The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

“Holy shit. That’s…groundbreaking, really.”

I roll my eyes with a shake of my head and a dry laugh, and Daisy reaches across the table and grabs my hand to stop me.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

“What’s your favorite holiday?”

“All of them that bring the family together.”

“What do you do with your free time?”

“Work out. Scope out real estate investments. Volunteer at the homeless shelter Uptown.”

She stops her continuous giggle then to get serious. “You volunteer at the homeless shelter?”

I shrug. “Once a month or so.”

“God, Flynn.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “You’re…well, you’re kind of a catch of a husband, you know that?”

“Oh,” I murmur, her comment reminding me of the envelope in my pocket. “I almost forgot.” Pulling it out, I toss it into the center of the table, her eyes following it and scanning until she makes out the address of the sender in the top left corner. I lean over my plate and take more bites.

Daisy stops eating altogether, and as soon she understands what it is, her whole demeanor changes.

“Oh my God, that’s from Immigration.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“That’s from Immigration, Flynn!” she repeats, this time much more manically.

“Yeah, I know. I saw the address,” I reply calmly.

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t open it.”

“You didn’t open it?” she nearly shrieks, making a couple of the regulars look our direction. But I don’t give a shit who’s watching us, so I don’t pay them any mind.

“Daisy.”

“Okay, you said that, but why? Why didn’t you open it?”

“Why don’t you just open it now?” I suggest instead of answering.

She nods then, grabbing the envelope and ripping into it without much finesse. The envelope is practically shredded, and I lean down to pick up a stray piece of it that’s fluttered to the floor.

By the time I straighten back up in my seat, Daisy is fully engrossed in the letter and chanting the phrase, “Oh my God,” over and over again under her breath.

I raise my eyebrows in question, and she says it again, extending the last word like some sort of prayer. “Oh my Gooood, Flynn! They want to do the interview in less than a month! Holy shit, they want to do the interview May 31st!”

May 31st. The day of Jude and Sophie’s wedding.

Daisy’s eyes have turned wild and crazy as she frantically glances between me and the letter in her hands. “Geez Louise, what are we going to do?”

“Go to the interview?”

“Flynn, they said three months, and that’s only like a month and a half! They must know!”

My eyebrows draw together. “Know what?”

“About us! About the sham! That I’m a big fat phony who needs to get deported!”

“Daisy, relax.” I reach out to place my hand over hers. “They don’t know anything. You’re Canadian. You’re, like, the most nonthreatening type of immigrant. They’re probably just ready to push your stuff through.”

“I just can’t believe it’s that soon,” she says, her voice despondent in a way I’m not entirely sure I understand. This is good news. The sooner they do the interview, the sooner we know there’s no chance Daisy’s going to get forced to leave.

“When you get home tonight, I promise to fuck all the anxiety about it right out of you,” I respond cheekily and squeeze her fingers.

Her smile is genuine but doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

“I have to get fitted for a bridesmaid dress tonight with Winnie and Sophie.”

“After, then,” I promise, wanting desperately to see the excitement her little question-game had brought to her beautiful face before she got freaked out by the USCIS letter.

She nods, and her smile lights up her whole face, including her eyes. “After.”

I may be a creature of habit, but a lot sure has changed in the last month. Most of all, I’m beginning to think there isn’t any length I wouldn’t go to to see Daisy smile.

Daisy

I shove inside the dress shop from the bustling city, and I immediately take a breath as the noise settles. It’s not that LA isn’t packed full of people—it is—but I’m used to having the buffer of my car. Don’t want to speak to someone? Roll up your window and gas it. Here in New York, I feel a little like I’m volunteering as tribute for the Hunger Games every time I step out onto the sidewalk.

I spot Winnie immediately, perusing a rack of dresses in the center of the store, and make my way over to her. Just as I arrive, a young blonde steps out from behind the rack and moves to join us.

“Hi, Daisy!” Winnie greets excitedly, pulling me into a big hug before stepping back.

“Hi, hi!” I greet back with a pathetically awkward wave. I’ve been a little off-kilter since finding out that my immigration interview is scheduled for the morning of Sophie’s wedding, but I need to shake it off, for Pete’s sake. Trying on dresses is supposed to be fun, and I refuse to be the cloud of doom.