Page 1 of Kissing Flynn

One

Max

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.”

I mumble the words under my breath as I stand frozen in the middle of the aisle, staring into a pair of deep blue eyes I haven’t seen in over five years. A pair of eyes I’d hoped to never meet again.

And, of course, I look like hell.

I overslept, and in a frantic rush, I pulled on a pair of yoga pants, a tank top, and some running shoes before throwing my hair up into a messy bun. I was fine with it before I left the house.

It’s going to be a long flight, so I should be comfortable, right?

At least, that’s what I told myself as I silently urged my rideshare driver to hurry along the packed streets of Los Angeles on our way to the airport.

I made it just in time, but my relief was short-lived as I boarded the private plane and spotted the last available seat.

Right next to Flynn Nightingale.

And he’s staring back at me like I pissed in his corn flakes, or something.

Someone touches my shoulder, and I snap to action, realizing I’m holding up take-off by standing here frozen with an unhinged jaw. Snapping my mouth closed, I march forward and drop into the seat without acknowledging the man next to me. Keeping my eyes firmly forward, I buckle my seatbelt as the flight attendant begins our pre-flight safety lecture.

Flynn’s elbow brushes against mine, and I jerk my arm into my lap. Gritting my teeth together, I rub my finger over the spot he touched while my mind whirls with questions.

What did I do in a past life to deserve this? Is this some cosmic joke the universe is playing on me?

Barnard Roxberry, the eccentric, closed-off billionaire who’s looking for a writer to create his coveted biography, picked eight writers out of millions around the world to fly to his private island for a week, and somehow, Flynn and I were both selected?

I discreetly look around the cabin for hidden cameras, because the only explanation I can come up with is that I’m being Punk’d. Ashton Kutcher is probably hiding in the cockpit right now.

When the flight attendant finishes his spiel, he tells us to relax for a long flight before buckling himself into the jump seat next to the second attendant. I look around for more familiar faces, but the other six writers’ faces are unknown to me. I’ll probably know some of them by name, but I won’t know for sure until we get to the island and make some introductions.

I slowly move my eyes to the right, and thankfully, Flynn is ignoring me just as completely as I was him. A tendon strains in his neck as he stares through the window at a plain, concrete tarmac like it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen in years.

I almost want to talk to him, to get his take on this surreal coincidence. Almost.

But as the engines roar and the plane starts to roll backward, I remember where I am, and my muscles tense into tight balls. I hate flying. With a passion.

Unzipping the backpack I dropped between my feet, I pull out my wireless earbuds. Popping open the case, I pluck them free and shove them into my ears before pulling up the playlist of soothing music I saved on my phone for just this occasion. As the instrumental strains start to play, I shimmy in my seat to find the most comfortable position and close my eyes.

Laying my forearms along the armrests, I grip the ends in tight fists as the plane negotiates the runway. I focus on the music and try to breathe when the engines roar even louder. My ab muscles tense, fighting the flip-flop of my stomach as the wheels leave the ground.

Once we’re airborne, I relax, a little. The worst part is over. At least until it’s time to land.

I force my thoughts away from the man next to me, to the week ahead. Barnard Roxberry made his name in sporting goods, creating the largest chain of brick and mortar stores in the country. But that was just the beginning. With some key investments in a few start-ups, he’s tripled his net worth over the last decade. He’s a philanthropist, a lover of the arts, and a textbook introvert.

He’s been out of the public view for the last several years, living in his estate on the private island toward which this metal tube is currently hurdling through the sky. But even before his self-imposed solitary confinement, he was an enigma.

Rampant rumors and conspiracy theories are all over the internet––everything from bodies in the walls to pentagrams in the basement.

Only one thing is certain. Whoever scores this gig and gets to write this biography will have an instant world-wide bestseller on their hands. People are hungry for an intimate look at the billionaire’s life, and this opportunity is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

Blinking open my eyes, I sneak another peek at Flynn. He’s leaning back in his seat with his own eyes closed now, so I take a moment to study his profile. He looks pretty much the same as he did the last time I saw him. His jawline is a bit stronger, more pronounced. And he looks bulkier, like he spends a significant time in the gym these days.

Other than my own connection to him, I’m not surprised he’s here. He was an amazing writer when I met him freshman year of college, and he’s only gotten better in the five years since we graduated.

I’ll admit it. I’ve followed his career. Apparently, I’m a closet masochist.

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