“Ask me anything.” Well, besides why I got married. Don’t ask me that.
“Are you happy?” Her question is so simple, and my answer isn’t as complicated as I would’ve thought it would be.
“Yes,” I answer, and it doesn’t feel like a lie at all. It just feels…I don’t know…right?
“Good. That’s good, darling. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.” Gwen smiles. “Okay, well, I’ll definitely be talking to you soon.”
“Definitely.”
“And one more thing…” She pauses and drops her voice to a whisper. “Is Flynn nearby?”
I shake my head. “In the bedroom. Getting dressed.”
She waggles her brows. “After seeing that man in a towel, I can’t blame you for marrying him. I would’ve done the same.”
“Gwen!”
She winks. “Kisses, darling!”
And then she’s gone, off the screen and leaving me standing in the kitchen, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
You managed to tell Gwen you’re married…but you didn’t tell her why you got married. So basically, you’re still lying to her…
I lean my head back and blow out a breath.
“You okay, babe?” Flynn’s voice snags my attention, and I find him standing in the kitchen again, but fully dressed for the day.
“I will be once you take me for a big fat pancake breakfast with all the fixins.”
He quirks a brow. “Why do these pancakes seem like penance?”
“Because they are. First, for being an accomplice in my big marriage reveal to Gwen. And second,” I say and pointedly tug the collar of my robe down to show him all the glorious marks he left on me last night. “These.”
He smirks when he sees the tops of my breasts and then shakes his head. “You were going to have to tell Gwen at some point, and you can’t even pretend to not like those hickeys. Astronauts are taking photos of your smile right now from space.”
“Okay, so I might like the hickeys.”
“Then why are you trying to start an argument?”
“Look, Flynn, sorry to break it to you, but you married an occasionally crazy person who sometimes is irrational, and since you were the one who helped me break the news to Gwen and blessed me with all these hickeys and orgasms last night, I’m making you take me to breakfast.”
“Okay,” he says and shrugs. “Pancakes it is.”
No questions. No rebuttals. Not even an annoyed sigh.
Just…okay.
Sometimes, Daisy, this man is so perfect for you, it’s as if you made him up in your head.
We’ve been walking for a few blocks, in the direction of a restaurant Flynn said will cure my pancake breakfast cravings, and I’ve yet to feel anything but content. There’re plenty of people milling about the sidewalks, going into shops or grabbing a coffee or whatever it is they plan to fill their weekend with, and I find myself second-guessing my original conclusion that Los Angeles is where it’s at.
After being in New York for a while now, I’m starting to wonder what my life would be like had I started my American dream venture here. Would I be happier? Feel more at home?
You already know the answer to that question, sis.
I can’t refute the appeal of a Saturday morning in New York. Even dreaded Mondays feel different here. This city has a vibrancy, an undeniable pull that makes you want to be a part of it. It’s why people from all over the world travel here to experience it for themselves. There’s just something about this town that makes you feel alive, as if anything is possible.
A cool spring breeze brushes against my face and urges a shiver to roll up my spine. I wrap my arms around my chest a little tighter, tucking my sweater closer to my body.
“Here,” Flynn says, and I look over to find him taking off his black leather jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders.
“Nope. No way,” I refute and try to give his jacket back to him, but he wraps one strong arm around my shoulders and makes it impossible. “I can’t wear your ‘I’m a hot, bad boy jacket.’”
“What?” He looks down at me with an amused smirk.
“It’s, like, a staple of your wardrobe, Flynn. It feels sacrilegious for it to be anywhere but on your body.”
“Stake your claim, babe. Make sure no other women pick up on all these hot, bad-boy vibes I’m apparently giving off.”
“Now, don’t get all cocky about it.” I snort, and he just smirks.
I roll my eyes, but I also keep his jacket on. I mean, he might not get the appeal, but I sure as hell do. The instant I saw him all mysterious on his bike with this sexy jacket on, I threw caution to the wind and hopped on the back. Sure, I was in the middle of a pseudobreakdown, but that didn’t take away from the irresistible appeal.
Suddenly, I find myself watching all the female pedestrians on the sidewalk closely, gauging their reactions to Flynn when he strolls by them.
Lady in a sweatsuit and with a baby in a stroller? Double take.
A fortysomething woman in heels? Licks her flipping lips.
A white-haired granny with a black poodle? Pretty much drools.
Goodness, if he were my real husband, I’d probably have to consider a tracking device or something.
If he were your real husband, you know you wouldn’t have to worry about any of that because Flynn Winslow isn’t the kind of man who fucks around on his significant other.
My gaze moves to Flynn, and I can’t stop myself from taking inventory of how he reacts to other people…particularly, other women.
Eyes forward, he doesn’t really do anything but…guide us through the morning foot traffic. His eyes flit to the same people my eyes flit to—a very attractive brunette in heels, an enthusiastic man singing “YMCA” at the top of his lungs while jogging, a group of teenagers chatting and laughing and bumping into one another—but he never does anything that would raise a red flag if he were my actual spouse.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think a healthy relationship means you shouldn’t be able to look. We’re all human, and when faced with someone who is aesthetically attractive, it would go against our nature not to look. It’s natural. Normal, even.
But you should never feel like your spouse is looking with some kind of intention. You should never feel like your significant other is keeping their options open or that their eyes are showing more interest in someone other than you.
And even in a fake marriage, Flynn isn’t that kind of man.
Flynn is loyal to his core and has the kind of integrity that most men wish they had. If he weren’t so anti-relationship, anti-real marriage, there is no doubt in my mind that some lucky woman would’ve probably already locked his ass down.
Thank fuck that’s not the case. Though, pretty soon, once all your immigration shit is done, Flynn will be a free man again, and maybe he’ll want to give relationships and dating a shot…
I swallow hard against a knot in my throat and refocus on following Flynn’s lead as we cross the street and begin to walk past one of the Central Park entrances.
Spring is certainly showing herself inside the gates. Flowers are blooming and greenery is thriving and the action taking place within the park’s entrance is irrefutable. What looks to be white-and-red tented booths for a small carnival fill my vision and become a draw I can’t resist.