Page 8 of Kissing Flynn

Of course, he is. As silly as it seems, every tiny little baby step I take in building a relationship with Barnard is a step back for the others. Including Flynn. And if anyone else were to offer up permission for him to use their given name right now, it would make them look like they’re desperately mimicking me, wouldn’t it?

Or at the very least, behind the curve.

And Flynn’s mad he didn’t think of it himself. Hell, I’d be mad, too, if the roles were reversed.

And…I’m sympathizing with him again. Comparing us, like we still have anything in common. Which we don’t.

Absolutely not.

No freaking way.

Six

Flynn

If telling Barnard Roxberry’s story wasn’t a coup for any writer, I’d leave right now. The man is completely unreasonable.

I don’t know if the woman he dismissed had an ulterior motive for asking the questions she did or not, but she could’ve just as easily been making polite conversation with that valet. Did Barnard even talk to her about it before dismissing her?

But then again, rules are rules.

On top of the tension of having to monitor every word that passes my lips lest I be ousted, too, I have to keep my cool while being around Max. And she’s obviously just as uncomfortable as I am, if the way she said my name with such disdain earlier was any indication. She can barely stand to look at me, but she’s all friendly smiles and “call me Max” with Barnard.

I bow my head and close my eyes briefly as I grind my teeth together. I can’t believe I’m fucking jealous. Of an old man. Over Maxine Nolan.

If anyone had told me before this trip I would be in this position, I’d have laughed in their face. Or hugged them and encouraged them to seek professional help.

But here I am, fully admitting to myself that I don’t like the way she’s smiling at him because that’s the way she used to smile at me. Before…everything.

The grown-up part of me thinks I should just talk to her. To figure this out. To clear the air and try to move forward as professionals. But just thinking about it makes the anger flood back in.

One drunken impulse she never should’ve acted on changed my life, forever. First, a punch to the gut by the feel of her mouth on mine. Then a punch to the jaw by her brother. It was like all of my dreams coming true then morphing into the worst of nightmares in an instant.

Maybe if she really felt something for me and wasn’t just drunk and trying to annoy Milo, things would’ve been different. But she didn’t. She didn’t care at all that she nearly cost me two best friends that night.

She did cost me one. Herself. Milo and I are still close, but it took a long time to earn back the trust Max’s actions––and my own response to them––caused me to lose. All on a whim.

I blink and refocus on the present as Barnard says, “Tomorrow, you will each have a thirty-minute time slot to impress me. To sell yourself as the best person for the job. If Miss Mars hadn’t been dismissed, one of you would’ve been cut after the interviews, but because of her departure, you now have two opportunities to impress me before someone else is removed from the competition.”

Without my permission, my eyebrows scrunch low over my eyes. I already knew I’d be competing with the others for this job, but the way Barnard is describing it, he’s set this week up like a reality television show. Like some weird mash-up between “The Apprentice” and “The Bachelor.” Will he hand out flowers to reveal who’s staying another day?

My gaze skips around the room, surreptitiously searching for hidden cameras. Is he filming this for his own entertainment?

I meet Max’s amber gaze accidentally as I look around, and she looks a little green around the gills. Just like I feel. I shake my head and break the connection, turning my attention back to Barnard, who’s finishing up his speech.

“Any questions?”

Yeah. At least a dozen.

But like everyone else around the table, I hold my tongue. Questioning Barnard’s motives this early in the game would only serve as a death sentence as far as the competition is concerned. I just need to keep my head down, impress the man however I can, and try not to break any rules.

Everyone resumes eating, and the sounds of silverware meeting porcelain is almost overwhelming with the lack of human voices filling the void. No one is speaking. At all.

What are we going to say? We can’t ask questions of Barnard. I suppose we could talk to each other, but doing so would emphasize our lack of conversation with our host, which would come off as rude.

Maybe I should try to talk to him. I would just have to be careful to only make statements and ask no questions. Setting my fork down beside my plate, I take a cleansing breath before turning toward Barnard with a smile.

“You have a really beautiful home,” I say, then internally flinch at how lame the basic observation is.

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