Page 54 of Flipping His Script
It was just a different kind of worry, that's all.
Flynn's gaze drifted to my suitcase, and he frowned. I didn't bother looking. I didn't need to. As far as the suitcase, Iknewit was small and shabby.
The size, I didn't mind. I didn't have a lot in there, anyway – just undergarments, some makeup, and a few toiletries. Nothing else. After all, Flynn had made it painfully clear that my own clothes were entirely unacceptable.
Who knows, maybe he was right. I hadn't purchased anything new in forever. By now, even my undergarments were on the shabby side. It's not like they were disgusting or anything, but theywereold and faded, just like everything else in my life.
But what did it matter? I was the only one who ever saw them, especially these days, when I had no time or inclination to date.
In fact, the last time I'd had anything resembling a romantic relationship had been in college, before the bottom had dropped out, leaving me more worried about survival than sex.
With grim resignation, I reached down and picked up my suitcase. "So, what now?"
He flicked his head toward the staircase. "Go up and get unpacked. Then change your clothes. We're going out."
Out where?I glanced down at the casual dress that I'd arrived in. Yesterday, it had come from the pink closet, so it was surely acceptable, right?
I asked, "What's wrong with what I'm wearing now?" Before he could eventhinkto respond, I added, "Anddon'tsay it smells because Iknowthat it doesn't."
Of this, I was absolutely certain. I'd worn the dress yesterday for the manicure and then to the surprise hair appointment – meaning that the appointment had been a surprise to me, but not to Flynn.
Apparently, his assistant had arranged the whole thing.
By phone.
From the West Coast.
How lucky for me.
Later on, when I'd finally returned home from the whole nails-and hair-thing, I'd splurged on an extra load of laundry, just to make sure the dress was clean and fresh.
And then, to be absolutely certain that it didn't end up reeking of waffles, I'd kept the dress in my mom's closet, not my own, for fear that my work uniform might accidentally contaminate it.
Was I paranoid?
Definitely.
Even worse, I had a sneaky suspicion that Flynn was doing all of this on purpose, making me second guess everything just to keep me off-kilter.
And now, Flynn was saying, "You wore it yesterday."
"So?"
"So you're gonna wear it two days in a row?"
Damn it.In truth, I hadn't given it much thought. Back in high school, I never would've worn the same thing two days in a row. But that felt like a different lifetime ago.
Cripes, itwasa different lifetime ago.
But in my own defense, it's not like I'd worn the dress out in public with Flynn. During the manicure and hair appointments, he'd waited in the parking lot, behind the tinted windows of his car, leaving me to wonder why he'd insisted on accompanying me at all if he wasn't going to come inside.
I mean, I could've driven to the appointments myself. They were, after all, pre-paid.
Under any other circumstance, I might've felt like Cinderella getting ready for the ball. But not now, not with Flynn.
Mostly, I felt like Marie Antoinette, dressing for an appointment with the guillotine.
With a resigned sigh, I said, "Fine. If you want me to change, I'll change." I looked toward the stairs. "What should I wear? A dress? Or jeans? Or what?"
"Jeans," he said. "And a long-sleeve shirt, something nice."
I almost scoffed out loud. Everything in the closet was nice. In fact, every single item – even the casual stuff – was a lot nicer than anything I'd ever owned, even back in high school.
Reluctantly, I asked, "So, where are we going?"
"Lunch."
Lunch – that sounded safe enough, right?
Wrong.
