Page 53 of Gold Rush

My parents exchange a knowing smile.

I saw through my salmon with more force than is necessary.

Dinner with my family at Atlantic Crest Country Club has been perfectly pleasant. Yet I’m weirdly restless, listening to Wren recap her afternoon on the water and Mom tell us about her current project. It’s strange to not be sitting at my round kitchen table with Flynn. I wonder if he’s there tonight, on his laptop, or if he’s taken a break from working. Maybe he finished early and is at a bar with friends. Maybe he⁠—

“Is that Flynn?” Wren asks suddenly.

I spin so fast that my neck cracks.

It is Flynn.

He’s stopped beside Xavier Tate’s table. Xavier came over to our table earlier to talk to my parents. He was in good spirits then, but wasn’t laughing loudly the way he is now.

Flynn’s gaze flicks this direction a second later, like he senses my eyes on him. The small smile he was wearing grows as we look at each other, and I feel as though I just gulped a large mouthful of champagne. Like my blood has been infused with fizziness, carbonated and effervescent.

He came. He said he wouldn’t be here, but he showed up.

And I know it’s all pretend. That this marks the start of our public facade and his own motivations are at play here. The sooner we start to fake date, the sooner we can get engaged and he receives his inheritance.

But there were plenty of times that Carson never showed up after he said he would and no times that he surprised me by showing up after he said he wouldn’t.

Flynn leaves Xavier’s table and continues toward ours, strolling with his hands tucked in his pockets. He’s wearing a suit, standard attire for the club’s dress code, but a few creases in the fabric make me think this is what he wore all day. That he came straight here from the office.

More fizzing.

I’m still staring. I feel the shock frozen on my face, the combination of his unexpected appearance and my pleased reaction thoroughly unsettling me.

Flynn’s grin expands even more as he studies my expression, his gaze locked on mine until he reaches our table. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not. It’s so nice to see you, Flynn!” Mom stands first, hugging him.

He hugs Wren next, then shakes hands with Dad and Sawyer. Dad beckons a waiter over, requesting another chair be added to our round table. It arrives while Flynn is chatting with Sawyer. I watch him subtly indicate the seat should be placed next to me, the only person he hasn’t greeted yet.

My heartbeat quickens as Wren catches the motioned request. Her eyebrows lift and scrunch as her curious eyes bounce between Flynn and me, scrutinizing with obvious intrigue.

Flynn has spent plenty of time around my family. He’s golfed with my dad and brought my mom flowers, and Wren treats him as a cool older brother. But Kit—and often some combination of Scarlett, Crew, Lili, and Bash—was always around. There was the obvious link of Flynn’s friendship with my cousin that explained his presence, which is noticeably absent tonight.

Sawyer grins at something Flynn said to him. Flynn lightly punches his shoulder before starting toward the open chair. Once again, I’m in awe of his ease. As far as I know, he’s only met Wren’s boyfriend once before, at my graduation party. This is my second dinner with Sawyer, plus the outing bluffing with his friends, and I’m not nearly that comfortable around him yet.

Oddly, it makes me feel better. I’ve always been aware Flynn’s appeal is practically universal. I’ve been susceptible to it, even when I’ve pretended otherwise, so it’s proof this strange sensation isn’t special. That my reaction to seeing Flynn is how everyone reacts to seeing him, not because I’m starting to enjoy spending time with him. Not because this trip felt emptier when I knew he was in Manhattan.

I was chilly a minute ago. Now I’m awash in warmth. The corners of Flynn’s brown eyes crinkle as he nears, and I’m swarmed with the intoxicating, unsettling sensation of anticipation, wondering what he’ll say when he reaches me.

Nothing, as it turns out. He rests his right hand on the back of my chair, tilts my chin up with his left, and kisses me.

Flynn Parks kisses me.

At Atlantic Crest Country Club, in front of my entire immediate family and most of the Hamptons’ elite, who own mansions nearby.

Except I entirely forget where we are and who might be watching because Flynn can kiss. It’s not sloppy or domineering or mundane, which is how I would categorize most of my previous experiences. His lips are warm and taste faintly of espresso, applying the perfect pressure to my mouth. Hard enough to leave an impression, but not harsh enough to bruise. His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip before he pulls away, intensity replacing the previous playfulness in his warm gaze.

I want to touch my tingling skin. I want him to kiss me again. I feel as though I were just spun in rapid circles, then instructed to stand up straight.

That’s what making out is supposed to be like?

“Sorry I’m late,” he whispers before taking the seat beside me.

I blink rapidly, reorienting to a new reality in which I’ve kissed Flynn Parks.