Page 17 of Play the Last Track
I never wanted to set foot inside the place ever again. In fact, never might be too soon.
I shake my head again. I need to focus on the task at hand.
The terms. The rules.
I lift my fist to knock, but the door opens before I get a chance, and I’m left standing there, my arm suspended in mid air.
“Why does it take you a lifetime to walk up a path?”
I narrow my gaze. “Were you watching me?”
“Yes.”
“So honest.”
“Always am.”
I scoff. “Liar.”
Something in Flynn’s gaze softens, and it makes my stomach twist. “Katie—”
“Nope. No way. I am not here for that. I am here for—actually, you know what?” I raise my eyes to the sky and suck in another breath. “I can’t do this. Forget it. This was a bad idea.” I turn on my heel, about to make my way down the steps and back to my car so that I can drive away as fast as I can, when I feel a warm, calloused hand wrap around my wrist.
“Wait.” His voice is quiet and soft, pleading. “Come inside.”
I look over my shoulder and, for the first time in months, for the first time since that afternoon in Italy when I watched him flirt with a girl right in front of me after our night together, I look into his eyes.
Flynn Reed is gorgeous. Six foot four. Blond hair. Green eyes. Made of muscle.
Yet it’s the dimple in his cheek when he smiles, and the lines that appear beside his eyes when he laughs, and the way his presencemakes you feel comfortable and at ease, that makes him something like a god.
He has charm, yes, but when he speaks to you, he gives you his full attention. Like you’re the most interesting person in the world and he only ever wants to hear you, and you alone, speak for the rest of time. He asks questions and is curious, and when you ask him something, he answers with sincerity.
Well, most of the time.
He’s not the person the media makes him out to be. Not the playful boy that the team portrays him as on their social media every time he’s highlighted. He’s deeper than that. I saw the depth of him all those nights we stayed out by the pool, staring at the Italian sky, exchanging secrets, and believe me, I’ve experienced just how deep he can go. It’s not a night I will ever forget. And unlike my relationship with Grant, I don’t think I ever want to.
He’s aman, yet he’s still treated like a boy by everyone in his life. If Ivy’s right, even his mother still doesn't see him like she should. Grown, accomplished, talented.
“Come on, Katie. Just come inside and we can talk.” He lets go of my wrist, and my arm falls limp at my side. He opens the door wider and stands aside. “Justtalk. I promise.”
I stare at him, trying to find something I don’t like, don’t trust, in his expression. I sigh when I can only see sincerity and step past him into the house.
His scent completely engulfs me. The walls are painted in dark colors, and the stairs are a walnut wood. It’s moody and emotive. Yet, it’s inviting. I imagine on a sunny day, the light would stream through his front windows and turn it into a bright walkway.
Lining the walls are a few framed records. The Beatles. Queen. Frank Sinatra. Huh. That’s interesting. There’s a mix of differentmusicians hanging in his hallway. From rock to jazz, and even pop. I reach the end of the hall and smirk at the last record hanging.
“Taylor Swift? Really?”
“She’s a genius. You cannot deny that.” Flynn’s voice is quiet, deep and sensual, and oh so close as he follows me down the hall. I repress a shiver.
“I guess not.” I move into the open living and dining area. It’s fully furnished, decorated immaculately down to the fresh flowers in the vase on his dining room table. Across the back of the house on the first floor, with wide open windows looking out into the large back garden, his kitchen matches the dark and moody vibe of the rest of the house. Yet, the countertop is probably one of the most gorgeous pieces of butcher block I’ve ever seen.
“This is gorgeous,” I say, placing my bag gently down and running a hand on the smooth surface.
“One of a kind. Had it made specially for this kitchen.” He’s still so close, and when I glance back at him, he’s staring at my face like he’s studying one of his playbooks.
“It’s wonderful. The oak was a great choice.”
