Page 46 of Praised
Flynn: Out with friends for a bit.
Me: Is that a no?
Flynn: It’s more of a I’m out with friends so not right now, but if it’s an emergency, I can step away and give you a call.
Me: Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?
Flynn: Why are you being so combative?
Me: I’m not.
Another long pause.
Me: I can see the sigh you’re sighing.
As soon as I sent the message, my phone started to vibrate in my hand, Flynn’s name flashing across my screen. I debated letting it go to voicemail because I didn’t want to interrupt his night out, but I was the one who’d reached out.
“Hello?” I leaned against the wall beside the time clock and closed my eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
Flynn sounded worried, almost distressed, and that brought some semblance of a smile to my face. I squashed it quickly because my plan was to break up with him. His concern shouldn’t please me and it definitely shouldn’t send the butterflies in my ribcage all around the place like a damn tornado had touched down.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I rasped, clearing my throat and scrubbing a hand down my face. I hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and the rough stubble on my cheeks abraded my palm.
“Do you know what I do for work?”
I squeezed my eyes closed. “No.”
“I make deals for a living. Extremely high dollar deals that can make or break corporations.”
“Are you bragging?” I interrupted, even though there was a part of me that loved to hear the pride in his voice. Flynn always radiated some sort of magnetic confidence around himself, but when he switched from playboy mode to work mode, it was an admirable shift in demeanor.
“It’s not glamorous work,” he said. “What I’m telling you is that I can read people, oftentimes better than they can read themselves. I was practically trained in reading between the lines, so for you to send that message and then tell me nothing is wrong lands a lot like an insult.”
“To your ego?”
He snorted. “What’s wrong, Rose?”
“I just…” I trailed off, the words falling short. Even if I could find them, they wouldn’t be enough.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Work.”
“For how much longer?”
“I…” Blinking slowly, I forced my eyes open so I could check the clock. “Another couple of hours.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said.
“You don’t have—”
“I’ll be there in twenty,” he repeated, disconnecting the call before I could fight him on it again.
With a trembling sigh that rattled my bones, I slid my phone back into my pocket and counted down the agonizingly slow minutes until Flynn burst through the front door in a frenzy of expensive clothes and delicious-smelling cologne. He was dressed like he always was, half of a suit, jacket discarded somewhere else. Shiny black shoes, black slacks that hugged the muscular spread of his thighs, and a dark green button-up, sleeves rolled up over his forearms and the top two buttons undone.
A raucous noise followed in after him, and I counted four other men who looked like if you put their bank accounts together, they held as much money between them as the entire state of Colorado. One of them laughed particularly loud, and Flynn grimaced, reaching behind him to smack the man upside his head. He turned back around, eyes searching the restaurant for a second before he found me. When our stares locked, he tugged at the open collar of his shirt and closed the space between us like he owned the place.
