Page 4 of Kissing Flynn

I return my attention to my surroundings just as the thick foliage around us opens up to a wide, green lawn. A huge Palladian mansion sprawls across the center of the lawn, and it nearly takes my breath away with its beauty. It looks like a country estate in Regency England, not something you’d expect to find on a tropical island in this day and age.

The sound of waves crashing and the scent of salt in the air tells me the ocean is nearby, most likely on the opposite side of the building. Sea bird screams and the scents of tropical flowers add to the overall experience, making this place a true delight to the senses.

I can definitely see why Barnard chose to make this place home. It’s wonderful.

The man, himself, waits at the top of the stone steps leading to the front entrance as our vehicle pulls to a stop right in front. He’s holding a gold-handled walking cane, though at first glance, it appears to be an accessory rather than a necessity. He’s smiling as we all climb out of the cart, and when we’ve gathered at the bottom of the steps, he holds up a palm until the group falls into still silence.

“Welcome to Isle Halcyon. You may all call me Barnard. Please, please. Come inside.”

I take a look at the façade of the mansion as the others follow Barnard. It’s so…ethereal. I wish I could take some pictures to show Milo and my friends back home. Of course, doing so would ensure an immediate, one-way ticket back to Los Angeles.

The rules were made crystal clear when I signed up for this opportunity. No photos. No questions. Barnard would be the one interviewing me, and if I so much as ask what his favorite color is, it would call for instant disqualification from the competition. Never mind the non-disclosure agreement I signed. It doesn’t matter that I can’t tell anyone anything. It’s forbidden to even ask.

Overkill? Sure. But the opportunity was too tempting. I’d have probably agreed to blood and urine samples if he’d asked.

I’m assuming everyone else went through the same process since I don’t see any phones out or hear any whispered questions or comments. I look around as I step through the doorway behind most of the crowd, my eyes wide with wonder. The glossy, checkerboard floors echo our footsteps back to us as we shuffle through the foyer. Paintings of beautiful landscapes adorn the cream-colored walls, and a grand staircase curves up to the second floor on both sides of the large space. I have to fight to keep my mouth closed at the opulence around me as we stop at the foot of the stairs.

Something electric shivers across my skin, and when I look to my right, I see Flynn right beside me, his own gaze flitting across the mural-painted ceiling above the giant chandelier. I take a big step away from him, then slowly slide forward until several other writers stand between us.

Obvious? Probably. But also necessary.

This house is big enough that I could possibly go the entire week without seeing or speaking to him if I try hard enough. I don’t look back to see if he noticed my not-so-sly evasion. I hope he did see it. I can’t give him a better hint than that, right?

Okay, fine. I need to know.

I slowly and as inconspicuously as possible turn my head, looking back over my shoulder in his direction. One of the female writers is leaning in close on his opposite side, whispering something that makes his lips part in a wide, movie-star-worthy smile that shows off his white, impossibly perfect teeth.

Something clenches in my gut at the sight of it. Short disjointed memories of that grin being directed at me flit through my mind, and the ache in my middle intensifies, making me grit my teeth as I fight the feeling.

No. No way. I refuse to let myself be affected by that man in any way.

“To your left, you’ll see a table with your welcome packets and room keys. Once you’ve found yours, make your way up to the second floor to find your rooms. Your luggage will be delivered to you shortly, and I shall see you all at dinner, which will be served promptly at six.”

With that, Barnard spins and retreats deeper into the house. I look over and spot the table in question, and since I’m closest, I reach it first, quickly finding an envelope with my name and room number on it. Snatching it up, I skirt around the crowd and head for the staircase, eager to escape to the privacy of my room before Flynn has a chance to approach me…on the off-chance he wants to clear the air.

I’m not interested.

At all.

Thoughts of Flynn scatter the second I enter my room. My feet root to the thickly-carpeted floor as I look around with my mouth hanging open. It’s like something from a movie in here.

A nineties movie about a teenaged trust fund baby whose live-in nanny just checked to make sure she didn’t want some frou-frou dessert before she retired for the evening.

“Je-sus,” I whisper as I finally find my ability to walk again.

Moving further into the room, I spin in a circle. The walls are covered in thick, foil-embossed wallpaper decorated with silver and light pink swirling patterns. A mammoth bed rests on one side, the pink and gray duvet cover perfectly color-coordinated with the walls. There must be twenty pillows artfully arranged at the head of the bed, and there’s a soft chenille blanket in dark purple folded across the foot.

Dainty chandeliers pepper the high ceiling, but they’re unnecessary with all the light streaming through the four large windows on the opposite side of the room. I wander over there and look out, and I honestly forget to breathe.

A green lawn flows out to where it meets a sandy beach. Past that, nothing but clear, blue sea as far as the eye can see. I stare at the view until I’m sure I have it locked in my memory, then turn back around to survey the rest of the room.

A door on my right leads to a private bathroom with tiled floors and a giant, fancy shower with multiple shower heads and a steam function. It’s a relief, finding the en-suite. At least I don’t have to share with anyone or risk running into people I’d rather not see in such an intimate location.

I find a spacious closet next, complete with empty hangers, an ironing board, an iron, and a handheld steamer.

Nice.

There’s another closed door on the wall next to the bed, and tilting my head with curiosity, I walk over to it. There’s a deadbolt lock, so I disengage it and twist the knob before swinging the door open. My brow furrows as I encounter a second door, and it takes me a second to realize this is a connecting doorway to another room.

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