Page 3 of Kissing Flynn

Why does that thought make me want to smile?

No. Don’t fall into that trap, man.

Max used her wiles––and my feelings for her––to get the better of her brother just for the fun of it all those years ago, so I know exactly what she’s capable of. I wouldn’t put it past her to use any lingering attraction I may possess to screw me over during this trip. There was a time I would’ve fallen for it and given her whatever she desired. You want it? Here you go. Silver platter and all.

But not this time. I know better. I can’t fall prey to her machinations. Not again.

The plane bounces roughly, hitting some turbulence, and I open my eyes to glance over at Max. Her hands are clenched so tightly around the arm rests, her knuckles are white. And her usual creamy complexion is a bit green, making the light dusting of freckles on her face stand out in stark contrast.

She’s terrified of flying. I’ve always known that, but seeing her so obviously freaked out strikes a protective chord inside me I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I have a sudden, insane urge to hold her hand, and I have to clench my own into fists to resist it.

Max would kick me in the teeth before she’d accept an ounce of comfort from me.

I wish I’d known how she really felt about me before the night everything blew up. If I had, I wouldn’t have fallen for her act so completely. My future…with her…wouldn’t have flashed behind my eyelids as our mouths met. I wouldn’t have nearly blown up my friendship with Milo.

And I wouldn’t have lost her because I would have known I never actually had her to lose in the first place. I would have known it was all some game she was playing for her own entertainment.

I close my eyes and lean my head back as the plane dips again. I need to stop worrying about Max.

She doesn’t want, nor does she deserve my concern.

Three

Max

I let out the breath I feel like I’ve been holding for the entire six-hour flight as the wheels touch down safely. The turbulence we felt mid-flight was nearly the death of me, but I somehow managed to survive it. I take several deep, calming breaths as the plane rolls along the concrete airstrip.

Careful to avoid looking directly at Flynn, I take a peek through the window to see the lush, green landscape dotted with flowers and fruit in every color of the rainbow. So, this is Barnard Roxberry’s private island. From the little I can see, it’s beautiful. I get why he chooses to live here on a permanent basis.

I see Flynn’s head swivel in my peripheral vision, and I quickly jerk my own eyes away from the window toward the front of the cabin. We haven’t spoken a single word to each other or even made eye contact after I sat down next to him––quite the feat, considering the length of the flight.

We were always equally stubborn creatures. Apparently, that hasn’t changed.

The plane rolls to a stop, and everyone starts unbuckling their seatbelts and moving around the cabin to retrieve their bags from the overhead compartments. Flicking open the buckle on my own seatbelt, I grab my backpack from the floor between my feet and slip out of my seat, making a beeline for the exit door a flight attendant just popped open.

I need to get my feet on solid ground and regain control of my bearings.

And I need to get away from Flynn Nightingale.

I pick my way down the metal portable staircase carefully, keeping my eyes on my feet, but as soon as my shoes hit the concrete, I look up and take in the full effect of the scenery around me. Thick forest flanks the runway on both sides as far as the eye can see. An oversized golf-cart-looking vehicle sits off to one side, the driver standing beside it as he waits for all of us to de-board and fill the four rows of seats. I head in that direction, offering him a smile and a greeting before climbing in behind the driver’s seat.

Looking back, I see the others filing down the steps and looking around before striding in my direction. An all-terrain vehicle with a large trailer attached is parked next to the plane, and two men are unloading our suitcases and packing them carefully into the trailer.

I breathe a sigh of relief when Flynn heads for the back of the vehicle, as far away from me as he can get. However, my relief quickly morphs into irritation. He’s avoiding me like I’m poison ivy, or something. Sure, I messed everything up by shooting my shot all those years ago, but it’s not like I’m the one who said our kiss was a huge mistake, one never to be repeated again.

Is he afraid I’ll try again, or something? Ha. Not likely.

A woman slides into the seat next to me, and I clear the anger from my expression before meeting her gaze with a smile.

“Hi. I’m Max Nolan,” I say, offering her a hand to shake.

“Penelope Sheridan,” she says, politely taking my hand.

“Nice to meet you,” I say when she yanks her hand back so quickly, I wonder if I am actually poison.

She doesn’t reply to that as she turns away from me, studying the foliage around us as the driver climbs into his seat and the cart starts to move. Though I didn’t recognize her face before, I do know the name. Her debut novel––a high fantasy with a touch of romance––sold like mad when it debuted, but everything she’s written since has kind of flopped. She’s known as a one-hit wonder in the book world, and she also has a bit of a reputation of being rude to her fellow authors and readers, alike.

The real question is, why would Barnard Roxberry invite her here? She’s certainly not prolific in writing non-fiction, much less biographies. It doesn’t make any sense.

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