Page 34 of Gold Rush

I don’t bother to check if the waitress is out of earshot before I hiss, “What the hell was that?”

“What the hell was what?” Either Flynn is an excellent actor—which bodes well for us possibly pulling this off—or he’s genuinely baffled by the question.

“You ordering for me.”

“You said you wanted the Reuben.”

“Not without sauerkraut and minus the peanut exposure!”

His lips twitch. I know I sound ridiculous. What I don’t know is how Flynn Parks, of all people, figured out my exact order. He’s not known for being observant or considerate. He prioritizes himself, which I suppose is what most people do and are less up front about it.

“Remember the first time we met?” he asks.

“Uh, no,” I answer, suddenly uneasy. Did I rant about pickles and allergies?

I can’t recall a singular moment he appeared. Flynn was suddenly just there, a reliable presence most times I saw my cousins.

“Me neither,” he says, and I relax some. “Because it was a long time ago. I bet I know you a lot better than you think, Florence.”

I scowl, knowing he’s purposefully peeving me. “Not well enough to remember I go by Rory.”

He grins.

I’m suddenly curious. “When’s my birthday?”

“May 3.” He doesn’t hesitate, still in that infuriating lounged position, like he’s relaxing at the beach.

Okay. That was an easy one. He tagged along with Kit to a few celebrations.

“Where was I born?”

That was long before he and Kit were best friends. No way he’ll⁠—

“Rome. Your mom went into labor a month early. She was studying in Italy as part of her architecture program.”

I’m silent. Stunned. Trying to summon something obscure he has no chance of answering correctly to fracture this bizarre moment.

Flynn is neither sentimental nor introspective. He doesn’t stand in the background, paying attention to everyone else. He’s the center of attention in every room, the literal life of the party.

No matter how many times he’d been around when my dad told the story of panic-flying across the Atlantic to be by Mom’s side when she gave birth, I would have had no expectation that’d rate as relevant information for him to remember.

Flynn is absolutely enjoying my speechlessness. “Did I pass?” he questions. “Or do you want me to answer anything else? If you have any siblings maybe?”

Does he know Wren’s birthday? Her birthplace? What point is he trying to prove? That he knows me well enough to pull off this farce? That he’s not as self-absorbed as he acts?

Two glasses of soda are set on the table.

“Food will be out soon,” the waitress says, then walks away.

I busy myself stripping the paper wrapper off the straw, stabbing it through the ice and stirring it around.

“To us?”

I glance up. Flynn has his glass raised, held toward me.

I roll my eyes before lifting mine too.

Our drinks tap, some condensation rolling onto my knuckles as I hold the sweating glass of soda.