Page 27 of Gold Rush

Again, he keeps up easily. “You learned that one fast.”

I’m too angry to retort. Everything—everything—is a fucking game to him.

“Come on. You can’t really be mad. You can do way better than some Harvard douche.”

I pause, poking his chest with my pointer finger. “You’re a Harvard douche. And, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly have a lot of other options lining up.”

I’ve been on one date since Carson cheated. The conversation was bad, and the sex was worse. Clay is cute, smart, and has flirted with me in the past. If I had been single in law school, I think something would have happened between us sooner.

“Quality is more important than quantity.”

I scoff. “Well, I don’t have either.”

“He walked off as soon as I came over, Rory. That’s not who you’re looking for.”

“He was trying to be respectful.”

“There’s a thin line between respect and cowardice.”

“That’s not a saying.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Law school wasn’t Flynn’s choice. But I can’t help but think it was a perfect fit for him. His confidence is a skill, so disarming that it overwhelms your own perception.

I’m viewing the earlier interaction with Clay entirely differently. He did walk away as soon as Flynn came over. To give me a moment alone with the guy he assumed I was dating? Clay could have asked me directly if Flynn was my boyfriend.

“And if he’s so respectful,” Flynn continues, “why was he checking out your ass when you walked to the bathroom?”

“He wasn’t.” I don’t actually know he wasn’t, but contrarian seems like the right tone.

“He’s not the right guy, Florence.”

I point at my name tag, where Rory is plainly spelled out. “I know you know that no one calls me by my full name.”

Flynn smirks. “I know that you know that I know that.”

From the outside, it probably looks like we’re having some cute lovers’ spat.

“Bye, Flynn.”

This time, he doesn’t follow me. I make it all the way outside.

“You and Flynn aren’t leaving together?”

I glance at Clay, who’s standing left of the door by a bus stop. “Uh, no. We’re headed in different directions.”

He nods. “Literally or figuratively?”

“Literally. He lives on the Upper West Side.”

Another nod. “You know his reputation, right?”

I blink rapidly. “Excuse me?”

“You’re so …” Clay pauses to think of the right adjective, allowing me plenty of time to fill in the blank. Bland? Proper? Rigid? He settles on, “Upstanding. Just be careful. Don’t take it personally if he … moves on quickly. I know lots of other girls he’s done the same to.”

A nondescript gray sedan pulls up in front of the bar.