Page 6 of Kissing Flynn

That it was a big joke. A ploy to rile Milo up. It was revenge for some trivial thing he’d done to piss her off earlier in the day.

Of course, she’d had no idea how I felt about her, so her actions may not have been intentionally cruel, but they speared me just the same. Milo’s anger dissipated when he saw how defeated I was, and his tone softened as he told me––in not so many words––to never touch his sister again.

Things were never the same after that. Max and I avoided each other as much as possible. I stopped going to family dinners, and she stopped coming to the bar with Milo and me. I lost her friendship, but I still had Milo’s.

And I decided that was enough.

Once I finish hanging my clothes in the closet and shove my suitcase beneath the bed so it will be out of the way, I walk over to the window. The view is spectacular. A blanket of thick, green grass flows out from the mansion all the way to the beach. Beyond the sand is beautiful blue water as far as the eye can see.

I wonder how long Max stood at her own window, staring at the ocean like this. She always loved watching the waves roll in.

Rubbing a palm down my face, I move away from the window and head into the bathroom to freshen up. I need to stop thinking about Max. I’m here for one reason––to convince Barnard Roxberry I’m the best person for the job. That I am perfectly suited to write his biography and a better choice than the others…including Max Nolan.

It’s almost time for dinner, so I head out, locking the door behind me. The hallway is empty, and when I pause beside Max’s door, I don’t hear any noises coming from behind it. Realizing I look like a creeper, I quickly straighten and make my way down the long hall.

When I get to the top of the stairs, an angry blonde stomps toward me from the opposite direction and elbows me out of the way. It’s Katelynn Mars, the lifestyle blogger, and she doesn’t look happy as she marches down the stairs, her rolling suitcase thumping against each step behind her.

That’s weird.

I shake my head and skip down the staircase on light feet. As I reach the bottom, I hear Katelynn berating a valet as he loads her luggage into the back of a standard-sized golf cart. I guess she’s leaving.

The valet steps back inside, closes the door behind him with a quiet sigh, then straightens when he notices me watching.

“The dining room is this way, Mr. Nightingale,” he says, formally holding an arm out to his right.

“Thank you,” I reply, dying to ask him what’s going on with Katelynn, but knowing I can’t.

Questions about Barnard, his life, this house, or any of the guests here are strictly forbidden. I can’t risk it.

The doors to the dining room are standing open, but I freeze on the threshold. Max, in a dark green slinky dress with her long, red hair hanging in fat waves down her back, is already here. I watch as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and studies the place cards on the table, probably looking for her name.

She looks…good. Really good.

I swallow past the lump in my throat as she starts to turn toward me, and I step inside the room before she catches me just standing there, staring.

And when her amber eyes meet mine, I freeze again. Gathering my wits, I cross my arms over my chest and feign nonchalance to the best of my ability.

“Hello, Max.”

Five

Max

I’ve been checking out the fancy place settings and crystal goblets, trying to determine if my dress is nice enough for a dinner with Barnard Roxberry when I decide it’s not, and I need to change. But when I turn to go, Flynn appears out of nowhere like a ghost.

Or a demon.

“Hello, Max.”

I narrow my gaze at his cocky stance and even cockier tone, unable to decide if he’s trying to annoy me or if it just comes naturally. Either way, I refuse to play along.

Against my will, my eyes travel down the length of him in his periwinkle blue button down––rolled at the sleeves to reveal thick, muscled forearms––and black dress pants. And I can’t deny, he looks…good.

I didn’t allow myself to really look at him earlier, and now that I have, I have to admit the last five years have been kind to Flynn. I noticed on the plane that he’s bulkier than before, and seeing him standing there in front of me in all his glory, my observation has been proven correct. His dark hair is thick and clean-cut, the opposite of the shaggy style he wore in college. It makes him look more mature. More professional.

More attractive.

Clearing my throat and pushing the wayward thought aside, I give him a slight nod. “Flynn.”

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