Page 4 of Gold Rush

I blink rapidly, like a blindfold was just lifted. I do not like bickering with Flynn Parks … but a tiny part of me has accepted it’s a thrill. He might tease me aloud about being a boring rule follower while most people just think that privately, but he also treats me like an equal opponent.

Not that I’ve given him much of a choice. If I acted like he was God’s gift to women, the way I’ve seen countless others do, maybe he’d leave me alone. I’m too proud to find out.

“Parks!” A pair of hands lands on Flynn’s shoulders. “Been looking for you.”

Kit winks at me. He knows I’ve never gotten along with his best friend. I assume distracting Flynn is his graduation gift to me.

“Dylan just went down for his nap, so I’ve got at least an hour. Maybe two. I want to hear all about …” My cousin’s voice trails suddenly. “Everything.”

It occurs to me that Flynn didn’t answer my earlier question. I still have no clue what his future plans are. Maybe he doesn’t have any. I know, via Kit, that law school was an ultimatum from Flynn’s father. That Mr. Parks unabashedly bought his son’s way in. As someone who’s spent her entire academic career having classmates assume her last name was what guaranteed her spot, I find that infuriating. I’m sure it felt far more unfair to students who saved and scrimped and went into debt to afford tuition.

“Perfect.” Flynn grabs his empty glass. “I was just congratulating your cousin.” He glances at me. “Congrats, Rory.”

“You too,” I reluctantly reply.

I glimpsed him at the commencement ceremony, so it seems like Flynn did, in fact, pass all the same courses I did. There might be shortcuts for getting admitted, but there aren’t any for attending class or sitting for exams. He’s not as ignorant or heedless as he mostly acts, and I’ve never understood why he insists on acting like fun is the only worthwhile pursuit in life.

Not my problem, I remind myself for what must be the hundredth time.

If I suggested to Flynn Parks I thought he was capable of more, he’d likely laugh in my face.

Our arms brush a third time when Flynn stands and follows Kit toward the club’s main building.

I release an exaggerated sigh of relief once he’s a few dozen feet away, and Wren and Sawyer both laugh.

I am relieved Flynn left.

I also sort of wish he’d stayed longer.

My entire life, I’ve been told how smart I am. Yet, since I first met Flynn Parks eighteen years ago, I’ve never figured out how one person can inspire two such radically different reactions.

Why my left arm is tingling is a mystery too.

2

There is nowhere like New York City. Especially New York City at the start of summer, waking up from a long stretch of frigid winter, followed by damp spring. April rain washed away the salt that was sprinkled on the sidewalks during freezing temperatures. This is the cleanest the worn pavement will ever look.

A warm breeze ruffles my hair as I roll up the sleeves of my button-down. Tonight is a perfect May evening—warm, but not hot or sticky. The sidewalk isn’t radiating heat akin to an open oven door the way it will in a month after baking in the bright sun all day. The familiar, frantic pace of the city pulses around me. Energy full of immediate possibilities. I’m home, and I’m free, through the three years of law school in Boston that were foisted on me by my father.

I pass the end of the line that stretches halfway down the block, heading straight for the club’s entrance. Jacob is the one manning the door tonight. I’m friendly with him—I’m on a first-name basis with most of Proof’s staff actually. I’ve spent a lot of time here.

Jacob grins when he sees me, holding out a fist that I bump with mine. “My man. How’s it going, Flynn?”

“Better now,” I reply, glancing at the queue of New Yorkers waiting impatiently. “Busy night?”

Jacob nods, then adds, “Always have space for you though.”

“Appreciate it. I—” My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, sighing when I see the name on the screen. “One sec, Jacob.”

He nods, turning back to the next person waiting to enter and asking to see their identification.

I stride a couple dozen feet down the sidewalk, stopping in front of a closed bakery and accepting the incoming call. “Hey, pretty girl.”

“Hey, pretty annoyed girl, you mean. Why aren’t you coming to Boston this weekend?”

I exhale. I shouldn’t have answered. “I told you we were going to see each other a lot less once I graduated, Molly. I live in New York. You could have come here this weekend.”

“In the fourteen hours I have between shifts?”