Page 200 of The Winslow Brothers

It’s not long before I’m pulling my cell out of my jacket pocket and firing off a text.

Me:We need to talk.Call me as soon as you can, please and thank you.

And then, when I think about the awkward way I ended our last conversation—when I found out his hot bod was only covered by a damn towel and proceeded to ramble like a moron—I type out a second text and hit send.

Me: Also, please don’t FaceTime me when you’re in a towel again because this is a serious, non-towel-wearing conversation.

Once my words fill our text box and I reread what I wrote, insta-mortification sets in.

Oh my God! Why did you send that?! Fix it!

Me: Ha. I’m kidding, obviously! Call me in whatever you like! Fully clothed, balls out, rocking out with your cock out! Doesn’t matter!

Ha-ha-ha, I’m an idiot.

Me: Holy hell. Can you just go ahead and ignore all of that?

Me: Oops. Besides the call me part. Still do that. Okay. Bye.

Daisy

After spending ten minutes on self-loathing and theoretical questions about life brought on by my text faux pas with Flynn, I eventually invested myself in finishing my staging plans for one of the properties Damien wants done before I relocate to New York, and my workday just sort of flew by.

I didn’t have time to sit and stew, and for that, I’m thankful. Because now that I’m done with my task list for the day, each and every one of my thoughts about those messages has come back with full force.

Hindsight is a bit of a bitch, and I realize now that my messages probably came off as a confusing combination of weird-as-hell and oddly serious.Not exactly the impression I’m going for, which, of course, makes me want to fix it.The solution teasingly seems like it rests in more messages. But thankfully—in part because of my age, and in part because I’m a lifetime member of the foot-in-the-mouth club—I know that’s notactuallytrue. It will, however, probably make me sound like a crazy, nagging shrew to a man who’s done nothing but try to help me, and that’s the very last thing I want.

On a sigh, I drop my phone back onto my kitchen counter and busy myself with grabbing a yogurt and some granola. It’s a littleafter nine in the evening and this is a terrible dinner, but going to the effort to cook or order takeout at this point feels akin to starting a 5K run knowing my blood sugar is already low.

Regardless, I only get through one bite of my yogurt before my phone starts ringing from its abandoned spot on the counter, and I slip-slide across the kitchen like a newborn colt on a patch of ice trying to get to it in my stocking feet. I fumble and bumble attempting to set the yogurt down with the spoon inside, and I finally pick it up on what I know to be one of the last notes of my ringtone without looking at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Daisy,” the caller says, the rich rumble of his voice immediately recognizable. A whole-body shiver starts at my toes and curls right into my buzzing brain. It’s weird, but I think the rarity of my new husband’s words ups their potency or something.

“Flynn.” I giggle involuntarily. “On the phone. Talking.”

“You asked me to call.”

“I did. You’re right. It’s just…you, on the phone, where you literally have no option but to talk in order to communicate. It’s almost nonsensical.”

It’s as if the man has a set quota of words per day, not to be exceeded. In the modern age of social media, where everyone is pretending to be the very best version of themselves by spewing bullshit from their keyboard at every turn, that’s refreshing, to say the least.

I wonder what percentage of total words in his lifetime have been used while in the bedroom?

My cheeks flush pink when memories of the one and only night I spent with Flynn Winslow fill up my head like helium in a balloon. Holy moly, he didn’t hold back any words that night. If anything, he was completely uninhibited, and his frequent use of words only spurred my pleasure further.

That was a hot night. One for the damn record books.

“Daisy?”

“Yeah?”

“You wanted to talk?”

“Oh,right,” I respond and cringe through an embarrassed smile. Clearing my throat, I yank my mind out of the gutter and focus on the actual priority. “So, I have good news and sort of bad news, I guess. I got the okay from my boss for my move to New York, but since I have a few more staging projects to finish up, I probably won’t be able to get out there for another week. Possibly ten days if my plan to work like a dog comes up a couple barks short of a tail wag.”

The silence stretches out for what feels like forever.

---