Page 3 of Gold Rush

My sister smirks. “Flynn, this is my boyfriend, Sawyer. Sawyer, this is Flynn Parks.”

“Good to meet you, man,” Flynn says, half standing to shake Sawyer’s hand across the table.

His right arm brushes my left one again when he sits back down, and I fight the urge to remind him what personal space is.

“Although,” he continues, “since Wren doesn’t have a brother, I feel obligated to add that I’ll kick your ass if you hurt her.”

How sexist. He thinks I can’t threaten my sibling’s suitors myself?

“Would you?” I question sweetly. “Or would you be the one getting your ass kicked in that scenario?”

Flynn glances at me, and I immediately regret drawing his attention this way. Our interactions are easier, much easier, when he’s focused on someone else. I’m also certain he’s thinking about the last New Year’s Eve when we both attended one of Kit’s parties, which is a night I avoid thinking about. Especially around him.

“You got Rory’s approval?” Flynn aims a mock-impressed look at Sawyer. “Nice work, dude. Many have tried to meet those standards. Many have failed. Speaking of exceptions, where is Carter?” He glances around, pretending to look for Carson, whose name he absolutely knows. They’re the same age; they were classmates at Dalton.

“Carson couldn’t make it,” I say stiffly, refusing to display more of a reaction.

“Well”—Flynn reaches for his glass—“I guess those standards aren’t so high after all.”

Wren interjects, like she’s aware I’m dangerously close to dumping the contents of that tumbler over his head, “Open your gift, Rory!”

I grind my molars, paste a smile on my face, and reach inside the bag, pulling out a soft object, wrapped in glittery tissue paper. I know without asking that Wren wrapped this herself. It’s completely covered, so I resent the thirty seconds I spent speculating what sort of gift Flynn Parks would consider nice.

I slip my thumb under the tissue paper, pulling up the tape holding the sheets together. A sleek tote bag is revealed, Sue Me neatly stamped in gold letters on one side of the black leather.

I laugh. “I love it, Wren. Thank you.”

She smiles, nodding. “Look inside. There’s more.”

I open the tote, pulling out a portfolio made from the same material. Florence Kensington, Esq. is written on the cover in matching font. I trace my fingers over the embossed letters lightly, still marveling over my new title, then flip the portfolio open. A yellow legal pad is already inside.

“It’s perfect,” I tell my sister. “I’ll use it every day.”

“Is suing people how you plan to use your law degree?” Flynn wonders.

“It’s a saying, Flynn,” Wren tells him.

Flynn doesn’t reply. He’s waiting for my response, it appears. Does he really not know where I’m working, or is he messing with me? I assumed Kit would have told him. Then again, I have no clue what his postgrad plans are. If he has any.

“What are you going to do with your law degree?” I ask archly.

“Argue,” he responds without missing a beat.

“How noble.”

A wry smile plays with his mouth. It’s a shame he doesn’t keep it shut more often because he’s awfully nice to look at when he’s silent. Actually, I decide abruptly, it’s for the best he talks so much. If he wasn’t so obnoxious, he’d just be a guy with broad shoulders; a sculpted jawline; thick, dark brown hair; and a roguish grin. It’s much easier to ignore his hotness when he says things like⁠—

“We can’t all be saints, Florence. Who would you judge if there were no sinners?”

Like that.

I scoff. “You’re religious now? I assumed you spent your Sunday mornings with models.”

Flynn nods somberly before drawling, “Being in bed with me is a religious experience.”

Sawyer chuckles, attempting to cover his amusement with a cough.

I basically forgot there were other people at this table. Other people at this party. My party.