Chapter 20
Carson: Why is everyone saying you were at Graham’s party with Flynn Parks?
Rory: Because I was at Graham’s party with Flynn Parks.
Carson: You can’t stand Flynn.
Carson: Hello?
Carson: How long has this been going on?
Carson: I should have hit him back.
Icarefully measure a teaspoon of vanilla, then dump it in the bowl.
Stir the batter a couple of times before flicking some water from the faucet onto the cast iron skillet.
It sizzles, indicating the temperature is right.
I use a measuring cup to deposit four perfectly spaced circles on the oiled surface, beaming at the pan. This is practically a cooking show.
I wipe my hands on the front of the apron, then walk over to the fridge to grab the blueberries. Except they’re not in the produce drawer. I start searching shelf by shelf, moving around ingredients and containers as I go.
It was a lot easier to find items in my fridge when there was hardly anything in here. Did Flynn eat them? Sometimes, he has a snack before bed—
Beep!
“Fire.”
Beep!
“Fire.”
Beep!
“Fire.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I race over to the smoking stove, flip one of the burned pancakes, then toss it off the skillet entirely when I see how black and crispy and inedible the other side is.
The alarm doesn’t stop when the pan is empty. I turn the burner off. Still blaring, occasionally interrupted by an automated voice calmly announcing, “Fire.”
“Flynn!” I shout.
It’s earlier than he normally gets up, but there’s no way he’s sleeping through this racket.
“Flynn!” I yell again, dragging a chair from the kitchen table over to the smoke alarm. I still can’t reach the button, and the ear-splitting sound is even louder up here.
I jump down, covering my left ear with one hand while I reach for one of the island stools with the other.
“What the fuck happened?”
Flynn appears, and I forget about the alarm entirely despite it continuing to blare at full volume overhead.
He wasn’t sleeping. He was in the shower and obviously jumped out in a hurry. Soap suds dot his shoulders and chest. I watch one cluster of bubbles coast down his abs, disappearing beneath the white towel wrapped around his waist, along with a couple of water droplets.
“P-pancakes,” I stutter.
I’ve gotten glimpses of his impressive physique, but never the full effect. Why does he look like this? He’s a lawyer, not a model or a professional athlete. He sits at a desk, reviewing contracts all day.
I woke up thinking about being pressed against him in the bathroom on Saturday night. And it’s all I can think about—yet again. A torrent of heat overwhelms my body, proving that avoiding him since Saturday night hasn’t accomplished much. Or anything.
It’s like being in that bathroom destroyed a dam, and now I have no defense against the constant stream of awareness.
I can’t stop wondering what sex with Flynn would be like.
I was more turned on against that door, fully clothed, than I’d ever been in my entire life.
All he did was kiss my neck and my mouth. I was seconds from suggesting—
“Rory!” Flynn steps closer, and I realize he’s been trying to get my attention. That he’s trying to take the stool I’m holding, presumably so he can reach the alarm.
“Here.” I shove the stool toward him, frazzled by his bare chest and the continual racket that makes it almost as hard to think straight. Then try to move out of the way, except I slip on the water that has dripped off him and formed little puddles all over the floor.
Flynn reaches out to steady me. I evade his hand because him touching me is appealing and therefore something to avoid.
I attempt to right myself by reaching toward the counter, but it’s too far away.
It only scatters my equilibrium more. Instinct kicks in as I fully lose my balance, my hands desperate for anything to grab.
The one thing within reach? Flynn.
The one thing on Flynn to grip on to? His towel.
It seems to happen in slow motion, the white terry cloth—my favorite brand, ordered from France—falling from Flynn’s hips to the floor a second before I land on it. I tell myself I won’t look, so of course I wind up staring.
Staring up at Flynn Parks’s big, thick cock.
He was hard on Saturday night, which was … intriguing. I got a general sense of the generous dimensions against the door, but he’s not aroused right now. Yet it looks like that. Holy shit.
“Want a photo?” Flynn has to shout so I can hear him over the ongoing alarm.
I start, guiltily, forcing my eyes to move higher.
Flynn is smirking, making no attempt to cover himself.
His confidence makes his nakedness even sexier, which is frankly the last thing I need to experience right now.
Being attracted to Flynn was a lot easier when I didn’t like him—like artwork you admire or a celebrity you know you’ll never meet.
Being attracted to Flynn while I’m living with him and pretending to date him and he cooks me dinner and brags about my accomplishments and kisses me like the attraction isn’t one-sided was bad enough before I knew exactly what his penis looked like.
“Just silence,” I yell back, pointing up at the smoke detector as I stand. The towel cushioned my fall, which would have been convenient if the fabric being on the floor hadn’t meant Flynn was naked.
I’m very careful to keep my eyes downcast as I pick up the towel and hand it to him. When I glance over again, he has it wrapped around his waist and is climbing on the stool. I avert my eyes again in case there’s a second show from this angle.
Seconds later, it’s silent.
I listen to the scrape of legs against the floor as he moves the stool back to its proper place, busying myself with transferring the burned pancakes to the trash can.
“Smells good.”
I risk a quick glance at him. Still damp. Still only wearing a towel. Still smirking.
I flip him off. “See if I ever attempt cooking again.”
“Promise?”
I scoff. “Go finish your shower.”
“Wanna come watch? You only looked for … five minutes? It’ll take me at least that long to rinse off.”
Another wave of heat washes over me. “I barely saw anything.”
“What would you consider a good glimpse? An hour?”
I grind my molars. “Thanks for your help with the alarm, Flynn.”
“Not for the free show?”
I walk over to the closet, pulling the mop out so I can clean up the water on the kitchen floor and ensure I never slip near him again.
“Need help with anything else?”
“I’ve got it,” I say tightly, knocking the mop’s bucket against the counter in my haste.
“Encore is in the bathroom, if you change your mind …” He grins again before spinning around to finally leave the kitchen.
Before he’s out of sight, I blurt the question I’ve been debating asking all week. “Did you punch Carson?”
With no barrier of a shirt in the way, I have a clear view of his shoulders stiffening.
Flynn turns around slowly, his expression shifting to serious. “Who told you that?”
“He did.”
“He—when did you talk to him?”
“He texted me Sunday morning. Is it true?”
“Why didn’t you tell me he’d texted you?” Flynn demands.
“I’m telling you right now. Is. It. True?” I’m sick of his evasiveness.
He exhales. “I went to Proof when I got back to Manhattan after your graduation party. He was in one of the back booths with two girls. When I saw … yeah, I hit him. He was cheating, and he’d skipped your party to do it. He deserved worse.”
His threat to Sawyer earlier that day—“I’ll kick your ass if you hurt her”—flashes through my head, followed by my own glib response: “Would you? Or would you be the one getting your ass kicked in that scenario?”
I said that to him, and then he defended me. He could have easily looked the other way. Could have ordered a drink rather than confront my cheating ex.
I doubted he would intervene for my sister. I never ever expected he’d care enough to act on my behalf. And that was back in May, long before we were pretending to be together. No one would have expected him to stand up for me. Lili or Wren maybe. But not me.
The bruise on Carson’s face? That was from Flynn.
I think Flynn was expecting me to take a pacifist position because he appears increasingly unsettled by my silence.
He clears his throat before hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “If that’s all … I’m gonna go finish showering.”
I manage a nod.
Two steps later, I say his name.
He pauses, shoulders lifting and falling with a deep sigh before he turns to face me again.
“Thank you.”
Surprise flashes across his face. “Yeah. Sure.”
I stare at the puddles in the spot he was just standing after he disappears.
Then I realize I only have five minutes until I need to leave for work and jump into action.