Page 13 of Kissing Flynn

Holding up a hand, he says, “I don’t want to step on any toes, man. If you’ve already started making inroads on that one, I’ll take a step back. We’ve got to stick together, right?”

“Right,” I murmur, unable to completely hide the sarcasm in my voice. “I was just headed up. Have a good night.”

“Nice to meet you, dude,” he says with a wave.

I nod in response before I spin and walk away. The pleasure was definitely all his.

I make my way through the house to the stairs, then take them two at a time. I feel like I need a shower after that interaction. Why did Barnard include such a slime ball in this competition? If he read Lars’ book, or even a handful of its reviews, he’d know what kind of person Lars is. What kind of writer he is.

It doesn’t make any sense.

But then again, I don’t really know Barnard. Maybe he wants that misogynistic tone in his biography, using his existence as a man as a major reason for his success. God, if he does, I might have to decline should I win the gig. It would be hard to do, but the right choices are often the hardest to make.

Walking down the hall, my steps slow as I approach Max’s door. Biting my lip, I consider knocking so I can tell her about Lars and his attraction to her. Forewarned is forearmed, right?

Leaning closer, I hold my breath and listen for any sounds that would indicate she’s still up. It’s early, yet, so it’s unlikely she’s already asleep. I lift a hand to knock, pause, then drop my fist back to my side.

It’s just as unlikely she wants to be disturbed by the likes of me.

Shaking my head, I move to my own door and let myself inside. Like I said before, Max can handle herself. She doesn’t want or need my protection.

I figured that out a long, long time ago.

Nine

Max

Barnard doesn’t turn up at breakfast, but each of us has a card on our seats noting the time and location of our appointments with him today. Mine isn’t until four this afternoon, so I have most of the day to prepare.

Of course, how do I prepare when I have no idea what kind of interview this will be? Barnard hasn’t exactly conformed to industry standards with this process so far, so I can’t count on the fact that he’ll ask normal questions about my writing and publishing experience.

My note also invites me to take advantage of the household amenities today. The pool. The private beach. The theater room and the library. Whispers around me confirm the others received the same open invitation.

I glance up from my card to Flynn, who’s once again seated across the table from me. As if we share the same brain, he glances up at me and holds up three fingers.

“Three o’clock. You?” he mouths, and I automatically mouth back the word four with a smile.

Like we’re cohorts, or something. Allies in this competition who share information. Like we’re friends.

Catching myself, I force my eyes to drop to my plate. That was the longest conversation we’ve had in five years. The only one save for that awkward encounter on the veranda last night. That one doesn’t really count because it was forced politeness rather than an actual desire to engage with each other. It’s sad, really.

I shake off the invading memories of when we were still friends. That was a lifetime ago, and it ended painfully.

I peek back up at Flynn from beneath my eyelashes. That was a lifetime ago, wasn’t it? We were still basically kids back then, and I know I’ve changed in the last five years. Has Flynn? He has to have, hasn’t he?

And what if adult-Max and adult-Flynn can find a new path to friendship? Put the anger and hurt of the past behind us and start fresh? Do I even want that?

Having Flynn as an ally in this competition wouldn’t be the most terrible thing that’s happened to me. Even if we only bury the hatchet for this week, it could be beneficial for us both. Trying to ignore and avoid him would require energy and focus that would be better served trying to impress Barnard and secure this job.

Would Flynn be willing to kill the beef between us and work together? There’s only one way to find out.

I take another bite of my scrambled eggs, pumping myself up mentally for what I’m about to do. With a psychic olive branch waving firmly in mind, I look directly at Flynn and wait for him to notice.

His gaze snaps up like he physically felt mine on him. I open my mouth to speak, then snap it shut when someone slides into the previously empty chair beside me.

“Hi, I’m Lars.”

He extends a hand, and I take it, pumping it twice before pulling back. He jerks his head to the side, and the flop of blond hair that was previously covering his eyebrows falls to the right of his forehead.

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