Page 33 of Gold Rush

He raises one eyebrow. “What about other women?”

“Our serious and loving relationship is not going to be very believable if you’ve been up to your usual shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans?” He grins. “Do you use euphemisms for everything or just sex?”

“Our serious and loving relationship is not going to be very believable if you’ve been having sex with other women.”

Flynn continues smirking. Like I said—exasperating. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

Translation: He got laid last night.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” I retort. “This was your idea.”

“Let’s save the negotiations until after we eat. I’m starving.” His attention returns to the menu. “What’s good here?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never been here before.”

Flynn stretches one arm along the back of the booth as he continues to scan the options. His idea of incognito apparel was a short-sleeved Knicks T-shirt. The blue cotton looks really comfortable, like it’s been washed many times. The fabric is thin, clinging to his biceps and broad shoulders.

I shift, wishing they’d turn up the air-conditioning in here.

Flynn glances up in response to the unfortunate squelch that followed the movement. Rather than make fun, he asks, “You getting the Reuben?”

“Uh, yeah,” I reply, startled into honesty.

How did he know what I was ordering?

He glances back down at the menu before I can ask. The hand not draped along the red vinyl lifts from the table, and he absently scratches his stubbled jaw.

I’m staring.

Stop staring, Rory.

“Afternoon! What can I get for ya?” is what I think the waitress who appears beside our table asks between her gum snapping. She appears college-aged, her hair dyed a vibrant blue and cut choppily an inch above her shoulders. She appears bored until she spots Flynn, and her eyes alight with interest.

“Any recommendations?” Flynn asks, flipping to the back of the menu.

“Most of it’s rubbish,” the waitress stage-whispers conspiratorially, leaning over his shoulder. She taps an item with the tip of her pen. “The BLT isn’t bad.”

“Great. I’ll go with that.” Flynn hands her his menu. “And a Coke.”

“You”—snap—“got”—snap—“it.”

“My girlfriend’s going to get the Reuben,” Flynn continues. “No sauerkraut. And a Sprite.”

I gape at him, rendered speechless by him, one, casually calling me his girlfriend; two, ordering for me; and three, being completely correct about my order. Predicting the Reuben was random. He also knows I avoid pickled foods and love lemon-lime soda?

“That everything?” the waitress asks.

“Yes. Thanks.” I hand her my menu too.

“Any allergies?”

Flynn answers, “Peanut,” before I can, and now I’m really impressed—I mean, confused. I’m really confused.

“Mm-kay,” the waitress mumbles, scribbling and strolling away without a single look back.

Flynn sharing our relationship status definitely dimmed her earlier enthusiasm about taking his order.