Page 67 of Gold Rush

Flynn is nervous. And that makes me extremely anxious because he’s typically an impenetrable wall of ease.

I’ve met Julian and Philippa Parks before. In passing, at parties, in an entirely different context. I want this night to go well, and I’m confused about why. This dinner is for Flynn’s benefit, not mine. All I have to do is show up and stick to our story. It should be simple and straightforward. Parents adore me. I’m the positive influence.

And yet … I’m fighting the urge to bounce my knee as the car exits the highway and we enter Scarsdale.

I want Flynn to enjoy tonight.

I want Julian Parks to realize he’s wrong about his son. I can’t believe he was surprised I was dating Flynn. How is he unaware that Flynn is the guy everyone wants to date? Has he spent so little time with his son that he’s failed to notice that Flynn captures attention effortlessly everywhere he goes?

If tonight goes really well, maybe his dad will recognize he’s being unreasonable and offer Flynn his inheritance without any strings. We could “break up,” and Flynn could afford another fancy apartment up to his standards.

That prospect doesn’t calm me at all. It panics me more.

Ten minutes later, Flynn pulls into the gravel driveway of a stately brick manor. The house is surrounded by large, manicured grass and trimmed hedges, making it feel much farther from Manhattan than forty minutes.

“Did you ever live here?” I ask, peering out the window for a better view.

“No.” He shuts off the car. “They bought it after I left for college.”

“It’s nice.”

“Yeah.” Flynn is focused on the three cars parked in front of the detached garage, one of which has a Massachusetts license plate.

Now that the air-conditioning has stopped blowing, I’m starting to sweat. I pop my door open, shoving it wider with my foot since my hands are full of the flowers and scotch I brought as gifts for his parents. The flowers are a mixed bouquet I picked up from a stand on my walk home from work yesterday, and the scotch is the brand Flynn always drinks. I figured if his father had different tastes, Flynn could drink it whenever he was here. Which isn’t often, based on how uncomfortable he appears.

I’ve always known I’m lucky to have the parents I do. But I gain a new appreciation for my family as we head up the brick walk that matches the house’s exterior. No matter which of their properties I visit, I know my mom and dad will be there to listen and encourage and love. They’re a safe haven, a place free from judgment or expectations. They’ve never made me feel like I needed to accomplish a certain goal to earn their pride.

Flynn, by contrast, has a resigned, defeated expression on his face as we approach his parents’ house. I would never ever want my child to look that way at the prospect of seeing me. Resentment flares toward the couple I’m supposed to be impressing, who have made their child look that way.

Is Flynn perfect? No. He’s intelligent and loyal and charismatic and perceptive.

Perceived perfection is tiresome. People feel like they know you when they anticipate your actions rather than taking the time to understand your motivations.

Impulsively, I tuck the bouquet into the crook of my arm so I have a free hand to reach for Flynn’s. Our fingers brush, sending a shock of electricity up my arm, and I almost pretend the touch was accidental. But then he glances over, surprise and gratefulness mingling in his expression, and my resolve settles.

I weave our fingers together, squeezing once as mine curl around his palm. “Do you think Finch is missing us?”

I couldn’t come up with a name I liked better, and Flynn was correct; he earned naming privileges. I basically abandoned him in the bathroom once she started howling.

One corner of his mouth curves up. “I think she’s probably hoping we never return.”

I sigh.

So far, Finch hasn’t displayed much gratitude about being rescued from the wire crate she was locked inside when I met her. She’s still holding a grudge about the bath, and she refuses to eat more than a couple of bites of food at a time.

The front door swings open before we reach it.

“Flynn! You’re here!”

I’d recognize Philippa Parks even if I’d never met her before. She shares several similarities with her son—the same dark chestnut hair and brown eyes. Philippa has some of Flynn’s warmth, too, I’m realizing, watching her embrace her son while wearing a wide smile. She’s always acted more detached at society events.

“Dad said Saturday at seven. It’s Saturday at seven.”

“Yes, well, you’re occasionally late.” Philippa brushes some invisible lint off Flynn’s shoulder, then focuses on me. “It’s so nice to see you, Rory,” she gushes.

“You too,” I return, taking a couple steps forward so I’m standing even with Flynn. “These are for you, Mrs. Parks,” I add, extending the bouquet to her.

“Call me Philippa, please. And these are beautiful. Thank you.”