Chapter 21
My dad calls while I’m logging off my computer. I ignore it, like usual, except he calls again, immediately.
I exhale a long sigh, glancing around the other cubicles to confirm the office is, in fact, empty, then answer. “What?”
“That’s not a very professional way to answer the phone, Flynn.”
“If you don’t want to talk to me, stop calling, Dad.”
A pause. I’m not normally this antagonistic at the start of our conversations, but it’s been a long fucking day. I’m hungry, and I’m tired, and I’m in no mood to deal with my father’s criticism.
“You’re dating Rory Kensington.”
His recent attempts to reach me make sudden sense. He must have talked to someone who had seen us at Atlantic Crest last weekend.
“I told you I was,” I remind him.
Julian clears his throat. “You say a lot of things.”
“Is that why you’re calling? To tell me you know something I already told you?”
“I’m calling to invite you both to dinner. Your mother and I would like to meet her.”
“You’ve met her.”
“Don’t be difficult, Flynn. Unless she’s another passing phase for you?”
I grit my teeth at the thinly veiled reference to the lack of longevity in my previous relationships.
The foundation, I remind myself. You’re doing this for Penn.
“She’s not.”
“Good. We’ll see you Saturday. Seven p.m. Don’t be late.”
Julian ends the call first, stealing my satisfaction of getting to hang up on him.
I toss my phone on the desk and rake my hands through my hair, scowling.
This is a necessary step toward the goal of getting my inheritance.
I have no doubt Rory will charm my parents.
They’ll be thrilled when we get engaged and blame me when it falls apart.
But we spent last weekend faking it for her family and half of the Hamptons.
I’m dreading this dinner already, especially since I’ve sort of been avoiding Rory since she found out about me hitting Carson.
I was expecting a lecture, and instead, she thanked me.
She was clearly shocked by my defending her, which I’m a little offended by.
I’ve never taken it to that extreme, but I’ve always defended her.
Also, there was the full minute she gaped at my dick, which did absolutely nothing to extinguish the sexual tension in the apartment. So, yeah, putting on a show for my parents wasn’t on my priority list.
I shut off the computer, clean up my desk a little, then head for the elevators. As I walk, I order takeout on my phone. I don’t have the energy to cook dinner tonight. I opt for pizza, figuring it’ll be fastest, making sure to note a peanut allergy before submitting the order to Rino’s.
Twenty minutes later, I enter the apartment, carrying two steaming boxes. “Hey, I—” I stop short, halfway to the kitchen island. “What is that?”
Rory looks up from the living room rug, where she’s sitting cross-legged next to what looks like a large ball of lint. “I adopted a cat.”
“Uh, why?” I deposit the pizzas on the counter and approach cautiously.
“He needed a home. I was walking back from work, and a local shelter was having an event in DeLury Square, so I … I adopted him.” She meets my gaze.
A hint of panic appears in hers before she glances at the pile of gray fluff again.
“I bought everything they said to, but he hasn’t eaten or played or even used the litter box. When I try to pet him, he hisses.”
I know very little about cats. But the ones I’ve seen have sleek, smooth fur, so I have to ask, “Why does it look … electrocuted?”
“It’s static,” she says defensively. “I’m going to give him a bath. I was waiting for you to get home.”
“Don’t cats hate water?”
“He smells, and I think it’ll help with his fur. They make cat shampoo.” She points at the pile of pet paraphernalia stacked beside the bookcase, her expression a little helpless.
I was distracted by the bath idea. The rest of what she said didn’t register right away.
“I was waiting for you to get home.”
This wasn’t planned. And for as long as I’ve known her, Rory has thought things through. Even this crazy idea to be a fake couple, she gave it serious consideration. But she saw a deranged-looking feline and impulsively decided to bring it home. I’m sort of proud of her for that.
So, I give the pizzas a longing glance, then scoop up the cat and head for the tub.
An hour later, I’m fighting a series of swears as Rory dabs a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide on one of the many red scratches covering my arms. The only distraction from the stinging is the ringing in my ears from the nonstop yowling.
How such a tiny animal can create such a loud sound defies logic.
“Sorry,” she repeats when I can’t hold in a wince.
“It’s fine,” I grit out, glancing at the feline sitting by the front door, as far away from us as possible, delicately licking one raised paw.
Quiet and calm, like she didn’t just eviscerate me with her claws. Our third roommate turned out to be female beneath matted fur, not male, like the shelter told Rory.
“Last one,” Rory says, grabbing a fresh cotton ball and patting it against the raised line that crosses the crease of my elbow and runs inside my bicep.
Some of her hair falls forward, blonde strands brushing another scratch so gently that it doesn’t even hurt. I study her while she focuses on administering medical care, diligent and determined that I don’t wind up with an infection.
“How was your day?”
She glances up, hand stilling. Our close proximity—essentially the opposite of the space I intended to give her—seems to hit her for the first time.
Her eyes widen briefly before she replies, “Fine.”
“Fewer details next time, please. I feel like I was there.”
A reluctant smile appears. “Nothing that exciting happened. I don’t want to bore you.”
“There’s nothing you could say that I would find boring.”
The response comes naturally because it’s true. I find Rory fascinating. I always have.
She starts dabbing my arm again. “No one is here except Fluffy. You don’t have to fake flirt with me.”
“That was a fact, not flirting. Also, we’re not naming our cat Fluffy.”
“He—I mean, she came with that name. And it’s my cat, Flynn.”
“Uh, one of us fled the bathroom, and it wasn’t me. That’s worth a name vote at least. I might have permanent scarring.”
Rory sighs, leaning back and tossing the final cotton ball in the trash. “Thank you for helping with her bath.”
I sigh, too, sensing she’s about to stand and walk away. “I talked to my dad earlier.”
“Was it a good talk?”
I scoff. “No such thing.”
Twin lines appear between her eyes as Rory studies me with what appears to be concern. I like it less than I did when she was cleaning my cuts. Closer to pity.
“We’re invited for dinner on Saturday night.”
“You don’t want to go?” Rory’s tone is tentative.
I know I’m not providing a whole lot of context about my relationship with my parents.
Especially with my dad. Truthfully, I’ve never bothered to explain it to anyone.
From the outside, our family appears fully functional.
My parents are involved in my life. Overly involved, in my father’s case.
They’ve never neglected me. Julian is the reason I have a degree, let alone multiple.
I’m grateful to him, yet I also resent him.
And all of that is especially difficult to explain to Rory, who I know has a very different relationship with her parents. Oliver and Hannah are so, so proud of her, and they would be even if she hadn’t accomplished all that she has.
“No. I don’t want to go. But we should. He heard we’re dating and …”
“And that’s the reason we’re doing this,” Rory finishes quietly.
“Right.” I inject some optimism into my tone. “It’ll be fine. My dad will try to impress you. Possibly ask a lot of questions. He didn’t believe me when I said we were dating. Not until his buddies at the club confirmed it.”
She frowns. “What? Why wouldn’t he believe you?”
I laugh, but Rory doesn’t. “You serious?”
She is.
“You’re—I haven’t dated many … I’m sure he thinks you’re way too good for me.”
And he’s not the only one.
“That’s ridiculous.”
I shrug. “I’m just trying to give you an idea of what to expect. He’s pretty surprised I convinced you to date me, so that’ll probably come up.”
“Has he met you?” Rory asks incredulously. “You’re—you—”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m what?”
“Charming!” She says the adjective like a swear.
I grin. “Fluffy doesn’t think so.”
We both look at the cat, still sitting as far from us as possible.
“I was going to name him Atticus Finch,” Rory states. “Back when I thought she was a he.”
“To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“Exactly.”
“What about Finch?” I suggest. “It’s snappier.”
“She’s a cat, Flynn.”
“That’s why it’s funny.”
“Funny isn’t exactly what I was going for.”
“Right. More of a literary vibe?”
“Your sarcasm is noted and not appreciated.”
“Finch!” I call out.
The gray cat hisses, then starts licking another paw.
“See? She already responds to it.”
“I wouldn’t call that a strong endorsement.”
“Well, Finch is my vote.” I stand. Stretch. Wince, gingerly pressing one of the scratches on my right arm. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Use lots of soap,” Rory calls after me.