Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Mom frowns. “Which is most everyone.”
I nod. “So I’m taking it slowly.”
“That’s best,” Dad says.
Mom eyes him with surprise. Secrets nearly ended their relationship before they got married.
“Oh, in case it comes up in conversation tonight, he bought me a car.” I offer a tight grin as they gawk at me. “Nothing fancy. It was only twenty-five hundred dollars. He didn’t know I don’t have a driver’s license. It’s a really, really sweet gesture. Especially for someone who doesn’t have a lot of money.”
Their expressions remain skeptical, so I jump into my list of swoon-worthy things about him. Starting with how he made me feel cool for having a scar on my lip.
“Oh! Here he comes,” I say, pushing back in my chair at the Italian restaurant. “Just be cool,” I remind my parents.
Mom chuckles behind her wine glass. “I think you’re the one who needs to be cool.”
Am I shaking with excitement and nerves as he worms his way toward us? Yes. Should I hug him? Kiss him? Neither? Both?
Gah!
He looks so sexy in his dark jeans and white button-down with the sleeves rolled just below his elbows.
Slicked-back hair.
A day’s worth of stubble along his jaw.
“You look beautiful,” he says as if my parents aren’t waiting for an introduction. Then he leans in and kisses my cheek, resting his hand on my lower back. “You’re giving me dirty thoughts,” he whispers in my ear.
My whole body goes up in flames. Did they hear him? God, I hope not.
“Thank you,” I murmur, then I clear my throat. “Flynn, I’d like you to meet my parents, Henna and Bodhi.”
My dad stands and shakes Flynn’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Our daughter has been singing your praises all afternoon.” Dad winks at me.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Flynn.” Mom stands and hugs him.
Oh god. This is happening.
“Nice to meet you both.” Flynn lowers partway to his chair before standing upright again. “After you,” he says, holding the back of my chair.
Mom gives me a tiny approving nod.
When Flynn sits next to me, he rests his hand on my leg. High on my leg. What’s happening? I’ve thrown myself at him, and he’s given me crumbs. But now that we’re in public, with my parents, he’s thinking dirty thoughts and teasing me with a seductively placed hand, fingers brushing my inner thigh exposed from my short skirt?
“Did you have a good flight?” Flynn asks my parents, reaching for his glass of water.
They look at each other for a split second, nodding in sync.
“Do you like to fly?” I ask Flynn before either of my parents elaborates on their trip.
“Dunno.” He shrugs before sipping his water. “Never been on a plane. Never left Minnesota, for that matter. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve crossed the border into Iowa once or twice.”
“How old are you?” Mom asks.
“Twenty-five.”
“And you’ve never been on a plane?” Her eyebrows rise.
Flynn shakes his head like it’s no big deal, like it’s perfectly normal to be twenty-five and have no travel experience.
“I know you’ve been to California and here, obviously,” he says to me. “Have you been to other states?”
My dad chokes on his drink.
I scowl at him while he presses his fist to his mouth. Then I smile softly at Flynn. “Yeah, I’ve been to a few other states. What are you going to order?”
Just as I think things are back on track—food is ordered, and Mom lists off a few places they plan to see while in Minneapolis—my dad derails the evening again. “So, Flynn,” he says. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”
I wrinkle my nose at him. Could he be any more archaic? The gleam in his blue eyes negates his seriousness, but I don’t know if Flynn sees it.
“Well”—Flynn finishes chewing the warm bread that he dipped in olive oil—“I have not been in her pants, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Mom snorts, spitting a few drops of wine, instantly blushing as it splatters toward my plate.
I want to die, but there’s no time for that because Flynn returns his hand to my leg and his pinky finger brushes my crotch. With a tiny gasp, I cover his hand with mine, but I don’t know if I want to push him away or keep him there.
“I like you, Flynn,” Dad says, tossing an approving grin in our direction. “I like you a lot.”
Flynn’s shoulders push back an extra inch as he takes a breath and returns his own brand of an approving smile. Does Flynn know what the word intention means? And why is my dad letting him get away with a ridiculous answer? Intentions are plans for the future. Flynn told my dad what had not happened in the past. That’s not an intention.
I bite my lower lip when Flynn’s pinky finger makes another brush between my legs. Through the corner of my eye, I catch the twitch of a smile along Flynn’s lips just before he stabs his fork into his salad.