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Ten
Flynn set Sabrina up in a spare bedroom, one furnished with a dresser, night tables and a bedside lamp. The bed in there was new, like every bed in the penthouse. He’d be damned if he would sleep one more night in a bed he used to share with his cheating ex-wife.
After Veronica had confessed she’d been “seeing” Julian, which was a nice way to say “screwing” him, she’d stayed in the three-story behemoth that she and Flynn had bought together. Fine by him, since he’d never wanted to live there in the first place. At the time, he’d rented a small apartment downtown.
He felt as if he didn’t belong anywhere. Not in his marital house overlooking a pond, not in this glass-and-steel shrine that reminded him of his father’s cold presence, and though he’d loved his mother and the estate reminded him of her, he didn’t feel as if he belonged there either. Just as well since the rose gardens had fallen to ruin when she died. How fitting that the place had been left to Julian.
It didn’t surprise Flynn that Veronica had moved in immediately. She’d always crowed about how she wanted more space inside and out, and the estate, with its orchards and acreage and maid’s quarters, would definitely tick both boxes.
And now he was moving Sabrina into his place without thinking about it for longer than thirty seconds.
Reason being he shouldn’t have to think about it for longer than thirty seconds. She was his best friend and had been for years, and she needed a place to stay. The fact that he’d kissed her last week shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t, but it did.
He was determined to push past the bizarre urge to kiss her again, confident that once she was in his space, painting or baking M&M cookies, they’d snap back to the old them—the them that didn’t look at each other like they wondered what the other looked like naked.
He pictured her naked and groaned. It was a stretch, but he clung to the idea that he could unring that bell. It wasn’t looking good since the buzz reverberated off his balls every time he thought about her.
He dragged in the easel, Sabrina’s suitcase and the last of the canvases tucked under one arm. She was unpacking the makings of cookies onto his countertop and clucked her tongue to reprimand him.
“I told you I’d help.” She moved to take the canvases and he let her, then he leaned the easel against the wall.
“This is the last of it. Besides, you’ve helped plenty.”
In the bedroom he rested her suitcase against two smaller totes. The suitcase was bright pink, one tote neon green, the other white with bright flowers, adding energy to the apartment’s palette of neutrals. If Sabrina being here infused him with a similar energy, he wouldn’t complain. He’d been living in black and white for far too long.
Until Valentine’s Day, when she’d taken him to breakfast, on a cheese tour, and made him sit through a trapeze act he’d found fascinating rather than emasculating, he hadn’t noticed just how long it’d been since he felt...well, alive.
His life had been a blur of Mondays, and he’d been working every day until he dropped. He’d been under the mistaken notion that if he kept moving forward he’d never have to think about Veronica or Julian or Emmons ever again.
“Bastards.”
“Yikes. Are you talking to the luggage?” Sabrina asked from the doorway.
She’d tied on her Converses and slipped a denim jacket over her T-shirt. Her hair was pulled off her face partway, the length of the back draping over her shoulders. She was gorgeous. So stupidly, insanely gorgeous he wondered how he’d kept his hands off her for this long.
“I’m here if you need to talk.” Her dark eyes studied him carefully.
“I don’t need to talk.” What he wanted was to not talk, preferably while her mouth occupied his.
“Okay.” She patted him on the arm.
It was the first time she’d touched him since Monday and he wanted it to feel as pedestrian as any pat from any hand belonging to any random person. A certain member of his anatomy below his belt buckle had other ideas, kicking into third gear like it was trying to break free of his zipper to get to her.
“Are you too tired to bake cookies?” he asked, desperate for a subject change.
“Are you too tired to help?” She hoisted an eyebrow.
“Can I drink a beer while helping?”
“Hmm.” She tapped her finger on lips he wanted on his more than a damn cookie. “I’ll allow it.”
With a wink that had him swallowing another groan, she led the way to the kitchen.
Sabrina dusted her hands on her jeans and set the last tray of M&M cookies on top of the stove. Flynn came jogging into the kitchen from the adjacent TV room to snag one.
“Those are piping—”
