Page 217 of The Winslow Brothers

“Work is good. Damien is still Damien. A powerhouse in Prada with no time for anyone’s shit.” I take a deep breath and pause to gather myself for the best truth I can come up with—the half-truth. “I’m actually in New York.”

“New York? Oh, that’s exciting! For the day or for the week?”

“For three months, actually.”

“What? Threemonths?”

“Yep. Dame had some special projects over here he wanted me to be involved in,” I lie, closing my eyes against the overwhelming wave of guilt nausea.Lie, lie, lie.

“Wow! That’s pretty incredible, but three months is a long hotel stay. Even hopeless wanderers like me need little touches of home every now and then. Is he flying you home on any of the weekends?”

I nearly draw blood from my tongue, working to keep myself from freaking out and spilling all the beans all over this phone conversation. “No, no trips home. But I’m… Well, I’m in an apartment not a hotel, so it’s not so bad.”

“Damien has a company property, I guess? No way you managed a three-month lease somewhere.”

“Mm-hmm. Something like that. I’m not really sure of the details.”

I roll my eyes into my head and suck my lips into my mouth.Gah.I have to get off the phone. I can’t take much more of this.

“Well, that’s great, love. I hope you have the best time. Oh, and don’t forget to give yourself some time away from work. Living somewhere on assignment like that, it’s so easy to grind yourself into the ground twenty-four hours a day. Treat yourself sometimes, okay?”

“Okay, Gwen. I’ll try.”

“Kisses, sweetie. My cab’s here to take me to the airport in Seattle. Let’s chat again soon.”

“Okay. Safe travels.”

“Thanks, darling. Bye!”

“Bye,” I wheeze, hanging up the phone with absolutely the last vestige of control I have left and dropping it to the counter. I immediately double over and grab my stomach, the cramps of discomfort from deceit wreaking havoc.

That was hard,I reason,but it was also for the best.Ultimately, this whole charade with Flynn is short-term. It’s going to come to an end, and if I’d told Gwen about it now, I’d have to explain why we were breaking up then. Because it is going to end—even if it didn’t seem so much like it was going to last night—and this will just be a blip in my history.

Gwen didn’t need to know. Now, though…I need a distraction. I glance over to the yellow pillows on Flynn’s beautiful leather couch, and an idea strikes me.

I won’t do much, I swear. Just enough to calm my nerves.

Yeah, that’s the ticket.

My hands shake slightly as I trim the last of the flower stems from the bouquet I got from the street vendor downstairs. They’re bright Gerbera daisies, reminiscent of the ones from our wedding with Marilyn, and it’s only now, in the light of Flynn’s nearly fucking renovated apartment—good going, Daisy—that it occurs to me what a poor choice they might be.

Cripes, what in the world is Flynn going to think about all this?

His couch and chairs are rearranged atop a new rug, he’s got new, tight black velvet barstools—one of which I’m sitting on—and cream-colored kiln-fired stoneware in the center of his island, and the regular non-Batcave entrance shelves in his bedroom are no longer empty. I also, kind of, maybe, changed out the hardware on both his kitchen and bathroom cabinets to a soft brushed brass that really livens up the masculinity of it all and added a throw blanket to the back of his leather couch so you can sit on it in shorts without getting cold.

I’ve never seen Flynn flip out, but I’m pretty sure if there were going to be a time, coming home to a completely rearranged apartment by his temporary, not-for-real wife would do it.

What was I thinking?!

The sound of Flynn’s keys in the door lock startles me into motion, and I jump up from my spot, scooping up the scrap of newspaper with the flower trimmings into my arms and speed walk it over to the trash. I push the matte black vase with thedaisies to the center of the counter and back toward the windows frantically, only stopping when the flesh of my palms touches glass.

This way, if things get really bad, I can just heave myself backward and hope that the force of my body is enough to make the double panes shatter.

Maybe plummeting to my death from the fifteenth floor is a little dramatic, but that’s where my mind goes in an emotional emergency of this caliber.

The door finally creaks open what feels like several light-years later, and as expected, Flynn takes one quick gander at the apartment and freezes dead in his tracks.

Oh crap, oh God.

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