The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

No Flynn. No sex. No forever. None of the attention I can’t see myself walking away from. Which means you’ve got thirteen days to figure out how to rewrite your vision of the future.

Friday, May 24th

Daisy

I finish stacking the vintage books I purchased at a secondhand shop in Greenwich Village and step back to check my work.

Yeah, that’s perfect, I think to myself as I note the way the worn-in spines and hues of dark blues and greens and maroons really bring out the dark wood of the shelves inside the bonus room that is being staged as an in-home office and library.

In a week’s time, this expensive SoHo loft will hit the market, and I’m confident EllisGrey’s client will receive multiple bids on this beauty.

Empty cardboard boxes stacked, I head back into the open and airy living area to find Tara scuttering around on her heels like a woman on the warpath.

I roll my eyes to myself. I swear, staging days with her are something straight out of a horror movie. She snaps at everyone and everything, and the joy that usually comes from bringing a design vision to life is severely compromised by her overall sour attitude.

I mean, does she even like this job? Sometimes I really wonder.

My phone vibrates in the back pocket of my black dress pants, and I pull it out to find a text.

Flynn: I just received a delivery. At my office. Any idea what that’s about?

I smile. Why, yes, I definitely do.

Me: If it contains two very beautiful but still STRONG and MANLY vases that provide a little color for the shelves behind your desk and an abstract painting to hang on the wall by the door, then yes, I might know something about that delivery…

Honestly, after seeing Flynn’s office for the first time a few weeks ago, I couldn’t stop myself from adding a little design aesthetic to it. I’m hoping my emphasis on the men-friendly buzzwords helps it go over a little more easily.

Flynn: You know what would be a better pop of color in my office?

Me: A gorgeous throw rug for underneath your desk?

Flynn: Your bare pussy. On my desk.

Me: Flynn Winslow. Are you sexting me???? In the middle of a workday????

Scandalized or not, when it comes to sex with Flynn, an opportunist I am. I quickly throw another message into the mix. Also, Yoda I’m not, but there are only so many days left to feel Flynn inside me, even if it’s just a visual via phone sex.

Me: If you ARE sexting me, then put your money where your mouth is and send me a dick pic.

I mean, there’s nothing wrong with trying, right? What’s the worst he could say? No?

And having a picture of Flynn’s gorgeous penis on my phone for the rest of time isn’t exactly a negative.

Ha. You’d save it to a damn USB stick just to have a backup.

Flynn: I’ll do you one better.

Me: Oh, really? I’m all ears.

Flynn: I’m leaving my office right now. A good girl who wants to get fucked can meet me at home in about 20 minutes.

I look at his text and across the room to where Tara is now bitching at one of the burly movers tasked with delivering and setting up the staging furniture for this loft.

I shouldn’t…should I?

Back to Tara, I note the way her face scrunches up with disdain when the man doesn’t give her an answer she likes.

Only seven more days, my mind whispers. Seven more days until the interview and your current cozy bubble of blissful sex and happy days with Flynn will come to an end.

And just like that, I’m decided.

“Tara, I have to run to the office really quick,” I announce in a rush, already starting the process of heading toward the door to grab my purse.

“What?” she questions back and looks at me like I just told her I’m going to set this loft on fire for the fun of it. “Why?”

Because I need to go have sex with my husband before he’s not my husband anymore.

“Uh…” I pause and search for a reason, any-fucking-reason. “Uh…Damien just texted, and he needs me to send him a few files from an LA property I helped stage. It’s urgent.”

Her narrowed eyes call my bluff, but I ignore her.

Instead, I offer a wave over my shoulder and head out the door before she can ask me anything else.

Of course, the instant the loft door shuts behind me and I step on to the elevator, I pull my phone out of my purse and fire off a text.

Me: If anyone asks, you needed me to send you very important papers about an LA property today.

Damien: And why would I need that?

Me: Because I wanted to play hooky, and I needed an excuse that didn’t end in Tara gouging my eyes out with her nails.