Page 50 of Kissing Flynn

“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,” he says, reaching out to take my hand and brush his thumb across my knuckles. “Did he give you any hint as to which way he’s leaning?”

I swallow thickly. “No, he didn’t. I just said what I wanted to say and left. He didn’t say much.”

“Okay,” Flynn says gently, then tugs me closer to wrap me in his arms. “You’re an amazing writer, Max. Barnard would be crazy not to love your piece.”

“Thank you,” I murmur into his chest as I fight back the tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

“Come on,” he says, pulling me over by the bed.

He strips out of his shirt, and I follow suit, slipping out of my own clothes. But he doesn’t try to pull me against him or make any kind of sexual overtures. He simply pulls his shirt over my head and waits for me to poke my arms through the holes. He pulls my hair free of the material, then caresses my cheek before sitting on the edge of the mattress.

We climb in and lay on top of the covers. Flynn pulls me into his comforting arms, his hand rubbing my back in gentle circles. I relax into his embrace, and he presses light kisses against the top of my head. It doesn’t take long for me to start to doze off. I tighten my grip around his waist and nuzzle my cheek against his bare chest as my thoughts grow fuzzy.

But even half-asleep, I know I made the right choice. Flynn is one of the good ones. The very best of the best. He deserves this.

Thirty

Flynn

I’ve been staring at the ceiling for God knows how long, holding Max as she sleeps and thinking about her behavior during and after dinner. This job obviously means the world to her. She seemed fine earlier today, and I barely recognize the nervous wreck she turned into while Barnard was reading our submissions.

The job means a lot to me, too, of course. But now I feel conflicted. I want it, but do I want it badly enough to hurt Max in the process?

The simple answer to that is no.

Over the last few days, the woman I thought I’d lost forever has become the most important person in my life. I love Max. I want her to be happy.

And I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that happiness. Even if it means throwing myself under the bus to guarantee it.

Careful not to jostle the mattress too much and wake her, I slip out of Max’s bed and pad on bare fee back to my own room. Finding a fresh shirt, I slip it on and slide my feet into a pair of flip flops before quietly leaving the room and heading back downstairs.

I see a valet walking through the foyer as I near the bottom, and I wave to get his attention. He stops and turns to me with a smile.

“May I help you, Mr. Nightingale?”

“Yes, thank you. Is Barnard still up and about, by chance?”

“I believe he’s still in his office, sir,” the valet replies, then stretches out an arm in invitation.

I nod in thanks, grateful that he didn’t make any negative comments about my needing to speak to his boss. Apparently, Barnard has no rules about not being disturbed at this hour. The door is open when I get there, and poking my head inside, I find Barnard sitting behind his desk with a glass of scotch in his hand. He’s rotating the glass, watching the liquid swirl inside, then must catch sight of me from the corner of his eye because he looks up at me, sets the glass down, and beckons me inside with a wave of his hand.

“What can I do for you, Flynn?” he asks as I approach, then motions for me to take a seat.

“Sorry to bother you so late, but I need to talk to you about this job,” I say, my voice unexpectedly firm without a trace of a tremor.

I’m doing the right thing. I know I am.

“What about it?” Barnard asks, his expression turning curious.

“I’m afraid I need to pull out.”

“Pull out?” he asks, his curious look deepening as he cocks his head to one side.

“Max is the right person for the job,” I say. “She deserves this.”

“Does she, now?” he asks, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

I pause to study him for a moment then tilt my own head. “You already picked her, didn’t you?”

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