Page 11 of Whiskey Darling
With a nonchalant movement of his fingers, he flicks at imaginary lint on his jeans. His mouth opens, shuts, then with a resolute air, he asks a question I never expected.
“Did you enjoy being under Connor Morgan’s tutelage?”
Ireland is a touchy subject. Whenever it comes up, my body stiffens. It’s worse when Flynn is asking the questions.
I drain my water bottle before answering. “I learned a great deal.”
Anxiety grips me with his unblinking gaze. Does he know how awful Connor was? He must know. Everyone probably knows.
“Not what I asked,” he murmurs.
“I know what you asked,” I reply honestly. “I’m not sure how I should answer.”
The sharpness in Flynn’s eyes eases a little. “He can be a real bastard.”
I toy with my salad, pushing the lettuce around with the fork. “Then you understand why Iwon’tanswer. What happened there doesn’t affect my ability here. If you were that curious, you should have asked before offering me a contract.”
Flynn’s jaw hardens into a piece of granite.
“Was the recommendation based on being something more than his star student?”
“Are you purposefully trying to insult me, or is your rudeness accidental?” I’m sure my glare is dripping with ice. Flynn has done this over the past few weeks on our rare interactions. Questioned my abilities. Subtly insinuated my skills aren’t really skills at all, but a product of partiality based on sexual favors. Even after the impromptu audition that first afternoon in his office, he still doubts my abilities. Well, the marketing aspect of it anyway.
“I believe you know the answer to that, Darling,” he smirks. “Nothing I do is unintentional.”
At that moment, a gust of wind catches my empty water bottle, sending it flying off the table. It hits the terrace, skittering across the irregular flagstones like a translucent bug.
And lands right between Flynn’s expensive boots.
