Page 7 of Kissing Flynn

He parts his lips as if to speak, then he seals them shut again when the sound of many heels tapping against the tile floors echoes behind him. He moves to the right, circling the table to put it between us as five of the other writers file into the room. As we all find our seats at the table, I’m relieved to see the placard next to mine isn’t Flynn’s. It says “Katelynn Mars,” a name that seems vaguely familiar to me.

My relief is short-lived when I sit, however, because Flynn slides into the chair directly across from me. God, that’s just as bad. It’s going to be hard to ignore him when every time I glance up, he’s right there in my face.

Damn it.

“Welcome, everyone.”

All thoughts of Flynn disintegrate as Barnard’s booming voice cuts off the whispered conversations happening around the table. He glides through the room to take his seat at the head, sliding into the chair between Flynn and me. It might be a good sign that he sat me on his right, but then again, he sat Flynn on his left, so maybe the arrangement was random.

That was harsh. I know, deep down, that Flynn has just as good of a shot at scoring this job as I do. I’ve read his stuff, though I’d never admit it out loud to anyone. He’s an amazing writer. I would never admit that, either.

“As you can see,” Barnard says, interrupting my thoughts once again, “Miss Mars is no longer with us.”

I look over at the empty chair on my right with confusion. Did she decide to bow out? Why would she do that? We’ve only just arrived. And from what I’ve seen of this house and Isle Halcyon, as a whole, this place is amazing. There’s no way she’d choose to leave. Right?

“Miss Mars immediately started asking the valets questions about the household staff. About how many people work here, what they do, and if they enjoy their jobs,” he says, proving Katelynn did not, in fact, leave by choice. “The rules were clear. No questions and no ferreting out information about me and my life.”

Out of some long-dormant habit, I look over at Flynn with wide eyes. He meets my gaze, shrugging his shoulders so slightly, no one would notice if they weren’t looking directly at him. When I realize we’re kind of having a moment, a silent conversation like the ones we’ve shared countless times in the past, I shift my gaze back to Barnard while stiffening my spine.

Nope. Not commiserating, or whatever that was, with Flynn Nightingale. Not now. Never again.

No one speaks as the servers enter the room, delivering plates filled with prime rib, delicate pasta coated in white sauce, and steamed broccoli. Picking up the neatly folded cloth napkin beside my plate, I drape it over my lap and pick up the goblet of wine a server just filled for me.

Taking a small sip, I surreptitiously study Barnard. How is this supposed to work? How can I have a conversation with him, get to know him as he gets to know me without asking any questions? It would be different if this were a standard job interview. He’d ask the questions, and I’d answer them. Simple and direct.

But there is nothing standard about this situation. I and the other prospects are here for a week, each of us hoping to find a way to shine while earning Barnard’s respect and trust. Professionally speaking, of course.

I’ll be walking an invisible tightrope this week. One misstep, and I’ll plummet to my death.

God, that’s morbid.

I push the thoughts away and set my glass down before picking up my fork. Stabbing a piece of meat, I push it between my lips and almost groan at how delicious and tender it is. No one can say the food here is bad. Barnard obviously has the best of the best working in his kitchen.

My wayward and disobedient gaze flits in Flynn’s direction again as I chew. He’s not eating yet, just staring down at his food with a look of deep concentration. I take the opportunity to study him while he’s not paying attention.

My gaze skirts over his wrinkled forehead, his low-drawn eyebrows, and his tightly pressed lips. I wonder what he’s thinking about. Probably the same thing I was, trying to come up with a plan to earn Barnard’s respect and admiration without breaking any of the rules.

And there I go, commiserating with him again.

I swallow the bite I’ve been chewing and take another drink of my wine while forcing my gaze away from him. Looking back down at my own plate, I grit my teeth.

Flynn Nightingale and I do not think alike. We have nothing in common. He cannot read my mind, nor can I read his.

Hell, he’s probably concentrating really hard on holding in a fart, or something.

The random, ridiculous thought has me choking, fighting to swallow the sip of wine and not send it spewing across the table on a burst of laughter.

“Miss Nolan, are you quite alright?” Barnard asks, sobering me instantly.

“Yes, of course,” I say, turning my full attention to the man. “And please, call me Maxine. Or Max. Either will work.”

“Okay, then. Max,” he says, the name a bit tentative like he’s testing the feel of it on his tongue.

My traitorous gaze inadvertently flicks in Flynn’s direction to see him staring at Barnard with a slight frown. As if he senses my perusal, Flynn’s blue eyes snap toward me for a fraction of a second before dropping back to his plate.

He’s upset. Even after all these years, I can still read his tells. The bulging of a muscle in his cheek as he grinds his teeth. The slight twitch of his right eyelid. The tilt of his head as if he’s popping a joint in his neck.

Is he angry that Barnard and I are getting friendly––if you can even call it that? I huff out a breath.

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