Page 17 of Gold Rush

I could lie, but I answer honestly. “Bad. Awkward. He kept calling himself a physician. Saying, ‘It’s hard to date as a physician,’ and, ‘Since I’m a physician, I hardly have time to try out restaurants.’ When I asked what kind of doctor he was, he corrected me! Like I was a kindergartener learning about careers or something. Physicians are doctors!”

Flynn starts laughing before I’ve even made it to the end of the anecdote. “We’re not all that bad,” he tells me.

“I know,” I state dryly. “You’re worse.”

He claps a hand to his chest in a dramatic display of hurt. “I can promise you I’ve never corrected a woman on what my job title is.”

“Duh. That would require you having a job.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” he says, still grinning. “Badgering the witness.”

I keep a straight face, but I want to smile. His ability to always say the most irritating, entertaining thing possible should be studied.

“You never take anything seriously, do you?”

“You deserve better, Florence.”

I want to tell him not to use my full name, but the words remain stuck in my throat. Since he said those four words very seriously.

I swallow more drink, nearly draining the glass. “Do you, uh, think you passed?”

“Yes.” His response is matter-of-fact, his demeanor still unnervingly sober.

Flippant Flynn is magnetic. This attentive, solemn version? Intense.

For once, I’m the one trying to lighten the mood. “You’re not going to ask me?”

“We both know you did. Probably with the highest score the bar committee has ever seen.”

His confidence in my abilities is nice. I should appreciate what I’ve worked so hard for—exceeding expectations. Yet I also resent being seen as so infallible.

“Or maybe I sat for two days and wondered how many other videos there were.” I run a pointer finger around the rim of the glass, collecting the few crystals that remain. “Everyone’s still talking about it, right?”

A question I haven’t been brave enough to ask Wren or anyone else. I’ve tried to pretend Carson cheating was the private matter it should have been—that my last name doesn’t draw as much attention as it does. But I will have to face the gossip this weekend. Flynn is well connected enough to know what’s being said, indifferent enough not to lie to make me feel better, and loyal enough to Kit not to share that I was worried with anyone else.

“Everyone’s still talking about it.”

I nod, resenting the twist in my stomach. That was expected; I knew what he’d say. It still feels so unfair. I did nothing wrong, yet feel as though I’m the one being punished.

“Great.” I say it flippantly, hoping he can’t sense my anxiety.

He smiles, so I’m not sure I succeed. “You should give them something else to talk about.”

“I am not making a sex tape with you.”

Tequila strikes again. I instantly regret what was meant to be funny. But I’m tipsy enough to imagine it—not the video part, but the sex. Of the many women I’ve heard brag about being one of his conquests, not a single one has shared a review that’s not glowing. He’s not otiose or unmotivated in bed, apparently.

“Tempting, but no.”

Tempting? What does he mean, tempting? Making a sex tape, generally speaking, or making a sex tape with me?

I’m so preoccupied, overanalyzing that singular word, that I miss part of what he says next.

“Problem solved. Everyone will be talking about us being together, not what Callum did.”

Us?

Together?