Page 53 of Kissing Flynn

After I finish getting ready, I slide on a pair of black sandals and step out into the hall where I find Flynn leaning against the opposite wall, his eyes devouring me before lifting to meet my gaze.

“You look gorgeous,” he says, pushing off the wall to take my hand.

“As do you,” I reply, my own gaze drinking in his appearance.

He’s wearing a violet button-down that makes his eyes pop with a pair of khaki shorts. He looks casual, yet somehow neatly put together, and fuck, I’m so proud of him right now. He’s going to kill this job and become a super-famous biographer and author. The world is at his fingertips, and all he has to do is reach out and take it.

“You ready?” he asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” I say, my tone teasing.

Flynn chuckles and pulls me along with him toward the staircase. He doesn’t seem nervous, at all. Like the outcome of this meeting means nothing to him.

I shake my head to clear the thought. I know that’s not true. This opportunity means everything to him. He just hides it well. He probably doesn’t want me to feel bad for him if I win.

Which, I won’t. But he doesn’t know that.

When we walk out onto the veranda, Barnard awaits us at the railing with his back to us. Flynn squeezes my hand once before releasing me, then clears his throat to gain Barnard’s attention. The old man turns to gaze at us, a wide smile on his face.

“Thank you for meeting me out here. It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he asks, waving an arm toward the ocean and the horizon in the distance.

“It certainly is,” Flynn says while I just nod in agreement.

“Please, sit down,” Barnard says, motioning toward a small table with four chairs and three saucers with mugs waiting to be filled with hot coffee.

I’m nervous as hell as we take our seats. Not because I don’t know what’s going to happen, but because I do. Taking a long, silent breath to calm myself, I look over at Flynn and offer him a wobbly smile before turning my gaze on Barnard.

The man’s eyes shift back and forth between us while his eyes shine with an almost maniacal light. I fight the urge to give him a pointed look, an attempt to remind him what we’re doing here and that he should just get on with naming Flynn the winner. To beg him to put me out of my misery, already.

“I assumed this week would be eye-opening,” he begins, and I have to stop myself from sighing with relief. “But honestly, I haven’t been surprised, at all. You two performed just as I knew you would when I invited you here, and you’ve both proven to be excellent choices for this project. I know either of you would do it justice.”

His words leave me misty-eyed despite my attempts to pretend I’m on pins and needles waiting for Barnard’s answer. If I hadn’t given up my shot, and I was still actually in the running, I might’ve twisted his words in my head as some kind of pity, letting the loser down gently by putting Flynn and me on the same level.

But I know what Barnard is about to say, and he knows I know it. There’s no need to placate me with pretty compliments.

“And I’d already made up my mind before Maxine came to me and pulled out of the competition, throwing it to you, Flynn.”

My head snaps up, my eyes flaring wide at the same instant Flynn shouts, “What?”

I flinch then look over at him with an apology in my eyes. “I’m sorry I lied to you. But I don’t regret the choice I made. You deserve this, Flynn. I want this for you.”

Before he can respond, Barnard barks out a laugh. When I look over at him with an incredulous expression, his humor fades into something gentle and kind.

“Imagine my surprise when Flynn came to me later, asking to bow out so you could have the job.”

My head jerks toward Flynn so hard, I’m pretty sure I’ll need to see a chiropractor. His lips are pressed together to the point that they’re nearly white, but his tight expression softens as we continue to stare at each other.

“I felt the same way. You deserve to fly, Max.”

We all remain quiet for a few beats, then Barnard sighs in an exaggerated fashion, pulling both our gazes to him.

“For two highly intelligent and observant people, you sure have been remarkably dense this week.” He shakes his head at our confused expressions, then scrubs a and down his face like he’s frustrated. “What are the odds that two people who were close in college but haven’t spoken to each other in five years would end up on a tropical island together, vying for the same job, and would coincidentally be put in connecting rooms so they’d have no choice but to clear the air and work together in a ridiculously unprofessional competition to appease an eccentric old man who kicked everyone else out for the most asinine of reasons?”

“Wh-what?” is my only response as I try to work through that dense, convoluted word vomit.

“And the murder mystery?” he goes on, shaking his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m surprised you didn’t realize how full of shit I was with that one. But you did me proud, working together to find the oh, so obvious culprit. Max. Flynn. I want you both. I want you to collaborate and co-write my biography. It’s what I’ve wanted all along, but I needed to give you time to work through your issues first. That’s what this has all been about. The other writers were nothing more than decoys.”

“Wait,” Flynn says, holding up a palm. “Are you saying this whole competition––the entire week––has been a ruse?”

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