Page 48 of Kissing Flynn

It’s time. We’ve been summoned to dinner, and after spending all afternoon rewriting and editing my piece, I know it’s as good as it’s going to get.

I know Max did the same. I’m a little nervous about it because she’s an excellent writer who excels at finding humor and warmth in any subject. I like to think I do the same, but I know I’m not quite as good at it as Max is. Barnard didn’t give me any idea of the tone he was looking for, and I’m assuming he didn’t tell Max, either. If he is looking for something emotionally charged, she will have this in the bag.

And I’m okay with that.

I wasn’t lying when I said I’d be okay with either of us scoring this job. That I’d be happy for Max if she wins. And that my real concern is the inevitable separation the job will impose upon us.

Fuck, I miss her already.

When I step out into the hall, Max is there waiting for me. She greets me with a smile and a peck on the lips, and my gloomy thoughts disappear. We’re together now, and I’m damn well going to enjoy it.

As we walk toward the staircase, I can feel the nervous tension wafting off her. Taking her hand, I squeeze it to offer her comfort, and she glances over at me with a gentle smile. We hold hands until we reach the bottom of the stairs, then by some unspoken agreement, we release each other as we turn toward the dining room.

At the table, we find Barnard already seated in his usual spot at the end. Two place settings are arranged on either side of him, putting Max and me across from each other. As soon as we sit, Barnard stretches a hand in each of our directions and waggles his fingers. I take a deep breath and hand over my page, and Max does the same.

Bethany appears, setting a steaming plate of lasagna, salad, and bread in front of each of us as another server pours wine into our empty goblets. Barnard doesn’t speak other than to thank them, then proceeds to read each of our pages as he eats. My stomach twists, and when I look over at Max, she’s staring back at me with the same shocked, wide-eyed stare.

Neither of us expected the man to read our work right in front of us. We assumed he’d retire to his office and read them after dinner.

He’s reading Max’s page first, and when he chuckles under his breath, she tenses up even more. I shoot her a questioning glance, but she only looks down at her plate as she picks at the lasagna with her fork.

She should be ecstatic. It’s obvious from Barnard’s tender expression that he’s loving her work. But instead, she looks a little green, like she might throw up at any moment.

Letting out an appreciative-sounding hum, Barnard shuffles the papers to read mine. I keep my gaze lowered to my plate, but I can see him nodding in my peripheral vision. I grab my glass of wine and take a healthy gulp, hoping the wine will calm my nerves. Max follows my example, nearly draining her own glass in one long swallow.

Barnard makes another humming sound, sets his fork aside, and folds the pages up together before sliding them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Without a word, he picks up his fork and eats in earnest despite the fact that Max and I are obviously teetering on the edge of hysteria waiting to hear what he thought of our submissions.

Meeting Max’s wide-eyed gaze again, I shrug slightly, hoping to calm her. I’m feigning my nonchalance, of course. I’m just as nervous as she is. But if she thinks I’m not worried about it, that whatever will happen will happen, maybe she’ll relax and not puke all over this fancy table. Barnard’s not ready to make his choice or even discuss our work with us, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We just have to wait.

“Barnard, can we speak privately after dinner?” she blurts, shattering the silence.

My head jerks back as shock ripples through me. Max is studiously avoiding my gaze now. Her cheeks are pink and her hands are trembling as she awaits Barnard’s answer. I look over to see him staring at her thoughtfully before he looks my way with an arched brow.

“Of course,” he says finally, then clears his throat. “We can meet in my office when we’re done here.”

I look back at Max to see her reaction. She nods, but instead of appearing relieved, she looks like she’s in even more distress than before. I stare at her, hard, hoping she’ll meet my eyes, but if she feels me watching her, I can’t tell. She’s ignoring me, completely.

What in the hell is going on, here?

If it were anyone else, I would assume she’s hoping to plead her case. That she’s meeting with him to give herself an edge over the competition. Namely, me.

But I can’t see Max doing something like that. Not to me, at least. And if not, then what is she up to?

When it becomes achingly clear that she’s not going to look at me or give me any kind of reassurance, I heave a sigh and pull my napkin from my lap to toss it on the table next to my plate. There’s no point in staying here. My stomach is too tied up in knots to eat.

“Excuse me,” I say as I stand.

“Have a good night, Flynn,” Barnard says while Max remains quiet with eyes downcast.

“You, as well,” I say, and after giving Max one last chance to look up at me, which she refuses to take, I turn and stride from the room.

The only thing I can do now is head up to my room and hope Max will explain herself when she’s done talking to Barnard. Halfway up the stairs, I pause and heave a sigh. I can’t expect Max to do anything, much less explain her actions in this competition. She has a right to do whatever she wants to win, despite the new status of our relationship.

I can’t begrudge her anything. And I refuse to be upset when I’ve already decided I’d be happy as hell for her if she wins.

I head the rest of the way up to my room, then plop down on the edge of my bed to wait. If Max decides to tell me what she and Barnard are probably discussing at this very moment, then she will. If she doesn’t? Well, then I’ll accept it without resentment or paranoia.

Love is wanting the best for your person, being their biggest cheerleader, and celebrating their victories even when those wins hurt your own ego.

---