Page 61 of Gold Rush

But this is the first day of many we’ll face as a fake couple, and that arrangement will only be complicated by blurred lines. They’re exactly what I was trying to avoid.

As soon as the residual lust fades, I’m sure Rory will agree. It’s not like she even asked me to fuck her. She’s already recovering, tugging her dress down, then leaning closer to the mirror above the sink to wipe away her smeared lipstick.

“You should undo a button. I look more disheveled than you.”

I do as she suggested. “Better?”

Rory glances over, her gaze lingering on the bulge in my pants. “You should fix that too.”

“You staring isn’t helping,” I say, reaching down to adjust myself again.

She doesn’t look away. She watches me attempt to make my cock less conspicuous. “That sounds like a you problem, Parks.”

I should have kissed her at Kit’s New Year’s Eve party.

20

Carson: Why is everyone saying you were at Graham’s party with Flynn Parks?

Rory: Because I was at Graham’s party with Flynn Parks.

Carson: You can’t stand Flynn.

Carson: Hello?

Carson: How long has this been going on?

Carson: I should have hit him back.

Icarefully measure a teaspoon of vanilla, then dump it in the bowl. Stir the batter a couple of times before flicking some water from the faucet onto the cast iron skillet. It sizzles, indicating the temperature is right. I use a measuring cup to deposit four perfectly spaced circles on the oiled surface, beaming at the pan. This is practically a cooking show.

I wipe my hands on the front of the apron, then walk over to the fridge to grab the blueberries. Except they’re not in the produce drawer. I start searching shelf by shelf, moving around ingredients and containers as I go.

It was a lot easier to find items in my fridge when there was hardly anything in here. Did Flynn eat them? Sometimes, he has a snack before bed⁠—

Beep!

“Fire.”

Beep!

“Fire.”

Beep!

“Fire.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I race over to the smoking stove, flip one of the burned pancakes, then toss it off the skillet entirely when I see how black and crispy and inedible the other side is.

The alarm doesn’t stop when the pan is empty. I turn the burner off. Still blaring, occasionally interrupted by an automated voice calmly announcing, “Fire.”

“Flynn!” I shout.

It’s earlier than he normally gets up, but there’s no way he’s sleeping through this racket.

“Flynn!” I yell again, dragging a chair from the kitchen table over to the smoke alarm. I still can’t reach the button, and the ear-splitting sound is even louder up here.