Page 50 of Play the Last Track
“Hm.” I take another sip of my glass. Heather is … very pretty. She just isn’t someone I imagined Flynn would go for. She’s got short brown hair, is stick thin, and her social media presence is dubious at best. She’s been canceled for things she’s said on Instagram many times now.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.
I glance up at him over my glass. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“That she isn’t my type.” I mash my lips together, staying silent, annoyed that he knows me well enough to guess right. “You’re an open book.”
He lifts a hand and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “I am?”
“Tonight, you are.”
“I’m not always?” I ask quietly.
“Not all the time. Sometimes you can be really hard to read, and there isn’t a chance in hell that I’d know what you were thinking. But, tonight …” Flynn runs a gentle finger down my bare arm, and I suppress a shiver. “Tonight, you’re giving me everything.”
His tone is deep. The words come out in a husky rasp, leaning closer to me as he says them. The shiver I tried to suppress rolls through me anyway, and I feel myself leaning in too.
It feels as if we stare at each other for an eternity. The air thickens, the silence engulfing us. I forget that we’re in a car. I forget that we are headed for a charity event with a few hundred other people. I forget it all as I stare at Flynn Reed, the man who said he can read me.
You’re so closed off. I never know what you want. You’re emotionless unless it’s a sarcastic comment.
Grant’s words swirl around my head, over and over.
Whenever I asked him to do something, whenever I tried to communicate what I needed from him to feel better in our relationship, Grant would reply that he wasn’t a mind reader. That he didn’t ever know what I truly wanted because I’m so closed off. So emotionless. His exact words, in fact. I could only ever be happy and laughing around him; anything else, and he would switch off. He would ignore me until I was back to my ‘normal self,’ as he called it.
It was exhausting.
But this man, the one sitting with me in a town car, wearing a bowtie, just told me I’m an open book to him.An open book.
The car suddenly stops, and the driver’s voice filters through the speakers in the back of the car. “We’re here, Mr. and Mrs. Reed.”
My gaze snaps to the window. Sure enough, the car has stopped outside the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. There are hordes of press waiting for the attendees, camera lights flashing nonstop. The partition’s up, so I can’t correct the driver on our status—not married, definitely not married—but I narrow my gaze and look back at Flynn.
He’s smiling, shaking his head with a playful grin. “Relax, it’s Hollie’s idea of a joke. She’s stirring the pot.” My shoulders relax a little. Flynn holds out his hand to me. “Ready?”
I bite my bottom lip but nod. I slide my palm against his, and his grip tightens, holding my hand firmly as he opens the door and steps out. I put the glass back in the ice bucket on the floor of the car and slide across the seat to the open door. Flynn stands directly in front of me, helping me out of the car and shielding me from the cameras while I adjust my dress.
“You good?”
“Yeah, yes,” I say, doing a last check of myself. “Oh, wait, my phone. It doesn’t fit in my bag—”
Without me asking, Flynn takes my phone from the hand not holding his and slips it into his pocket. I smile gently. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He tugs on my hand and closes the car door behind us. A small man with a headset on asks for our names, and when Flynn tells him, he lets us know that we are scheduled to walk the carpet for the event, and then we can go inside.
The entire event is nothing like I have ever experienced before. People calling Flynn’s name, people callingmyname. Reporters asking who I’m wearing and which of the many charities we will donate to tonight. Flynn makes a few comments, talking about charities for men’s mental health and domestic violence survivors that he’ll donate to.
He’s switched on. His persona, the cheeky, charming number forty-nine, is out in full force. I wonder if the Broncos know just how much the press loves him. Just how well he represents the team when at events like this. I hope so, because seeing him right now, in his other element and playing to the public’s whim, even I can tell that he’s not just good at throwing and catching a ball.
I follow him along the carpet, staying silent as he answers questions and smiling as we take pictures. His warm hand doesn’t leavemy hip the entire time, and it burns my skin through the satin fabric of the dress.
When we finally make it through the front doors and find our seats, I’m falling into my chair just to get off my feet. Flynn sits down, frowning. I look around, wondering what could have possibly upset him, but then he leans forward and drags my chair closer to his.
Our thighs are pressed against one another, and it’s causing my body to have all sorts of reactions. My stomach is turning, my heart is pounding, but most of all, I start to feel a gentle yet insistent throb between my legs.
Friends.We’re friends.
No matter how many swoony things he does tonight.
