I nearly draw blood from my tongue, working to keep myself from freaking out and spilling all the beans all over this phone conversation. “No, no trips home. But I’m… Well, I’m in an apartment not a hotel, so it’s not so bad.”
“Damien has a company property, I guess? No way you managed a three-month lease somewhere.”
“Mm-hmm. Something like that. I’m not really sure of the details.”
I roll my eyes into my head and suck my lips into my mouth. Gah. I have to get off the phone. I can’t take much more of this.
“Well, that’s great, love. I hope you have the best time. Oh, and don’t forget to give yourself some time away from work. Living somewhere on assignment like that, it’s so easy to grind yourself into the ground twenty-four hours a day. Treat yourself sometimes, okay?”
“Okay, Gwen. I’ll try.”
“Kisses, sweetie. My cab’s here to take me to the airport in Seattle. Let’s chat again soon.”
“Okay. Safe travels.”
“Thanks, darling. Bye!”
“Bye,” I wheeze, hanging up the phone with absolutely the last vestige of control I have left and dropping it to the counter. I immediately double over and grab my stomach, the cramps of discomfort from deceit wreaking havoc.
That was hard, I reason, but it was also for the best. Ultimately, this whole charade with Flynn is short-term. It’s going to come to an end, and if I’d told Gwen about it now, I’d have to explain why we were breaking up then. Because it is going to end—even if it didn’t seem so much like it was going to last night—and this will just be a blip in my history.
Gwen didn’t need to know. Now, though…I need a distraction. I glance over to the yellow pillows on Flynn’s beautiful leather couch, and an idea strikes me.
I won’t do much, I swear. Just enough to calm my nerves.
Yeah, that’s the ticket.
My hands shake slightly as I trim the last of the flower stems from the bouquet I got from the street vendor downstairs. They’re bright Gerbera daisies, reminiscent of the ones from our wedding with Marilyn, and it’s only now, in the light of Flynn’s nearly fucking renovated apartment—good going, Daisy—that it occurs to me what a poor choice they might be.
Cripes, what in the world is Flynn going to think about all this?
His couch and chairs are rearranged atop a new rug, he’s got new, tight black velvet barstools—one of which I’m sitting on—and cream-colored kiln-fired stoneware in the center of his island, and the regular non-Batcave entrance shelves in his bedroom are no longer empty. I also, kind of, maybe, changed out the hardware on both his kitchen and bathroom cabinets to a soft brushed brass that really livens up the masculinity of it all and added a throw blanket to the back of his leather couch so you can sit on it in shorts without getting cold.
I’ve never seen Flynn flip out, but I’m pretty sure if there were going to be a time, coming home to a completely rearranged apartment by his temporary, not-for-real wife would do it.
What was I thinking?!
The sound of Flynn’s keys in the door lock startles me into motion, and I jump up from my spot, scooping up the scrap of newspaper with the flower trimmings into my arms and speed walk it over to the trash. I push the matte black vase with the daisies to the center of the counter and back toward the windows frantically, only stopping when the flesh of my palms touches glass.
This way, if things get really bad, I can just heave myself backward and hope that the force of my body is enough to make the double panes shatter.
Maybe plummeting to my death from the fifteenth floor is a little dramatic, but that’s where my mind goes in an emotional emergency of this caliber.
The door finally creaks open what feels like several light-years later, and as expected, Flynn takes one quick gander at the apartment and freezes dead in his tracks.
Oh crap, oh God.
“I can put it all back!” I blurt suddenly, my muscles stretching and tightening into little iron rods.
Flynn glances from me to the apartment again, scanning the space closely, and then…well, he shrugs.
I nearly explode. “A shrug?! A shrug? That’s all you have to say?!”
He shakes his head at me, sighs, and steps forward to lean his formidable weight into his strong, tanned hands on the island. It’s a motherfucking hot position, I’m not gonna lie.
“My great-great-aunt’s painting is still there.” He shrugs again. “I don’t give a shit about the rest of it.”
“Y-you don’t?”
He gives me one small shake of his head. “Looks nice. And the leather on the couch is cold. Blanket’ll probably be good.”
“I filled the shelves in the bedroom too,” I admit quickly. “I may have gone a little overboard on the plants.”
He lifts a hand and gently flicks the brightest orange daisy in the vase in front of him. “More flowers like the ones from the wedding?”
My breath catches in my throat and makes it hard to swallow. He remembers. “No. Just greenery.”
He lifts his shoulders a final time and, if I’m not mistaken, even grins a little. My heart flips over inside my chest. “I’m sure it looks good.” He turns to the drawer behind him and comes back with a stack of paper menus, tossing them to the counter in front of himself. “How about I order some takeout? Clearly, we’ve both been busy today.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Takeout sounds good.”
To be completely honest, life with Flynn altogether is starting to sound a little too appealing.
Tuesday, April 30th
Daisy
“Where are we on the Santa Monica property?” Thomas Grey asks the speaker in the center of the conference table. His demanding voice is a routine staple of our company start-the-week-right phone calls—which, yes, do occasionally occur on Tuesdays if Monday is too busy, and no, the irony isn’t lost on me—but I’m usually on the other end of them, making big, dramatic eyes at Damien while he pantomimes his jokes.
I’ll admit, sitting next to serious Thomas while my new East Coast coworker Tara Insley shoots eye lasers at me from across the table isn’t quite the same good time.
“Daisy, what’s your timeline on getting Frederick in there for listing photos?” Thomas asks me since I’m the one who did all the planning for the staging on the property before I left LA.
“About three days,” I answer, even though I know Thomas doesn’t like to get any answer other than one that would involve a time traveler. “The setup is there, but Frederick doesn’t have any availability before that,” I clarify with a gulp.
Thomas holds my eyes dangerously, and I hold my breath under his scrutiny. I mean, I know I’ll have to take in some fresh air soon if I don’t want to pass out, but if it takes him that long to tell me if three days is okay or not, I’d probably rather be unconscious anyway.
Luckily, though, he doesn’t question my timeline, instead agreeing with a brusque nod before moving on and passing the pulpit to Damien to do his cross-checks. Tara’s foot knocks into mine under the table—accidentally, I’m sure—and she smirks a fake apology.
I hope you nick your ankles to all hell the next time you shave, I hex in my head. It might seem a bit over the top to be mentally passing out hexes toward your coworker, but Tara Insley hasn’t been anything but a passive-aggressive, evil shrew to me since I arrived in New York.