Chapter 46
Naomi waves as soon as I walk into Bowery Line. She’s already snagged a table toward the back. I skip the name-tag line this time, heading straight for her.
“You made it!” She rises when I reach her, hugging me tight.
“I said I’d be here,” I remind her, setting my Sue Me bag down on the bench.
“You did. But you’ve also canceled twice in the past month.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Work has been crazy, and Lili’s wedding was—”
“I get it, Rory. I’ve just missed you.”
I smile. “I’ve missed you too.”
“Drinks?”
“Wine sounds good.”
I slept as poorly last night as I had on Sunday, my conversation with Julian on a loop in my head.
He clearly thinks that Flynn lying to me about his trust fund means our engagement is real.
But since our engagement is not real, it makes absolutely no sense why Flynn would turn down the money he wants for his foundation.
The plan was working perfectly. He was about to get exactly what he wanted. And he blew it up on purpose.
Naomi and I catch up as we wait for a bartender to serve us.
We haven’t seen each other since the last—and only—one of these I attended.
I briefly became one of those girls I used to judge, who spent every spare second with a guy and neglected other relationships.
Not on purpose, but because I finally understood what it was like to be entirely consumed by someone.
To crave their company more than oxygen.
I’m about to take my first sip of the Bordeaux the bartender recommended when I’m jostled from behind. I watch, in slow motion, as red liquid sloshes over the rim of my stemmed glass to splash against my white blouse and gray blazer.
“Shit,” a semi-familiar male voice says. “I’m so sorry, Rory.”
“It’s fine, Clay.” I force a smile, setting down the glass and taking the stack of napkins Naomi offers with a sympathetic wince.
“I didn’t see you standing there and—”
“Really, it’s fine. It was an accident.”
I’m hoping that’ll be enough for Clay to resume whatever he was doing before he collided with me, but he remains right next to me. I’m not enjoying him hovering, watching me dab at my boobs, apologizing again and offering to pay for the dry-cleaning.
There’s a muffled snicker farther down the bar. I glance at Kristin, who’s standing with Colleen. Kristin has a smirk on her face, obviously the source of the sound.
I fist the wine-soaked napkin in my palm. “Something funny, Kristin?”
“Not at all,” she says sweetly. “It’s so refreshing that you don’t act like a snob.”
“I guess money can buy class,” I reply, just as saccharine.
Naomi snorts. Then glances behind me, her eyes widening.
“You’re standing awfully close, Curtis.”
I freeze when I hear his voice, then experience a sudden rush of heat.
“Er, right. Sorry, I—” Clay is so flustered that he doesn’t even bother to correct Flynn on his name as he takes a hasty step back.
I spin slowly, taking advantage of the new space, watching Flynn pull off his suit jacket. He’s already loosened his tie and undone the top button, which he tends to do the second he leaves the office.
He steps closer—much closer than Clay was—settling his jacket on my shoulders. It’s large enough to fit over my ruined blazer, covering two-thirds of my matching skirt too. I must look ridiculous, but I feel sort of … sexy.
“Another glass?” Flynn suggests to the bartender. She, like everyone else in the immediate vicinity, watched the whole train wreck happen.
“Of course,” she says quickly, pulling out the bottle and filling a second glass with a generous pour.
People are pretending to turn away, still stealing glances and sharing whispers. I’m not sure if they’re talking about the clumsiness or the bickering or Flynn being here … and I don’t really care. Flynn’s presence is like a magnet, pulling my attention from anything that’s not him.
Naomi must notice my distraction because she greets Flynn, then discreetly excuses herself, leaving us as alone as two people in a busy bar can be.
I swallow a sip of wine, savoring the currant and cherry before the taste of tannins. “What are you doing here?”
Flynn reaches out, tugging the end of my ponytail free from the collar of his jacket.
It’s not an especially intimate gesture, but my cheeks flame anyway.
I think Wren was right about me not having a crush on Flynn in the traditional sense, but my current condition shares most of the symptoms—blushing, giddiness, sweaty palms, anticipation, and anxious overthinking.
“Nice to see you too, baby.”
I roll my eyes and sip more wine. He’s teasing, mocking maybe, but my stupid heart and stupid hormones don’t care. I’d find baby belittling, coming from anyone else. Just like I truly do not enjoy being called Florence—except by him.
“Busy couple of days, huh?” Flynn adds.
I assume he’s referring to the fact that we haven’t seen each other since Sunday morning.
He was gone when I returned from the Hamptons, his car and suitcase already stored.
He came home late that night. Yesterday and today, I left in the morning before he was up, and he came home once I was already in bed.
None of the evening overlap that used to exist in our schedules.
I might be avoiding him, but he’s been avoiding me too.
Which bothers me, so when I say, “Sounds like you’re still adjusting from your long-term unemployment,” my tone is a little sharper than I intended.
“Absolutely,” he agrees, straight-faced. “No responsibility and no commitments—it was pretty fucking fun.”
I scoff, reaching for my wine again.
“It was also pretty fucking empty.”
My hand stills midair before finishing the journey to the glass, and I can’t decide if it matters that Flynn might have noticed.
“Will you look at me?” His voice is lower, yet I can hear each word perfectly. Like always, he sounds confident and assured.
“I-I’m—” Suddenly, I’m entirely overwhelmed. All my careful compartmentalization is crumbling, my certainty that fake breaking up with Flynn could be a quick recovery collapsing.
“Rory.”
I glance up, biting the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. “Why’d you stop calling me Florence?”
“Do you want me to stop calling you Florence?”
“No, I—no. You normally do … when you sound this serious, is all.”
“I am serious. I—”
“Hey, Parks!” one of the guys from a crowded table across the bar shouts. “What was the name of the place you stayed last summer?”
Flynn ignores him, his entire focus on me. “I fucked up.”
“Oh.” I’m scrambling, trying to hide how confused and crestfallen I am. This is about his dad. Or maybe a problem at work. Or he met—
“I did this all out of order. I was in a shitty situation, and I dragged you into it for … well, for lots of reasons. But mainly because I knew you’d make it better. You make it better. You always make it better.”
“I’ve got good problem-solving skills,” I say. “It’s why I did so well on the LSAT.”
He laughs, then shakes his head. “No, that’s not—that’s not what I’m trying to say. I thought I asked you to do this because I knew you’d commit. That I could trust you and rely on you and that, if you were part of it, the plan would work.”
“You can. It did. I mean, aside from your dad—”
“My dad didn’t change his mind. I did.”
“Why?” I whisper, far more interested in his explanation than Julian’s.
“I want to date you. I’ve wanted to date you. And I didn’t want that—us—to have anything to do with my problems with my parents.”
“We’ve been pretending, and it got confusing, which is—”
“I’m not confused. I was confused. I’ve been confused, starting with the time you marched up to me at Joseph Thorne’s tenth birthday party and said the cake wasn’t supposed to be served for another fifteen minutes.”
Realization dawns slowly. “That—you said you didn’t remember the first time we met.”
“I lied. Because I didn’t get why I remembered.
Never understood why that particular moment stuck in my head.
Just like I couldn’t figure out why I noticed you always ordered Reubens when there was a panini station.
Or asked for no olives when you ordered a martini.
Or that I wasn’t thinking about how you were Kit’s cousin when I hit Carson that night.
I li—” He takes a deep breath. “I love you, Florence Kensington. I think I have for a long time, and I asked you to pretend to date me so that I could finally convince myself that the whole fucking thing was in my head. Except it felt real and right, just like it did on that beach at Kit’s party.
I should have said something then. Should have said it sooner, before you started dating Carson.
But I didn’t, and I’m so sorry I didn’t.
But I’m saying it now. And”—he glances around—“I wasn’t planning to say it here, to be clear.
I was going to show up and ask you to get dinner with me at that sushi place you like after this, like a proper, normal date, but then I got here, and Curtis was all over you, and I wasn’t trying to act like an overbearing asshole; it just really pisses me off when other guys are—anyway, I’d like to take you to dinner.
If you’re open to giving this a real shot, I mean, and can you say something? Please?”
I’ve never seen Flynn ramble before. It’s incredibly endearing.
We’re standing near enough that all I have to do to kiss him is rise a few inches higher than my heels already elevate me and press my lips against his.
I hear—and feel—Flynn’s exhale of relief before his arms band around my back, closing his jacket more securely. It’s languid and sweet, and it’s not enough. Desire simmers low in my stomach, spreading through my pelvis.
I pull back to whisper, “I don’t want you to take me to dinner. I want you to take me home.”