Page 36 of Kissing Flynn

Max seems blissfully unaware of the douchebag’s attention as she takes in the scenery outside the cart. I have no doubt she’d take care of Lars, herself, if and when she did happen to notice, so even though I can feel anger bubbling in my gut, I keep my expression blank and disinterested.

Besides, the last thing I should do is cause a scene by drop-kicking Lars out of this moving vehicle.

The image of doing just that makes me smile. My grin drops when I notice Barnard staring at me, a smile of his own curving his lips. Clearing my throat, I acknowledge his attention with a stiff nod before looking left to watch the trees pass by.

When the path opens up to the ocean to reveal the marina, my mouth falls open in shock. What Barnard called a “boat” sits moored to a long dock, gleaming in the sun like it’s been washed and waxed every single day of its existence.

“That’s your boat?” Max asks Barnard with wide eyes, stressing the last word like she’s read my mind.

The damn thing is a luxury yacht. The kind you’d see owned by sickeningly rich drug lords in blockbuster action movies.

Barnard laughs and points at the yacht. “That’s my girl, the Lady Syrena.”

I don’t know why I’m shocked or why I’d expected a normal boat. The man owns this whole island. Of course, he has a yacht fit for a king.

The five of us pile out of the cart, and Barnard leads the way down the long dock where a man in a white uniform waits for us beside a ramp that leads up to the boat. Barnard introduces him to us as Captain Porter. He greets each of us with a “welcome aboard” as we file up the ramp, and Barnard leads us up to a large, shaded deck that holds plush, white couches, glass tables, and potted plants.

“Make yourselves at home,” he says with a wide grin. “The galley staff will be out in a moment with drinks and hors d’oeuvres.”

I sit on one side of a love seat, and Max slides in next to me with a nervous smile before flicking her eyes toward Lars. So, she did notice his attention on the ride over despite her apparent cluelessness. And she knows if she gives him half a chance, he’ll cozy up to her in hopes of getting into her bikini bottoms.

I glance in his direction to find him frowning at us, but the second he realizes I’ve noticed, he dons a fake smile and takes a seat at the opposite end of the long couch from where Peter is sitting. Barnard claps his hands before plopping down in an oversized chair and stretching his legs out atop the matching ottoman.

Two staff members appear, one carrying a tray of mimosas while the other sets a platter of fruit, crackers, and cheese on the table in the center. Max takes a flute with a smile, so I follow suit, and we clink our glasses together before taking a sip.

“So, tell me about working at the Journal,” Max says, twisting to lean her side against the back cushion of the settee so she’s facing me.

“It pays the bills,” I say, then shake my head. No need to play it down with her. “It’s great. The fast-paced atmosphere of the office keeps me invigorated.”

“Your column is wonderful,” she says with a nod.

“You read it?”

“Every week,” she admits, the apples of her cheeks turning a bit pink.

“I read yours, too,” I say, and her eyes widen. “I can tell from your writing that you really love your job.”

“I do,” she says with a soft smile. “I get to meet the most interesting people who open their homes and their lives to me for a short while. I travel, eat at the best restaurants, and shop at the best boutiques.”

“Sounds glamorous,” I tease, and she laughs.

“I really can’t believe I get paid for it.”

“So, why this job?” I ask, lowering my voice so the others won’t hear me over their own chatter.

“His people reached out and asked if I’d like to apply for the job. I’ve never published a book like some people,” she says with a teasing glint in her eyes, “but I write mini-biographies for the magazine all the time, so I accepted, thinking I’d be a good fit. Plus, it’s Barnard Roxberry. Anyone would kill for the opportunity to tell his story.”

I nod in agreement. Barnard’s people reached out to me in much the same way.

“My book isn’t exactly a tick in the pro column,” I say with a chuckle.

I self-published a book about an abandoned mining town in Nevada that boomed in the early nineteen-hundreds, but now sits empty save for the ghosts that reportedly haunt the old buildings as well as the mine, itself. It was a vanity project, something that really interested me, but didn’t particularly interest the reader market.

I want to ask Max if she read it, but at the same time, I’m terrified of her answer. What if she didn’t bother with it? What if she did?

Nope. Not asking.

“So, where are you living now?” Max asks, thankfully changing the subject.

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