Page 68 of Gold Rush

“They’re from my favorite flower stand. It’s just down the street from our apartment, so I stop there a lot.”

“Our apartment? You’re living together?”

The question is aimed at Flynn, not me.

My grip tightens on the bottle I’m holding. Not only did I not intend to tell Philippa that, but I didn’t mean to instinctively call it our apartment. It’s my apartment. Flynn just happens to be staying there temporarily. Just like she’s my cat, yet Finch has explored Flynn’s bedroom—I mean, my guest room—and avoided mine. The revelation only strengthens the validity of our fake relationship, but these are his parents. I was going to let Flynn decide what to share.

“Yes,” he answers, not elaborating more before adding, “Who else is here?”

“Oh, uh …” Philippa’s warmth and curiosity are fading. Her expression is remarkably similar to Flynn’s when we arrived—passive and stoic. “We’re hosting the Waylands this weekend. Frank was in town, visiting Perry, so they’re joining us too.”

I don’t know who any of those people are, but Flynn appears to.

“Un-fucking-believable.” He doesn’t say it loudly, but his voice isn’t muted either.

“Flynn,” his mother chastises. “Please don’t cause a scene.”

“Why would I cause a scene? It’s just a big coincidence that they’re all here the same night that we were told to come, right?”

Philippa’s expression is half apologetic, half pleading.

“Is that Flynn? On time for once?” Julian Parks appears behind his wife, who stiffens, casting a worried glance at her son.

“Hey, Dad. Mom was just sharing the full guest list. Since you didn’t bother to.”

“No need to do that outside. Didn’t you invite them in, Philippa?”

Rather than answer her husband, she says, “I should get a vase for these,” then turns and heads deeper into the house with the bouquet I brought.

Julian shakes his head, then turns to me, holding out a hand. “Julian Parks. It’s wonderful to see you again, Rory. Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you,” I say, switching the scotch bottle to my left hand so I can shake his with my right. Then offering it out. “This is for you.”

“Ah, an excellent bottle. Thank you very much.”

“It’s Flynn’s favorite.”

“Apple doesn’t fall far, eh? Come in, come in.”

Flynn gestures for me to enter first.

I’m greeted by a cool gust of air as I step into the entryway, glancing around the grand interior. A large spiral staircase sits to the left, leading up to the second floor. Straight ahead is the kitchen, overlooking a patio, a golf course visible past the end of the property line. To the right is a living room and the dining area, partial walls blocking off certain spaces so it’s not entirely open concept.

Philippa is standing at the counter next to the sink, trimming the ends of stems. She drops the scissors, swallowing some wine from the glass set on the brown paper the flowers were wrapped in.

“Our guests of honor have arrived!” Julian announces, leading the way into the living room.

Three couches are arranged around the large stone fireplace, two already occupied. One by a middle-aged couple. A third man seems to be a similar age, judging by the salt and pepper in his hair, but the fourth person beside him looks much younger, in his late twenties or early thirties.

Everyone stands when we enter. I smooth the skirt of my silk dress, wishing I were still holding something to prevent me from fidgeting.

Warm pressure settles at the base of my spine as Flynn rests a hand on my lower back. He guides me toward the older couple first.

“So nice to see you, Flynn.” The woman gives him a hug that he returns, the comforting weight of his hand disappearing.

“You too, Lorraine,” he replies once they separate.

“Been too long, son,” the man says affectionately, clapping Flynn on the shoulder. “I hear you’re a lawyer now?”