Page 151 of Gold Rush

“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.