Page 24 of Gold Rush

I sigh, pulling the elastic out of my hair and running a hand through it. When I reach the front of the line, I give my name and scribble Rory on one of the provided name tags. There’s another line for the bar, so I skip that in favor of heading toward the section of tables with signs indicating they’ve been reserved for this event.

I pause to look at a couple of the photographs displayed on the exposed brick wall. They’re all scenes around the city—kids playing in the spray of a malfunctioning fire hydrant, pigeons perched on an overflowing trash can in Central Park, a woman smoking and swinging her legs on a fire escape.

“Hey, Rory.”

I spin to see Clay Hardmann. He was a year ahead of me, so we only shared one seminar, but we worked on law review together.

“Hey, Clay.” I smile back, cataloging the changes to his appearance in the past year.

His hair is trimmed shorter, and he’s wearing a navy suit instead of the jeans and a sweater or T-shirt—depending on the season—he wore on campus. I think he’s gotten new glasses too.

“How have you been? How’s the DA’s office?”

“Not making much of a dent in my loans.” He grimaces, stealing a sip from the beer bottle in his left hand. “Aside from that, I love it. How’s the other side?”

“I love it.”

He nods. “I’d say it’d be fun to go up against each other, but I have a feeling you’d make me regret it.”

“Who, me?” I ask innocently.

“Yeah, you. I pity the prosecutors who think they’re dealing with a sweet blonde and get bitten by a shark.”

I shrug a shoulder. “Each case is a chess match. Your opponent matters as much as the pieces do.”

“Exactly my point. You⁠—”

“Florence!”

I still, the natural smile that appeared during my conversation with Clay slipping. What is Flynn doing here? Most Big Law associates start in September. I figured he’d be somewhere in Europe, sunning on a yacht with a few models, enjoying the rest of his summer. Him being in New York is unexpected. Him attending an event related to academics? Shocking.

I turn my head slowly, searching the bar for a figure that’s extremely easy to find. Flynn draws attention everywhere he goes. Also, he’s the tallest guy here.

Even more surprising than him being at Bowery Line? He’s walking straight toward me.

To his credit—and my annoyance, especially when he used my government name—Flynn always acknowledged me on campus. But those were accidental run-ins. Having a class in the same building or passing each other on a path. He never sought me out, and I have no clue why or when that changed.

I frown as Flynn nears, loosening his tie as he walks. The top two buttons of his shirt are open, showing off a sliver of tan skin.

When he reaches us, an arm is slung around my shoulders, pulling me against the firm chest I was just admiring. I glance up, stunned by the sudden, casual contact.

Flynn whispers, “Sorry I’m late. I’ll make it up to you later,” loudly enough for everyone in the immediate vicinity to overhear.

“Good to see you, Rory,” Clay says, departing with an uncomfortable smile.

“You too,” I call after Clay, then step out of Flynn’s hold and spin to face him. “What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Helping you out. As we discussed on Friday.”

“What are you—” I’m interrupted by a guy by the bar shouting his name.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells me.

“Don’t you dare. People will assume we’re here together.”

“No one’s thinking that—yet.” He strolls away, calling, “White or red, baby?” over his shoulder as he heads for his buddies by the bar.

As soon as everyone stops staring, I’m going to murder him.