Flipping His Script: A Loathing to Love Romance

by Sabrina Stark

  It wasn't as hard as you'd think. She still had an impressive wardrobe along with the attitude she'd acquired back in better days, when she'd been the undisputed queen of the city – in her own mind, anyway.

  Now I just prayed that the interview had been brief and vague, revealing nothing that I wouldn't want the world to see.

  Unfortunately, in what was becoming a sad little trend, my prayers went totally unanswered – and Flynn was no help.

  Chapter 32

  Anna

  I gave Flynn an irritated look. "But they came into the apartment."

  It was nearly nightfall, the day after Becka had given me a heads-up about that impromptu interview.

  Flynn had just returned in his car from who-knows-where. He'd been gone since early this morning, leaving me alone in his secluded mansion.

  By now, I was pretty used to it. The truth was, we didn't spend a ton of time together, mostly because I spent most of my time in the pink bedroom while he spent most of his time elsewhere.

  Other than hiking, I had no idea where he went. He didn't say, and I refused to give him the satisfaction of asking.

  As far as the pink bedroom, sure it was hideous, but not nearly as awful as the room I'd been sharing with Becka. That room was a third of the size and had a funky smell that no amount of cleaning could remove.

  My guess? It was the carpet.

  Becka, on the other hand, was convinced that something had died in the walls and was slowly rotting away. Then again, she always did have a morbid streak.

  But here at Flynn's place, everything smelled nice and new. Plus, I had my own private bathroom with a whirlpool tub. Already, I'd come to totally love it, even if it was in that same hideous shade of pink.

  In spite of my earlier reluctance, I was enjoying my stay more than I'd expected.

  I had some books, my phone, and my imagination, which sadly centered way too often on Flynn. It's not that I was obsessing over him, not really. It's just that I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly was going on.

  Obviously, he was avoiding me. No surprise there. Still, when I did see him, his personality was so varied that he seemed like two different people.

  One of those people wasn't so bad. But the other? Well, let's just say he wasn't all that different from the prince he played in the movies. And that guy was a stone cold bastard.

  Now, standing in the front entryway, Flynn looked annoyingly unconcerned. "What, they busted in by force?"

  "The reporters?" I hesitated. "No. She, uh, invited them inside."

  "Exactly."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean, it's not my problem if she rolls out the welcome mat."

  As usual, he was missing the point. "Yeah, but she wouldn't've done such a thing if they hadn't shown up in the first place."

  "How many?"

  "How many what?"

  "Reporters."

  I tried to think. From the footage, I'd guess maybe two – someone behind the camera and someone doing the actual interview. "Two, I think."

  Flynn was wearing jeans and a dark button-down shirt, nothing special. And yet, he somehow managed to like God's gift to female-kind, even as he said, "Yeah? When it's a dozen, let me know."

  Aside from our ill-fated trip to the waffle house, I hadn't left Flynn's property since arriving, mostly because I hated the thought of getting ambushed, whether by random reporters or by local people wanting to know what was going on.

  Of course, I hadn't counted on reporters showing up at my mom's place. Even more to the point, I hadn't counted on her actually inviting them in, especially considering that our place was so tiny.

  I muttered, "I'm not sure a dozen could fit."

  "Where?"

  "In our apartment."

  "Then it's a good thing you live here."

  Every time he said that, it made me feel just a little funny. Yes, I was staying here, but that wasn't the same as living here. This was temporary, like the flu – or a bad hair day.

  I gave Flynn a long, exasperated look. He never had a bad hair day.

  By now, I'd seen him with wet hair, dry hair, messy hair, whatever. No matter what, his hair looked like the kind you'd want to run your fingers through while moaning in bliss.

  Now, just the mere thought his hair – or any other body part – irritated the snot out of me. "You're missing the point."

  "Which is…?"

  "The only reason anyone's bothering my mom at all is because of me." My gaze narrowed. "Or more accurately, because of you."

  In front of me, he showed zero guilt. As usual. "I saw the interview," he said. "She didn't look bothered to me."

  Damn it. "You saw that?"

  "Yeah. Me and a million other people."

  I tried not to cringe. Counting me, make that a million and one.

  I'd seen it just a few hours ago, only after my cell phone had started ringing and beeping like crazy. Turns out, Becka's description of the reporter's visit had been woefully inadequate – thanks to my mom, who hadn't relayed the full extent of what had happened.

  But after watching the coverage myself, it was pretty darn obvious that they'd been there a while. They'd invaded not only the apartment, but my bedroom, too, where they'd had the gall to open my closet and zoom in on my waitress uniform.

  In hindsight, I was just glad they hadn't opened my dresser drawers, because let's face it, nothing in there was terribly pretty, especially when it came to unmentionables.

  Period panties. Yes, I had them. But didn't everyone?

  Probably not.

  Shit.

  It didn't help that I'd brought only my nicest stuff to Flynn's place because, well, I didn't know why actually. Regardless, this meant that the very worst stuff was still at the apartment.

  I made a mental note to slink over there as soon as possible, if only to empty the drawers and see if I couldn't do something for Becka.

  Like, did they make locks for dressers?

  I had no idea.

  I was still thinking when Flynn said, "The money – did you get any?"

  "What money?"

  "For the interview."

  I stared up at him. "Wait a minute. You're not saying she was paid?"

  His only reply was long, cold look.

  I waited, determined to make him reply one way or another.

  When he didn't, I said, "You know, I hate it when you do that."

  "Do what?"

  "Answer with one of those looks."

  The look was still there when he replied, "Good to know."

  Great. Knowing Flynn, he'd be giving the look even more frequently now that he knew it irritated me.

  I was just lodging another protest when my cell phone buzzed yet again. An hour ago, sick of all the ringing and beeping, I'd turned it to silent and shoved it into the pocket of my shorts.

  Now, I pulled it out and glanced at the display. Another unknown number.

  Terrific.

  Over the past couple of hours, I'd answered only one single call – the one from Becka, who'd sounded amused more than anything.

  Lucky her.

  But other than Becka, I'd been avoiding absolutely everyone.

  And why?

  It was because I had no idea what to tell them. In that stupid interview, my mom had made it sound like Flynn and I had been secret sweethearts forever.

  What a joke.

  I was just shoving the phone back into my pocket when Flynn said, "So, what do you do for fun?"

  The question caught me off guard. "What?"

  "For fun," he repeated. "What do you do?"

  A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Nothing. Why?"

  "Because the friend thing – it's over."

  Chapter 33

  Flynn

  From the look on Anna's face, she knew exactly what I meant. "Oh." She cleared her throat. "So it's that point in the script?"

  Obviously, she meant my script, the one I'd laid out in my car on the night we'd made our secret
agreement. The plan had been for us to come across as old friends who, after getting reacquainted, ended up as something more – and not just fuck buddies either.

  In my original timetable, this would've happened in another week or two – giving us just enough time to stop Felicity from calling me a cheater.

  It mattered – and not because I gave a rat's ass what the world thought of me. I was going for the no-fuss, no-muss kind of deal, where I'd walk off into the sunset, leaving all of the bullshit behind.

  No more pretending to be somebody I wasn't. No more faking it for money. No more hanging with people I hated.

  As far as the rest, I might be a dick, but I wasn't a cheater – and never had been.

  To Anna's question about my so-called script, all I said was, "Yeah. So answer the question."

  "What question?"

  I repeated it. "What do you do for fun?"

  She hesitated. "Why?"

  "Because we're gonna do it tonight. In public."

  Her face colored like I'd just said something dirty. "What do you mean?"

  Her blush only pissed me off. She looked too cute and too vulnerable. Unlike the character I played in the movies, I'd always had a soft spot for damsels in distress, which is how I'd come to hate Anna in the first place.

  But hey, I'd learned my lesson. If she was hoping for a rescue, she was looking at the wrong guy.

  I gave her a hard look. "I don't mean public sex if that's what you think."

  Her blush only deepened. "I wasn't thinking that. But you've got to admit, the way you put it…" She glanced away. "Well, it sounded pretty bad."

  Or pretty good, depending on your view of things.

  Still, I replied, "Only if your mind's in the gutter."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "You're welcome."

  The truth was, Anna's mind wasn’t the only one in the gutter. There was a reason I'd been avoiding the house.

  It wasn't yet summer, but what was Anna wearing? Little shorts and T-shirts that were giving me way too many ideas.

  It was irritating as hell.

  In Hollywood, I'd gone to parties – and plenty of them – where girls wore a lot less than Anna. But unlike the person in front of me, they didn't look nearly as sweet or as innocent.

  But Anna, she was neither sweet, nor innocent, regardless of how she looked or acted. I'd be smart to remember that.

  I said, "So, are you gonna answer the question?"

  "About what I do for fun?" She paused as if thinking. "Well, I read and, uh, cook–"

  "If you're talking more waffles, forget it."

  "Hey, you're the one who likes waffles, not me."

  I almost shuddered. "Not the way you make them."

  "Are you sure?" She gave me a stiff smile. "I mean, I still haven't made my seafood waffles."

  What the hell? "You're joking."

  Anna's smile remained plastered in place. "I don’t know. Am I?"

  I gave her a long look. "It's a simple question, Anna. And I'm not talking waffles here."

  Her smile faded. "All right, you want the truth? I don't know."

  "What?"

  "I just mean, it's not like I've been on a lot of dates lately."

  I stared down at her. "What are you saying? You don't date?"

  "Just not lately, that's all."

  "How long?"

  She gave a noncommittal shrug. "I dunno…What does it matter?"

  My eyebrows lifted. "That long, huh?"

  And just like that, the blush was back. "You know what?" she said. "This really isn't any of your business. If you want us to go out, fine, we'll go. But don't expect me to write the script. That wasn’t part of the deal."

  Again with the script.

  Okay, yeah, I had a script, but Anna was throwing it out of whack. She wasn't the person I'd been expecting, which only irritated me more.

  With a scoff, I said, "What, you want another bonus?"

  She stiffened. "That's not what I'm saying."

  "So you don't want a bonus?"

  Now she was glaring again. "What is it with you and money?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, you toss it around like it'll solve everything. But I'm here to tell you, it won't."

  Funny, that wasn't my experience. "Is that so?"

  "Definitely."

  I gave another scoff. "Well, it bought you, didn't it?"

  If I thought she'd been blushing before, I was dead wrong. As I watched, her color went from light pink to a deep red.

  For a split second, I almost felt bad for tweaking her. The truth was, I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I wasn't normally like this. Yeah, I could be a dick, but I'd never been cruel, not on purpose, and especially not to a girl.

  But Anna – she was getting under my skin – and not in the way I'd expected.

  It didn't help when she lifted her chin and said, "Technically, you rented me. So there."

  If I had a heart, her false bravado might've broken it in two. But I wasn't that guy, and she didn't deserve it.

  I made a show of looking down at her shorts. "Is that what you're wearing?"

  In return, she made a show of eyeing my jeans. "I don't know. Is that what you're wearing?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because we're going someplace nice." It wasn't what I'd planned to say. I'd planned to say something sharp and sarcastic. But for some messed-up reason, the words had changed on the way from my brain to my mouth.

  Weird.

  But hell if I'd take them back now.

  Anna was right about one thing. I did have a script, and tonight was as good a night as any to move forward with it.

  Anna gave her clothes a worried look. "How nice?"

  "As nice as it gets."

  She was still looking at her clothes. "In Sugar Falls?"

  "Yeah. Why?"

  She looked up. "I'm just saying, compared to where you usually go, I can't think of anyplace that nice."

  "Hey, I grew up here, remember?"

  "Yeah, but…" She paused. "That was a long time ago. I'm sure your tastes are totally different now."

  She was wrong. All those fancy places on the coast? They weren't my thing. Sure, the food was fantastic, most of the time anyway. But in the end, it was all about being seen – who you talked to, who you snubbed, and who got the best table and where.

  I was sick to death of it.

  But tonight, I actually wanted to go out. And with Anna.

  What the hell?

  If I was smart, I'd get a grip and fast, because so far I'd done a sorry job of sticking to that script of mine.

  It was time to get things back on track.

  Starting tonight.

  Chapter 34

  Anna

  From the passenger's seat, I gave Flynn a sideways glance. There was something I was desperate to know, but I dreaded the prospect of asking.

  Already, we were pulling into the restaurant's parking lot, and my nerves were getting the best of me. It didn't help that as usual, we'd barely spoken during the drive.

  From behind the wheel, Flynn said, "If you're gonna do it, now's the time."

  I almost jumped in my seat. "What do you mean?"

  "Whatever it is, just say it."

  Damn it. I'd never been good at hiding my thoughts. Still, I hated the idea of letting him think he could read my mind. "Maybe there's something I want to ask," I said, "but that's not the same thing."

  He scoffed, "Nice try."

  God, what a smartass.

  I turned in my seat to study him. He was dressed in dark tailored pants and a gray button-down shirt, open at the collar. His hair and face were pure perfection – well, other than some lingering bruising around his eye. But even that just made him look more rugged and interesting.

  Talk about unfair.

  From head to toe, he looked like exactly what he was – someone way too rich and famous to be slumming it at Ember's Steakhouse, even if it was the second-best re
staurant in the city.

  The nicest one – an Italian place just down the street – was closed on Sundays. Thank God. It's not that I hated Italian, but the seating in that place was wide open with no booths or quiet alcoves to hide in.

  But the steakhouse – from what I recalled anyway – had a lot of dark, dimly lit booths that would offer at least a smidgen of privacy. For this, I was glad – and not because I wanted to dine alone with Flynn Archer.

  In truth, I was dreading the prospect more than I cared to admit. If this played out anything like our breakfast at Pinkie's, it would be an unmitigated disaster.

  Into my silence, Flynn said, "So are you gonna ask or not?"

  Mister Polite strikes again.

  "All right," I said. "I guess I’m just wondering if Felicity's going to show up."

  "Why would she?"

  "Well, she showed up at the waffle place. And it was pretty obvious you knew in advance."

  "Obvious, huh?"

  "Well yeah," I said. "I mean, it's not like you were surprised to see her."

  "And you know this, how?"

  "I was there, remember? And besides, you didn't deny it."

  "Yeah, and I didn't admit it either."

  "So?"

  Already, he'd parked the car and cut the engine. Without bothering to look at me, he said, "So if I were you, I wouldn’t be so sure."

  What a joke. "If you were me, you wouldn’t be here at all."

  "Meaning?"

  I so didn't want to say. "Nothing."

  I expected him to ignore it and move on. But he didn't. Instead, he turned to me and said, "I'll tell you if you tell me."

  I wasn't quite following. "You'll tell me what?"

  "The answer to your question."

  "You mean about Felicity?"

  "That is what you asked, isn't it?"

  I eyed him with renewed suspicion. "And what do you want to know in return?"

  "What you meant, just now."

  "But why would you care?"

  "I don't," he said. "So you'd be smart to take the deal."

  I bristled. "Okay, fine. I just meant that you wouldn't be in this position of going out with someone who hates you, because you don't need the money."

  Now that I was talking, I couldn’t seem to make myself stop. "And even if you did need the money, you'd never do this – pretend to be involved with someone who'd probably stab you in your sleep given half a chance."