Page 72 of Gold Rush
“I heard Carson is dating the girl from the video,” Leo says. “His mom was ranting to mine about it. They thought they were going to land Rory Kensington as a daughter-in-law; now they’re stuck with a woman everyone has seen sucking their son’s dick. Talk about awkward.”
Carson texted her.
That thought has popped up at inopportune times—while I was drafting memos, jogging on the treadmill, cooking—ever since Rory revealed that Carson told her about that night at Proof. There was so much going on. The fire alarm, the towel thing. It wasn’t until hours later that it occurred to me that I didn’t ask—and she didn’t offer—for more context about her conversation with him.
Did she reply?
What did she say, if she did respond?
Is she still texting him?
I care.
I should care because it’s relevant to the situation we’re in. Everyone knows about us. This isn’t a hypothetical anymore. My father would probably give my inheritance to Perry rather than release the funds after finding out I faked an engagement just to get the money.
But that’s not why it’s bothering me. Carson is a cowardly, self-centered asshole who didn’t deserve a second of Rory’s attention, let alone four years, but they were together a long time. He was part of her plan—the ring and the wedding and the babies—and their awful ending doesn’t erase any history. Whether or not she’ll admit or even realize it, Rory is mourning a certain future. All I’m offering is a distraction.
I reach for my beer, swallow a large sip, and then settle back in my seat to watch baseball with my friends.
24
When I wake up, there’s no light shining through the curtains. Just a thin strip illuminating a slice of floorboards, shining through my cracked door.
I check the clock on my side table—1:53 a.m.
I roll on my back and close my eyes again, attempting to fall back asleep. I left the hall light on when I went to bed since Flynn wasn’t back from drinks with his friends. I ate a late dinner alone—orzo with premade pesto—trying not to picture the athletic, intriguing women who likely frequent sports bars to watch Yankees games.
Five minutes later, I still haven’t fallen asleep. I climb out of bed and pad toward the door, deciding I’ll grab a glass of water.
Flynn’s bedroom door is wide open, the hall light bright enough that I can see the bed is neatly made. I don’t know a ton about baseball, but I do know the games don’t last until the middle of the night. Nausea settles in my stomach, making water sound unappealing. I continue toward the kitchen anyway, freezing when I reach the end of the hallway.
Flynn is asleep on the couch. Shadows play across his face from the television, which is on but muted.
Finch is curled up on his chest, also sleeping.
Relief and other even more confusing feelings flow through me as I stare at the cozy scene. I wish I had grabbed my phone so I could take a photo.
I … like having Flynn here. It was too quiet and empty earlier. His absence felt as foreign as his presence had when he first arrived.
I tiptoe the rest of the way to the kitchen, grabbing a glass out of the cabinet and filling it with water.
Finch wakes when I retrace my steps, letting out a low hiss before she stands, arches her back, and jumps off Flynn. I was already taking her hatred personally. Seeing her show him affection has me extra miffed.
“I’m the only reason you ever met him,” I whisper as Finch paces past me down the hallway.
“Rory?”
I spin back to face the couch, cheeks flaming. “Hey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up. Just grabbing some water.” I hold the glass up as evidence, like I need an excuse to be in my own kitchen.
“It’s fine.” Flynn sits up, yawning, then stretching. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep out here.”
I walk closer rather than return to my room. “Did you have fun with the guys?”
“Yeah, it was nice. Yankees won.” He yawns. “How was your day?”
“It was good.” I take a seat on the coffee table, setting my glass on one of the coasters. “The prosecutor dropped the charges in the robbery case.”
His eyes light up. “Congrats. That’s awesome.”
