The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

“Okay.”

One word. Just like that, and he’s already agreed. Call me a sadist, but this feels too easy.

“Are you…uh…sure?”

“Daisy.”

Right. This is good. Great, even.

My need to get the ball rolling as soon as possible is too strong to deny. The call switched over to speaker, I pull up our text chat and type out a message—How was your day, hubby?

Once I hit send, I say, “Okay. Check your text messages.”

“My day was fine,” he responds, and laughter barrels from my belly and straight past my lips.

“Flynn!” I giggle. “You’re supposed to text me your answer back. You know…for evidentiary support.”

“Right. I just have one question.”

“Of course! Go ahead!” I respond, kind of excited to be able to feel useful for once.

“Will Bruiser Woods be partaking in these conversations too, or is Elle the only split personality of yours I need to be on the lookout for?”

“Flynn!” I shriek, both tickled by his highly unexpected knowledge of all things Legally Blonde and slightly embarrassed by his teasing.

“Don’t you think it’s important that we show proof through text messages, too?” I ask him once my laughter subsides. “Phone calls are great—I mean, it will show Immigration that we stay in constant contact, but they won’t be able to see what’s said in our phone conversations. And in order to really sell it, I think they need to see the text conversations. Don’t you?”

“They need to see text conversations or fake text conversations showing we’re in love and shit?”

“Um, the latter.”

“But you want us to be on the phone, too?”

“Yes,” I answer.

But Flynn doesn’t say anything else. Not in text and not on the phone, and the silence makes my heart quicken its speed, uncertainty driving the pace.

God, he must think I’m a total nutjob, and he’s about to lose my number any minute. Or worse, turn me in to Immigration himself.

“Look, I know it’s weird and awkward to text each other while we’re on the phone, but…I need the buffer, you know?” I try to explain my intentions, even though I don’t really understand what I’m trying to achieve here. “This whole thing is making me freak out a bit…” Okay, a lot. “And I just don’t know what to say or do or how to show that we’re in love when we barely even know each other—”

“Check your messages.”

“What?” I ask, but a few moments later, a new text fills our chat.

Flynn: My day was pretty good, babe. How was yours?

“Oh.” Okay, so maybe he doesn’t think I’m a total nutjob. Just, like, a partial nutjob. Not put-her-in-a-padded-room nuts, more like, yes, she’s crazy, but it’s tolerable.

I don’t hesitate to type out a response to his message. Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about it for about seven out of the last twenty-four hours, so it’s pretty curated.

Me: It was good, but I miss you. I hate being this far away from you. I hate waking up and finding out that you’re not there. And going to bed without you beside me? Completely miserable. How many days until I’m in New York with you again? Because from where I stand, it feels like a thousand.

Flynn: I miss you too.

A sigh leaves my lips when I read his latest text. “No offense, Flynn, but you’re going to have to say more than a few words for this to work. I mean, we are supposed to be two people who are crazy about each other and miss each other and all the things, you know? Our text conversations should show love and excitement, but they should also show passion. We’re two people who desperately want to be together but have to be thousands of miles away. It’s going to look weird if I’m penning a novel of adoration and you respond with yeah.”

His hearty chuckles fill my ears, and I furrow my brow.

“Wait…are you laughing at me right now?”

“No offense, but you sound like an acting coach.”

It’s my turn to laugh, but my nerves turn it to hysteria pretty quickly.

I’ve never been one to spend time imagining my future husband, but I do know, if I did, it definitely wouldn’t have been like this, where my husband wasn’t even my husband at all but a man who made a commitment out of pity in order to help keep me from losing my job. It all feels kind of pathetic when I think about it.

“I’m sorry. I know I sound like a rambling psycho and I’m probably making no sense, but the importance of all this, of getting this visa and keeping my job, is making it hard for me to be rational.”

I shut my eyes and run a hand through my hair, but when Flynn says, “Check your messages,” into my ear once more, my focus is back on the screen of my phone.

Flynn: Do me a favor and tell me what you’re wearing right now, babe. In explicit detail, so I can imagine it perfectly.