Page 41 of The Fling (Close Quarters 2)

For a moment we eye one another up, like two territorial animals, neither one willing to make the first move.

I break first. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

More awkward silence. Wow. It feels like the only time we communicate clearly is when our clothes are flying off. Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind peeling him out of that suit right now. “Do you want to do this standing, or should I sit?”

It comes off a little snappier than I want.

“Testy.” His lip quirks.

“Annoying.” I shoot him a withering glare before I breeze toward his desk and plonk myself down into a leather chair, noting the way his gaze glides all over me. I can’t explain the energy between us—it’s crackling and tense and so damn addictive it should come with a substance abuse warning label.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask, dumping my box of photos on his desk.

“I thought you might have one.”

I snort. “Why would I bother? You’d just thwart it like you did last time.”

“Still bitter about that, huh?” He lowers himself into his chair, popping the button on his jacket. His suit is perfectly fitted to his muscular body and it highlights his broad shoulders and chest.

“I’m not bitter, you’re just a poor sport.”

“I don’t like to lose.”

“You play dirty.”

“So do you.” He shrugs in a way that makes me want to wipe that self-satisfied expression off his face. Yet, despite the smirk, his eyes are like twin blue flames.

Where was this heat when he ghosted on the weekend? He left me alone while the sheets cooled around me. Left me alone after he saw me in my most vulnerable state. I remember that feeling—my ex walked away more than once to keep me in place.

To remind me thathehad the upper hand.

“I was thinking we could do a timeline of their lives, and maybe share a story from childhood, one from their teenage years and one from adulthood.” I keep my mind focused on the task in front of me. Flipping the lid off the box of photos, I pull some pictures out. “We can figure out how to tie the stories to opposite parts of their personalities, to show how they complement one another.”

I’m really hoping he’ll have something good to say about Mike...because I sure as hell don’t.

Flynn is still and silent as a mountain, watching me with focus and intensity. It’s unnerving. Unsettling. And yet a delicious heat blooms deep in my belly, fanning through me like rays of sunshine.

Focus, you idiot. You need tostopfalling for guys like him.

“Did you bring your photos along? You said we could scan them all here.” I’m clutching desperately for something safe to talk about. Something neutral.

But he continues to watch me.

“I’ve actually got a funny story about this one.” I hold up a picture of Presley and me. We’re both covered from head to toe in red cake and pink buttercream and wearing giant smiles. “We ended up having a food fight, because my mother only baked one birthday cake and we didn’t want to blow the candles out together. I started it...”

I’dalwaysstarted it, as a kid. I was a firecracker and Presley was a calm blue ocean.

“I took a fist-full of cake and mushed it into her hair. My mother was horrified, but then Presley turned around and did the same thing to me.” I laugh at the memory. “We went through the whole cake in minutes and the food dye tinted our hair pink.”

Flynn’s lip twitches. But still nothing.

Am I going to have to carry this entire conversation? If I had some cake in front of me right now, I’d definitely mush some in his hair.

“Will you fucking say something?” I slap the photos down on his desk. “I’m not going to play whatever power game you’re getting off on right now.”

He looks me dead in the eye. “Did you get that top in the kids’ section?”

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