Page 152 of Gold Rush

“Absolutely,” he agrees, straight-faced. “No responsibility and no commitments—it was pretty fucking fun.”

I scoff, reaching for my wine again.

“It was also pretty fucking empty.”

My hand stills midair before finishing the journey to the glass, and I can’t decide if it matters that Flynn might have noticed.

“Will you look at me?” His voice is lower, yet I can hear each word perfectly. Like always, he sounds confident and assured.

“I-I’m—” Suddenly, I’m entirely overwhelmed. All my careful compartmentalization is crumbling, my certainty that fake breaking up with Flynn could be a quick recovery collapsing.

“Rory.”

I glance up, biting the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. “Why’d you stop calling me Florence?”

“Do you want me to stop calling you Florence?”

“No, I—no. You normally do … when you sound this serious, is all.”

“I am serious. I⁠—”

“Hey, Parks!” one of the guys from a crowded table across the bar shouts. “What was the name of the place you stayed last summer?”

Flynn ignores him, his entire focus on me. “I fucked up.”

“Oh.” I’m scrambling, trying to hide how confused and crestfallen I am. This is about his dad. Or maybe a problem at work. Or he met⁠—

“I did this all out of order. I was in a shitty situation, and I dragged you into it for … well, for lots of reasons. But mainly because I knew you’d make it better. You make it better. You always make it better.”

“I’ve got good problem-solving skills,” I say. “It’s why I did so well on the LSAT.”

He laughs, then shakes his head. “No, that’s not—that’s not what I’m trying to say. I thought I asked you to do this because I knew you’d commit. That I could trust you and rely on you and that, if you were part of it, the plan would work.”

“You can. It did. I mean, aside from your dad⁠—”

“My dad didn’t change his mind. I did.”

“Why?” I whisper, far more interested in his explanation than Julian’s.

“I want to date you. I’ve wanted to date you. And I didn’t want that—us—to have anything to do with my problems with my parents.”

“We’ve been pretending, and it got confusing, which is⁠—”

“I’m not confused. I was confused. I’ve been confused, starting with the time you marched up to me at Joseph Thorne’s tenth birthday party and said the cake wasn’t supposed to be served for another fifteen minutes.”

Realization dawns slowly. “That—you said you didn’t remember the first time we met.”

“I lied. Because I didn’t get why I remembered. Never understood why that particular moment stuck in my head. Just like I couldn’t figure out why I noticed you always ordered Reubens when there was a panini station. Or asked for no olives when you ordered a martini. Or that I wasn’t thinking about how you were Kit’s cousin when I hit Carson that night. I li—” He takes a deep breath. “I love you, Florence Kensington. I think I have for a long time, and I asked you to pretend to date me so that I could finally convince myself that the whole fucking thing was in my head. Except it felt real and right, just like it did on that beach at Kit’s party. I should have said something then. Should have said it sooner, before you started dating Carson. But I didn’t, and I’m so sorry I didn’t. But I’m saying it now. And”—he glances around—“I wasn’t planning to say it here, to be clear. I was going to show up and ask you to get dinner with me at that sushi place you like after this, like a proper, normal date, but then I got here, and Curtis was all over you, and I wasn’t trying to act like an overbearing asshole; it just really pisses me off when other guys are—anyway, I’d like to take you to dinner. If you’re open to giving this a real shot, I mean, and can you say something? Please?”

I’ve never seen Flynn ramble before. It’s incredibly endearing.

We’re standing near enough that all I have to do to kiss him is rise a few inches higher than my heels already elevate me and press my lips against his.

I hear—and feel—Flynn’s exhale of relief before his arms band around my back, closing his jacket more securely. It’s languid and sweet, and it’s not enough. Desire simmers low in my stomach, spreading through my pelvis.

I pull back to whisper, “I don’t want you to take me to dinner. I want you to take me home.”

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