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)
Her unwavering, brown-eyed gaze bleeds confidence one minute, but then she glances away like she’s blushing. All I know is she’s mesmerizing. It’s unfair to those of us who didn’t win the gene pool lottery. Even the tiny scar above her lip adds to her mysteriousness. It makes her look like she’s been through something. And the way she unhurriedly floats from one side of the room to the other has me in a stupid trance. I once stayed with a family who fostered a sixteen-year-old girl. She always looked calm and unbothered no matter the circumstances, just like June.
As if June knows she’s too cool for me, she fastens her helmet and eyes Savvy. “Thank you, Savvy.”
“Wait!” The word spews from my mouth like someone punched me in the gut.
June leans her back against the door to nudge it open, gaze on me.
This girl is so beautiful. My mouth dries up, and I feel Savvy and Callie staring at me as though I’m on the verge of saying something important. Every second of silence feels like ten. Yeah, I’m actually sweating through my shirt.
“Cat got your tongue?” June says.
No. A cat has never had my tongue. I’m the guy who has the first and last word with everything, even if it lands me in trouble.
With her, the words are slow, but they’re coming. Almost there—
June laughs. “Time’s up. Gotta go.” She turns and waves to a group of people climbing onto their e-bikes across the street.
“That was brutal,” Savvy says, wrinkling her nose while Callie cocks her head, studying me.
“Here it is.” A young dude with his hair in a ponytail and round wire glasses holds up a framed painting of the back of a little boy sitting on a park bench feeding ducks.
“That shade of gold frame makes the sun’s reflection on the water pop,” Savvy says.
Callie nods and wipes a tear from her eye. I can’t imagine what kind of painting would make me cry. Does money make people irrationally emotional about stupid stuff?
Ponytail dude sets it on the table behind the counter and slides foam over the glass, then cardboard corner protectors onto the frame. He shrink-wraps it and places it in a box with more padding before handing it to me as Callie taps her credit card. My eyes bug out at the number of zeros. Am I in charge of carrying a painting worth more money than I make in a year?
“Thank you, Mrs. Rawlings. I hope you enjoy it,” Savvy says. “It was nice meeting you, Flynn.”
“Thank you,” I say louder than necessary to make sure I get points for good manners.
Callie returns the hint of a smile, then leads the way out the door.
“When’s the last time someone took you shopping?” she asks as I set the painting in the back of the car.
“Legally?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes. Legally.”
“Can’t remember. Maybe never.”
“Follow me.” She takes off in the opposite direction. Her short legs move pretty fast for her age.
Is she okay leaving her painting in the back of her car where someone could steal it? I know a few people who would have that out of there in no time. Not so long ago, I was one of those people.
Chapter Three
Flynn
Mrs. Rawlings leads me to a high-end clothing store. I’m not a shopper, but I’m sure the inside of this place is much nicer than the inside of a jail cell. So I open the door and glance down the street as she steps inside.
“I’ll be right back,” I mumble, eyeing the end of the block, where June is taking a photo of her tour group in front of a sculpture. “I promise,” I add without waiting for Callie’s permission before I sprint down the sidewalk and cross the street, holding out my hand to give an apologetic wave to the man in the BMW who has to slam on his brakes so he doesn’t hit me.
“Let me take it,” I say to June as she holds up her phone to take pictures of the group posing with their bikes.
She squints at me.
“Then you can be in the photo too,” I say, taking her phone and nodding for her to get in the picture.
“I don’t need to be in—” she starts to say.
“Just say thank you and get over there.” I grin with way more confidence than I had at the gallery.
She slides into the middle, and I take several shots. Then one of the tourists asks her about a nearby restaurant, so I quickly add myself to her contacts, including a goofy selfie, then I set a reminder on her phone for eight o’clock tonight: Call Flynn, the sexy guy from the gallery.
“Thanks,” she says with a laugh when I hand her phone back to her. “I was going to take a selfie with them in the background. It’s the customary tour photo. You ruined that.”