Page 54 of Gold Rush

“When did this happen?” Wren’s gleeful tone fractures the reverie.

When I glance at my sister, there’s a huge smile on her face. Not that unexpected since I know she’s a fan of Flynn’s. But I suppose I was anticipating Wren would look more … surprised? She almost appears smug. I think I’m more shocked than she is right now. Which is ridiculous because Flynn and I would never date for real.

“Uh …” I glance at my parents next. They do appear taken aback, but neither look unhappy. “It’s⁠—”

“It’s recent,” Flynn says smoothly, thanking the waiter who adds a place setting in front of his seat. He settles in his chair, resting one arm across the back of mine.

His fingers brush my arm. An electric current hums beneath my skin, instantly elevating my heart rate. He’s sitting closer than normal since his chair was a later addition to the table, and I’m hyperaware of each centimeter. Of how familiar his scent is. I catch a whiff every time I pass his room.

I nod in agreement. “We’re dating. Recently dating.”

“That’s wonderful,” Mom says.

Dad’s demeanor is more reserved, but he does tell Flynn he’s happy he could join us and sounds sincere.

“I knew you were full of shit,” Wren declares, her eyes glinting with excitement.

Mom chastises her for swearing while another wave of warmth washes over me.

I meant it—all the times I said the women chasing Flynn were wasting their time. This situation is a perfect example. He’d rather concoct a giant lie and trick his father into thinking that he’s settling down than actually do so.

What I didn’t mean were the times that I said I didn’t see the appeal. And I know Wren isn’t trying to embarrass me on purpose, but I don’t want Flynn to think I⁠—

“Never thought she’d give me a shot.”

My eyes fly from my sister to Flynn, who’s reaching for his water glass. Wren was talking to him, not me.

“Everyone who thinks I’m stubborn has never met Rory,” Wren says. “In her defense, she’s usually right about whatever she’s insisting she’s right about.”

I wasn’t right about Carson. But Wren is correct; I can be stubborn. I commit. I try to fix problems rather than admit there’s no solution or cut losses. And with the sole exception of academics and now my career, I don’t think that habit has served me especially well.

Flynn orders an entrée, and then Wren resumes her story about sailing with Sawyer earlier. It’s bizarre how normal it is. How seamlessly the conversation continues into my parents asking Flynn about his job, then Flynn asking Sawyer questions about sailing and about working at the marina. Julian keeps a boat at the yacht club, which I didn’t realize.

By the time we finish dessert, I’m fully relaxed. Tonight couldn’t have gone better. My family knows—and appears to approve—and at least three of the surrounding tables are occupied by notable members of New York’s elite. The Albrights will hear who I’m dating by tomorrow—maybe tonight.

“Let’s dance.”

It takes me a second to realize Flynn is speaking to me. When I do, a startled, “Here?” sputters out of my mouth.

“Well, not next to the table.” He glances to the right. “On the dance floor.”

Calling it a dance floor is generous. There is an open square section of hardwood, where someone could presumably dance, just left of the piano. A hired pianist plays live music during the club’s dinner hours, but I’ve never seen anyone dancing before.

Flynn stands before I can voice my protest, offering me a hand.

Across the table, Wren is beaming as wide as physically possible. She’s normally the only one who badgers me into ridiculous moments. Who forcibly drags me out of my comfort zone because she knows, as my sister, she’ll eventually be forgiven.

Flynn has no such assurances. And he needs me, especially now that we’ve gone public with our pretend relationship. But he remains perfectly at ease, his hand steady as he waits for me to grab it, despite knowing that I am not adventurous or easygoing, convincing me that us dancing as part of the dinner entertainment isn’t as outrageous as it should be.

“One song,” I say, pushing away from the table.

I want to talk to him alone anyway. I can’t question why he showed up or what the plan is from here in front of my family.

Flynn leads, his hold on my hand firm and sure as we weave around tables toward the corner, where the piano is set up. He acknowledges plenty of the people we pass, but doesn’t stop to talk to anyone. I smile but say nothing, enjoying the rare sensation of allowing someone else to lead. I’m less self-conscious a step behind Flynn’s assurance, like it’s soaking up the spotlight and shielding me.

When we reach the open floor, he spins me, almost causing us to collide before he steadies me with a hand on my waist. I hiss his name when it slips an inch lower, close to the curve of my ass.

“Relax, Florence.”