The Fling

Apparently, I’m being “overbearing” and “uptight” because I don’t want to go ahead with the costume party. Okay, and maybe it’s also because I told her she should step back and let me handle it all since I know what I’m doing (and by me, I mean Francis.) I disagree that costume parties are “fun” (they’re not) and “creative” (double nope) and “perfect for such a happy couple” (of course they seem happy, they’re spending an exorbitant amount of money to announce to the world that they’re in love...they have to seem happy).

Call me cynical—many do. But I’ve never understood the over-the-top nature of weddings. If you’re really in love with someone, why do you need all the fanfare? Why do you need the audience?

But I’ll keep that opinion to myself.

I fire back an email that shuts the discussion down. I’m happy to compromise on other things, but it feels like she’s being purposefully difficult.

A second later, Francis pops her head into my office. She’s wearing that lip-pursed, motherly face again. “That was a bit harsh, Flynn.”

“What? I told her it’s not happening and she’s wasting my time by being argumentative,” I reply, leaning back in my chair. “I’ve tried to compromise on something else, maybe the menu or colour scheme, but she’s stomping her feet like an angry toddler.”

“You’re used to people bending to your will.” My assistant smirks, like she’s got grudging respect for the other woman. “And she’s not.”

“She’ll run out of hot air eventually. This wedding is going to be enough of a circus as it is.” My cousin is a more is more kinda guy—as was evident by the enormous rock he gave his fiancée. And the fact that he proposed to her in the most outlandish way possible, with multiple hot air balloons custom printed with their names and “will you marry me?” on the side. “I keep thinking how much my mother would have loved it.”

“Is that why you seem so prickly about the whole thing?”

“No, I’m more worried about stuff ending up in the papers. He’s got a habit of making a fanfare and getting bad press for it.” I rake a hand through my hair. “And with everything hinging on these trials...”

“Ah,” she said. “So that’s what it’s about.”

I look at the picture of my niece. Zoe is seven and she was diagnosed with Batten disease two years ago. It’s extremely rare. Most people with Batten disease die in their teens or early twenties. There’s no cure. This is why I work as hard as I do. This is why I worry about things like my stupid cousin drawing attention to our family name for all the wrong reasons. I can’t risk people not wanting to donate money to our cause because they think we’re a pack of idiots.

Call me a bastard. Call me selfish and a killjoy. I don’t care, if it means my company might find some way to help people like Zoe. To help her dad, who’s already starting to grieve for all the time he likely won’t have with her.

“Let me take care of it,” Francis says. “I’ll sort it out so you don’t have to deal with it anymore.”

“What would I do without you?”

“Lord knows,” she mutters as she walks away, her low, sensible heels clacking against the hardwood floor.

Outside, the city is bathed in inky darkness. It’s almost midnight and we’re the last two left, like always. I tell Francis to go home every night around seven, but she’s as much of a workaholic as I am. I let her take every Friday afternoon off to pick up her grandson from school so they can spend time together, but that doesn’t make up for the hours she puts in. I make a mental note to write her a cheque this week as a thank-you.

Sighing, I pack up my laptop. I’ll spend another hour on the computer sifting through emails when I go home. I’m on pins and needles while we wait for results of a gene therapy trial that’s running currently, so it’s not like I’m going to sleep properly anyway. I head out of the office and stand by Francis’s desk, making sure she packs up, too.

Outside, I walk as though my body is being drawn by some magnetic force. The second I think about setting foot in my apartment, my mind drifts to Blondie. Knowing she’s on the other side of the wall is the purest of tortures.

I’ve never met a woman like her before—not one who was so daring and who didn’t give a crap what I thought about her. It’s refreshing, frankly, because most people are putting on a front, playing a role, trying to seem more important than they are. But Blondie is who she is.

I walk into 21 Love Street and nod at the security guy behind the desk. The building is quiet and my footsteps echo. I’m the lone passenger in the elevator. As I walk down the hall, my eyes linger on the apartment at the end—number 406. How easy it would be to keep walking past my door to hers, and knock.

I’m already imaging her answering in that flimsy, threadbare white T-shirt and pink underwear that had me salivating last night. I’d love to see that wild, white-blond hair tumbling over her shoulders and all around her body.

I shake off the feeling and head straight to my door, determined not to let the images distract me. But just as I’m about to reach for my keys I notice a little piece of paper. It’s been carefully folded in half and wedged between the door and the frame.

I pull it out.

Tonight it’s your turn. Call me when it’s late. D.

D. I wonder what her name is.

I push my front door open and stand in the middle of my apartment, my eyes still locked onto the note and the number scrawled at the bottom. Her handwriting is loopy and a little erratic, the g’s and l’s taking up more space than they should. There’s nothing efficient about her style. It’s wild and free, probably scrawled quickly and without much consideration.

I crumple the note, toss it into the wastepaper basket by my bookshelf and continue toward my bedroom. I shower quickly, intending to get into something comfortable and then open up my laptop. But when I come back out to the lounge room, my eyes immediately go to the wastepaper basket.

I won’t go to her apartment and I won’t invite her to mine.

No casual sex. That’s the rule.

But what about phone calls? It’s a loophole and my brain loves a flaw in a carefully formed plan. I dig out the crumpled paper and reach for my phone. And for the second night in a row, I ignore my instincts.

Blondie picks up on the third ring.

CHAPTER SIX (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)

Drew

“YOU SAID TO call when it was late.”

I’m hazy and still within slumber’s firm grip, but the sound of a gravelly voice that’s rich like dark chocolate and sinful as a forbidden tryst has me stretching my body. Waking myself. I’m a little shocked he called.

“What time is it?” I’m on the couch, wearing the T-shirt from last night under a blanket that’s cosy and warm.

“Twelve thirty,” he says.

“Did you just get home?”

“I did.”

“Why do you work so late?” I snuggle into the corner of the couch and pull the blanket up to my chin. There’s something nostalgic about this—a late-night call when I know I should be asleep. I feel like a naughty teenager, sneaking time away with her crush.

“I’m a busy man.”

“Not so busy that you don’t have time to watch a little live entertainment.” I bite down on my bottom lip, stifling a smile at the appreciative grunt on the other end of the line. I try to picture him. Is he standing by his window hoping I’ll be there again? Or is he in his bed, in boxer briefs and with his chest bare? Or maybe he’s in a towel.

“You put on one hell of a show,” he says. There’s a darkness to his voice and it’s making my heart flutter.

“It felt a little one-sided,” I admit. “I showed you mine, but you didn’t show me yours.”

“Is it so bad to watch?”

The question sends a delicious shiver through me. “No, I like watching. I like listening, too.”

When he chuckles it’s like someone is running a razorblade over my nerve endings. How can a laugh make me feel so much?

“I like knowing the women I have sex with,” he replies.

“Who said we’re having sex?”