I answer, suddenly uneasy. Did I rant about pickles and allergies?
I can’t recall a singular moment he appeared. Flynn was suddenly just there, a reliable presence most times I saw my cousins.
“Me neither,” he says, and I relax some. “Because it was a long time ago. I bet I know you a lot better than you think, Florence.”
I scowl, knowing he’s purposefully peeving me. “Not well enough to remember I go by Rory.”
He grins.
I’m suddenly curious. “When’s my birthday?”
“May 3.” He doesn’t hesitate, still in that infuriating lounged position, like he’s relaxing at the beach.
Okay. That was an easy one. He tagged along with Kit to a few celebrations.
“Where was I born?”
That was long before he and Kit were best friends. No way he’ll—
“Rome. Your mom went into labor a month early. She was studying in Italy as part of her architecture program.”
I’m silent. Stunned. Trying to summon something obscure he has no chance of answering correctly to fracture this bizarre moment.
Flynn is neither sentimental nor introspective. He doesn’t stand in the background, paying attention to everyone else. He’s the center of attention in every room, the literal life of the party.
No matter how many times he’d been around when my dad told the story of panic-flying across the Atlantic to be by Mom’s side when she gave birth, I would have had no expectation that’d rate as relevant information for him to remember.
Flynn is absolutely enjoying my speechlessness. “Did I pass?” he questions. “Or do you want me to answer anything else? If you have any siblings maybe?”
Does he know Wren’s birthday? Her birthplace? What point is he trying to prove? That he knows me well enough to pull off this farce? That he’s not as self-absorbed as he acts?
Two glasses of soda are set on the table.
“Food will be out soon,” the waitress says, then walks away.
I busy myself stripping the paper wrapper off the straw, stabbing it through the ice and stirring it around.
“To us?”
I glance up. Flynn has his glass raised, held toward me.
I roll my eyes before lifting mine too.
Our drinks tap, some condensation rolling onto my knuckles as I hold the sweating glass of soda.
“Say it, Kensington.”
“To us.”
His smile grows, the corners of his brown eyes creasing. I normally consider brown to be a rather boring color. But Flynn’s eyes are very expressive. Even on the rare occasions he’s silent, it’s easy to guess his mood by looking at them.
There’s a sudden fluttering in my chest as our gazes meet and hold.
And it occurs to me—me, who thinks of everything—that this arrangement could be a bad idea for reasons I didn’t originally consider.