The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

Before I know it, the conveyor looms ahead, the bulky weight of the bags it’s spitting out dangerously apparent by the sound they make when they slide to the bottom.

Oh God. Oh God! I’m going to be crushed!

I’m a little ashamed to say that the first and only line of defense I can come up with is to close my eyes, but that’s probably why it’s so shocking when large hands scoop under my knees and around my back and lift me free of the chaos.

A yell of panic swells in my throat, but when I open my eyes to the tall handsomeness of my contractual husband, all my terror recedes like a wave.

Holy shit, Flynn?!

He sets me down on my feet, and I pull my white T-shirt down until only the small sliver of my stomach that’s supposed to be exposed is left in the breeze.

My eyes feel so wide they might take over my face, and my chest heaves with the exertion of my debacle.

“That was a bit of a close call, huh?” he asks as if I haven’t just single-handedly brought shame to the city of New York.

“W-what are you doing here?”

“I came to pick you up from the airport,” he answers simply, only then releasing his hold on my hips he’d been using to steady me.

“You came to pick me up?” I question, dumbfounded. I… Well, I don’t know what I thought. But I didn’t think this. “We didn’t make any arrangements, and I figured I was going to meet you at your apartment.”

He frowns. “Daisy, there was no way in hell I was going to make you navigate the New York craziness by yourself after a long flight. That’d be cruel.”

I search his vivid blue eyes for a long moment, for something, anything, to calm the racing beat of my heart and the twisted, almost painful warmth in my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever known what it’s like to have someone other than myself this invested in my well-being.

“So…uh…since you’re here, mind helping me get my bags off the carousel? I’m still fresh off adrenaline from that near-death experience a few minutes ago, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to give it a second go just yet.”

He grins. Nods. And steps forward to snag the large white suitcase that started the clusterfuck in the first place. As he pulls it off the carousel, I point to the one next to it. And then another one.

And another one.

“That’s it,” I finally declare once four large—and heavy—suitcases are off the track and sitting beside me. “I took your advice and packed light,” I say through the embarrassment.

The sarcasm makes Flynn laugh, and my chest inflates dramatically. Gah, that might be the best sound ever.

I have the immediate and almost overpowering desire to make it happen again.

Flynn handles my shitshow of bags with ease, leaving me with only my backpack and carry-on to manage.

He looks strong, confident, calm, and—dare I say it—content.

As we make our way out of the airport and head in the direction of Flynn’s car, I can’t stop myself from thinking that if I were an innocent bystander watching our interaction, I might actually believe that we are husband and wife. In a serious relationship, at the very least.

Which, I guess, is a good thing, right?

For getting a green card? Yes. For your future sanity? Probably not.

Flynn

The elevator dings our arrival on my floor, and I jerk my chin for Daisy to go ahead of me and her four suitcases. She’s been relatively silent since we left the airport, choosing instead to spend her time surveying the city around her as we drove, saying only a singular “wow” when I drove my Range Rover into the underground garage beneath my apartment building.

I know it’s a lot—moving here, across the country, to the apartment of a man she barely knows—so I don’t push her. She’ll have plenty to say in her own time; I’m pretty much sure of that.

I hand her the keys to open the lock, and after pushing the door open, she heads to the kitchen first, located right off the entryway hallway, to divest herself of her backpack and carry-on—and then performs a slow spin into the living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows at the side make the light so bright that a gentle dust floats in the air, and the leather of my cognac-colored couch almost shimmers.

Her yellow pillows sit in each corner of the couch, and she smiles when she sees them. She circles around to the back of the couch to look out the windows again and perhaps take in the whole room at once, and the motion light in the back hallway clicks on.

“Mm,” she hums. “I see this place is just as teched-out as the one in Vegas.”