Page 16 of Gold Rush

“Kitchen,” I call back.

He appears a few seconds later.

“Want one?” I ask reluctantly, gesturing to the drink ingredients spread across the counter.

I’m slightly better at being impolite to Flynn than anyone else, but my instinct is still inclusion.

He tucks his hands in his pockets, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

I clear my throat as I measure. “All good outside?”

“Yeah. I’d guess they get a lot of calls from hysterical housewives.”

“Since I’m neither hysterical nor a housewife, I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

His head tilts left. “You don’t want to get married?”

“I don’t want to discuss marriage with you. Or anything really.” I down more margarita, knowing it’s a mistake. My head is already muddled. I’m leaning against the island counter for support, not only in an attempt to appear relaxed.

Flynn reclines against the opposite counter, crossing his ankles. Unlike me, he manages to pull off the casual pose with a cool, unaffected air. “If that was your polite way of suggesting I sleep elsewhere, I’m good here. This place has tons of guest rooms. Not like we have to share a bed, Florence.”

The warmth that has settled in my stomach after each sip is spreading.

He’s trying to rattle me. Paired with tequila, it’s working.

“I wasn’t trying to be polite. And if there were only one bed and you were in it … I’d sleep on the floor.”

Flynn appears entertained. He’s easily amused—like a small child—so it makes no sense that I’m secretly enjoying being the source.

“Were you planning to marry Chester?”

I don’t correct him on Carson’s name this time. “He never asked.”

“He never did a lot of things,” Flynn notes.

“Yep,” I agree, swallowing another large sip.

If he thinks I’m a big enough person to defend Carson the way I used to, he’s wrong. That well of sympathy ran dry when he cheated on me in the most public way possible. The cherry on top? His accusatory apology and the two months of subsequent silence. Not that I wanted to hear from him. But the utter lack of effort stings almost as much as his parting words did. I’m a forgettable, boring bitch.

“Are you dating anyone now?”

The question is more shocking than it should be. No one else has asked, all assuming I’d need more time to recover from Carson’s betrayal. Flynn asking is especially surprising since the extent of his prior interest in my love life was pretending not to know my ex’s name.

I blame alcohol and self-pity for my response. “Are you asking me out?”

Flynn grins, crossing his arms across his chest. I don’t know if he’s aware how the action makes his biceps bulge, but I sure am. He played lacrosse in high school and still appears annoyingly athletic.

“If I were asking you out, you would know.”

I get it. The Flynn Parks appeal? I understand why he’s considered irresistible. He’s the human equivalent of an amusement park. A fun time, easy to escape to and enjoyable to experience.

Reality always returns though, and this is a rare moment where I could use a reminder of that.

Which is probably why I announce, “I went on a date last month.”

“How was it?”

I search his expression, but there’s no sign of surprise or judgment—the two emotions I was most concerned I’d see. I’m not sure what the appropriate mourning period is for a four-year relationship. Since Carson didn’t even wait until ours ended to move on, I don’t have any qualms about doing the same.