Chapter 12
Iwipe the spotless counter for the fifth time in an hour, casting an anxious look at the clock while I rinse the sponge and wring it out over the sink.
He’s late.
Unsurprising, but not reassuring. Once Flynn arrives, once he moves in, I’ll be forced to act normal. Until then, I’m free to fret in the privacy of my own home while I remain its only occupant.
I can’t believe I agreed to let him move in. I’ve never lived with a man before. Well, except for my dad, in my parents’ huge penthouse. A very different situation for obvious reasons.
My apartment is a two-bedroom. It’s nice, but it’s not that big.
I bought it, imagining inviting friends from work over, wanting to avoid the stunned, sometimes judgmental, expressions that appear whenever someone realizes I’m one of “those Kensingtons,” not anticipating I’d be rooming with Flynn Parks.
Flynn Parks. My fake boyfriend. Soon-to-be fake fiancé.
I can’t believe I agreed to this. And I did agree to it.
He didn’t coerce or blackmail me. Temporary insanity, I guess.
Flynn’s persuasive powers should be studied because I’m not even second-guessing.
I want to do this, to act impulsively. To do something newsworthy and nonacademic. To take risks. A risk at least.
I punch the line of pillows on the couch before rearranging them for a third time today.
Julian Parks has always struck me as a pretentious jerk, which tracks with everything Flynn has told me, so I have no qualms about misleading him. Lying to my family is another matter. It’s the only aspect of this charade I feel guilty about.
Both unfortunately and fortunately, I suspect they’ll be thrilled once the initial shock fades.
I am—was? am?—the sole Kensington holdout when it comes to Flynn Parks.
He’s close with all my cousins, not just Kit.
Wren adores him. He’s like a third son to Scarlett and Crew.
My parents asked—repeatedly—how he was liking law school whenever I visited while living in Boston.
Even my grandfather smiles around him, and Arthur Kensington is notoriously hard to please.
A firm knock yanks my attention from the couch to the front door.
He’s here. Anyone else would have to be buzzed up, but I added his name to the approved list this morning.
I’ve had all day to prepare, yet I feel flustered and rattled as I hustle over to the door, flipping the lock and yanking it open.
Flynn glances up. He’s in the midst of swiping sweat off his forehead with his left bicep, his right hand readjusting the backward baseball cap he’s wearing before both arms fall to his sides.
The sleeves of his T-shirt have been cut off, the holes wide enough that I can see the ridge of his obliques on either side.
His black basketball shorts stop just above his knees.
“Hey, roomie.”
My eyes dart from his white sneakers up to his boyish grin, panic seeping through me at the prospect of living in close proximity to a guy I’ve always objectively known was attractive, but never really recognized was ridiculously hot.
My fingers tighten around the doorknob. “You’re late.”
“Yep,” Flynn confirms cheerfully, hiking a backpack higher up his shoulder. The motion lifts the hem of his shirt a couple of inches, flashing a strip of taut, tan skin.
I’ve only ever seen him consume alcohol and carbs. How does he have abs?
“So … am I allowed inside, or is the lease for this prime part of the hallway?”
It’s Flynn Parks, I remind myself. You’ve known him forever. He’s annoyed you for almost as long. Remember?
I step left, keeping ahold of the handle so the door swings wider.
It takes Flynn four trips to transfer the three suitcases, five boxes, and a duffel bag that he piled in the hallway into my apartment. Despite what he said about storage, he did bring a piece of furniture. A wooden side table with a single drawer.
I should offer to help, but I don’t. He hasn’t even indicated if he’ll pay rent. Not that I need the money, but it’s another example of what I’ve always known about him—Flynn is self-absorbed. He’s getting plenty out of this arrangement. He can carry his own belongings.
While I close and relock the door, Flynn wipes his forehead again. Then straightens and surveys my pristine apartment, decorated in subtle shades of cream and beige. I find it soothing. Carson called it boring, and I brace myself for a similar comment from Flynn.
“I should probably shower before I touch anything.”
“I mean, you can,” I say awkwardly.
“Down the hall?”
“Yeah. On the left.”
He nods, picking up the suitcases and heading down the hallway.
I trail a few feet behind, curious about his initial reaction to the room.
What was intended to be a guest space is more sparsely decorated than the rest of my apartment.
I bought an identical mattress, bed frame, and dresser to the ones in my bedroom.
The previous tenant painted the walls a pale yellow, and I haven’t changed the color.
“There are clean sheets on the bed,” I say as he sets his bags down. “And towels in the bathroom.” I nod toward the door to the right of the bed, which leads into the en suite.
Rather than ask if room service is included, Flynn stays serious. “Thanks, Rory. I really appreciate this.”
For all the times I’ve scoffed at his lack of sincerity, its appearance now makes me extremely uncomfortable. It’s far more effective since he’s rarely earnest.
“I had the space,” I say. “And you were right; it’ll make the other stuff easier. More believable, I mean.”
He doesn’t reply, just continues looking at me.
This room already feels different. Already feels separate from my space.
His presence has infiltrated it. I can smell him, and it’s not an unpleasant, sweaty scent.
It’s masculine—woody and spicy and probably a deodorant or an aftershave that millions of men wear, yet I’ll now associate with Flynn.
“Okay, well, I’ll let you get settled.” I retreat into my bedroom, closing the door and listening to the thud of his steps as he moves the rest of his belongings into his bedroom. I don’t relax until I hear his door shut across the hall, presumably to shower.
Meaning he’ll be naked in my apartment.
I turn on a fan, pace my room, then check my phone.
Mallory texted earlier, asking if I wanted to come to dinner with her and the group of girls I have known forever yet don’t entirely consider friends.
I’ve put off replying all day, not sure what to say.
I should be going out more now that the obsessive studying has ended.
Enjoying August and being back in my favorite city.
But Flynn and I haven’t discussed when or how we’ll launch our arrangement, and I don’t want him thinking he ran me out of my apartment as soon as he arrived.
So, I message Mallory back, apologizing for not getting back to her sooner and saying I can’t make it tonight but hopefully next time.
She likes the text immediately. I also have a new message from my mom, asking if I’ll be able to visit the Hamptons again before the end of summer.
Not sure what to say to that, I leave it unanswered for now.
I toss my phone on the mattress, watching it bounce, before turning toward the full-length mirror in the corner. I put on a cute sundress this morning. Now I feel overdressed, like I’m trying too hard, so I change into cotton boxer shorts and a T-shirt.
When I crack my door open, Flynn’s is still closed. I exhale a sigh of relief, feel ridiculous, then pad down the hallway and into the living room. I grab my laptop off the charger before settling on the couch and using one of my carefully arranged pillows as a makeshift desk.
My stomach rumbles. I didn’t want to order dinner until Flynn arrived, and I was too distracted once he did to ask what he wanted. I browse menus online until I hear a throat clear.
I glance up, startled. I’m used to living alone.
Flynn is standing beside the bookshelf next to the television, his damp hair a couple of shades darker than usual.
He’s changed into a similar version of his previous outfit—shorts and a T-shirt—except these shorts are navy and his T-shirt is gray.
He’s barefoot, appearing entirely at ease in my apartment.
That makes one of us.
“You working?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say automatically. “I mean, no. I was—what do you want for dinner? I’m ordering food.”
“Takeout? Why don’t we make something here?”
“Oh—well—” I stammer as he heads for the fridge, sliding my laptop to the side and standing. “I—”
“Where’s all your food?” Flynn already has the door open.
“Don’t have many groceries,” I finish.
I can’t cook. Like, really can’t cook. I try to boil pasta, and salty water spills all over the stove.
I try to fry an egg, and half the yolk winds up baked to the skillet.
Meat is especially problematic. I’ll follow the temperature and time directions exactly, yet it comes out underdone or rubbery.
I’ve tried to improve. My mom can cook, and Wren can whip up a perfect meal, no problem.
But me? I can make a salad—dressing drizzled over greens—and oatmeal, and that’s about it.
I buy prepared foods or order from restaurants for any meal that’s more substantial.
“Okay.” Flynn shuts the fridge. “I’ll go shopping. There’s a market just down the street.”
“I can’t cook,” I state, resolving to be up front. It’s not like he won’t notice the utter lack of anything impressive being made in the kitchen while he’s living here for the foreseeable future. “Nothing flavorful or impressive at least.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “What can you make?”
“Uh, salads. And oatmeal.”
Flynn laughs. He’s laughing at me, but it’s still a nice sound. Warm and deep. Then he heads for the door. He left his sneakers by the door. A pair of slides are set beside them, which he’s currently slipping on.
“Where are you going?”
“I just told you, grocery shopping.”
“And I just told you, I can’t make anything.”
“I can.” He’s patting his pockets, seemingly checking he has his phone.
“Edible?” I ask dubiously.
Never once have I heard any mention of Flynn possessing cooking abilities. Considering how much everyone loves to discuss his other skills, it seems highly unlikely he’s any good at it.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re in any position to judge. But, yes, I can cook edible meals. My parents weren’t around much, and we didn’t have a private chef. So, I taught myself a few things.”
Now I feel really badly.
“Mostly to impress girls.”
Sympathy over.
Flynn grabs my keys out of the dish by the door, swinging them around one finger. “You coming?”
“I …” I glance down at my pajamas. I guess they’re passable as loungewear—the shorts aren’t especially short and there’s no pattern on them, and my shirt is oversize enough that you can’t tell I’m not wearing a bra—but it’s not what I’d normally wear in public.
“You look cute,” he comments. “Like an Easter egg.”
I scowl as I stalk over, shouldering him aside so I can reach my shoes. “Pastels aren’t only for spring.”
“I think I read that in Haute,” he says, referencing my aunt’s fashion magazine. Which I’m positive Flynn does not read. He might look at the photos of models. Which reminds me …
“We need to go over some ground rules for this living situation.”
Flynn nods. “I was surprised you didn’t hand me a three-inch binder when I arrived. With double-sided pages.”
He proceeds to hold the door open for me, gesturing for me to exit first, which flusters me all over again. His paradox of rude and respectful has always given me whiplash, but it’s especially disconcerting now, in frequent, large doses. Hopefully, I’ll build up immunity faster.
“Rule one,” I start as we wait for the elevator, then abruptly realize I left my phone and wallet in my apartment. I’m totally discombobulated. “Shoot.” I reach for the keys he’s holding. “I forgot my phone and wallet.”
“I have my phone and wallet.”
“I might miss a work call. And I’ll pay half.”
“It’s Sunday. And, no, you won’t.”
The elevator arrives with a ding, so I have to make an immediate decision on whether or not to argue with him.
I don’t.
And it’s a bizarrely similar sensation to bluffing—going somewhere with no way for anyone to reach me and no expectation I’ll spend a cent.
I really do need to get out more.