In Like Flynn

by Donna Alam

  Ever had your breath taken away? Me, too. It happened earlier on the field when Mac decided to wipe me out and blacken my eye in the process.

  But this? This is different. Whoosh!

  ‘Go on,’ she says with a resigned sigh. ‘Say whatever witticism it is you’re clearly dying to say.’

  ‘Say?’ The word is more like an intake of breath. ‘Nah, not me. I’ve got nothin’ to say.’ I stick my hands in my pockets again, my shoulders up around my ears. I am not going to tell her that she looks like . . . like an angel holding a smaller angel or something. A cherub? And I’m not gonna tell her that the little cherub— ‘Juno looks at home there.’ Fuck me.

  ‘Does she?’ It’s such a small compliment, yet she looks stoked. Tickled pink. ‘Well, I’m very happy to have you here, too,’ she says to the baby, not me, as she bounces her in her arms.

  ‘Flynn, we’re read-y!’

  ‘Looks like you’ve got double the work.’ Chastity’s smiling gaze travels to the other side of the playground to the swing set where Sorcha and Louis sit, happily dangling their legs.

  ‘I’ll cope.’ I don’t miss the way her eyes travel across my chest before touching my exposed biceps.

  Feet planted wide, I tighten my hands into fists, not that she could tell. And not that it stops my desire to reach out. Pull her to me. Kiss the snark right out of her mouth.

  Jesus, but it’s fucking cold out here. I’d only meant to step out for a minute so hadn’t brought my jacket. No. I’m lying. Chastity had offered to take Juno for a toddle in the playground following lunch, and I’d thought I’d play it cool by drinking my beer and lounging back in my chair. That had lasted about two minutes before I’d followed, trotting behind her like a little dog happy for scraps and a pat on the head. Or penis, in my case. A man has to have aspirations.

  But she’s still looking at my pecs, so that’s a good thing, right?

  She steps closer. ‘What does your T-shirt say?’

  ‘What?’ I look down and remember the barely discernible image of a koala bear, just a black outline over navy cotton, the words a little washed out. ‘It says I’m not a bear. I don’t have the koala-fictations. Marsupial humour.’

  Rafferty, my brother and I, have this sort of competition going. We regularly send each other T-shirts with asinine or offensive slogans. The idea is to take a photograph while wearing the T-shirt you’ve been sent, kinda like a dare. And wearing it at home doesn’t count; you have to be out. Raff sent this one when the trade first started. It’s a little tame compared to his most recent delivery. Although it’s a T-shirt encouraging Aussie tourism in the Northern Territories, it’s not one for the kiddie crowd as it states:

  CU (in the) NT.

  Juno wriggles as Chastity snorts, so she sets her down, stepping closer still, her arms folded across her chest. This is all on her, I think, keeping my hands firmly in place. Still in my fucking pockets.

  ‘Have you been a fan of the ridiculous T-shirt long?’ she asks mildly. Her eyes smile though her mouth stays the same, those full lips slightly parted. As though she’d like to taste me.

  ‘Lifelong fan,’ I answer. ‘I might own one or ten a little too risqué for this crowd.’ I gesture to the kids on the swings and their impatient wiggling legs, my poor heart stuttering in shock as she places her palm flat in the middle of my chest. The connection is . . . everything.

  ‘Risqué? Flynn?’ She sort of pouts. ‘That can’t be so.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is. When I decided I was coming to lunch, I grabbed the first one out of the drawer to change. Besides, this one is Sorcha’s favourite.’

  ‘Why did you decide to come today of all days?’

  ‘Thought that would be obvious, duchess.’ She looks down at her hand as a crease forms between her perfect brows.

  ‘If my nipples were any harder, they’d give Chuck Norris a run for his money.’

  She doesn’t laugh, just stares at my chest, but then her little finger stretches out, grazing my right nipple. I ball my fists tighter. Jesus fuck.

  ‘And I can sympathise,’ she whispers.

  ‘What are we doing here, duchess?’

  Her eyes slide to the window and the people inside. ‘They can’t see.’

  My heart sinks. ‘Are you worried about being seen with the help?’

  ‘Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more ridiculous,’ she murmurs, pulling her hand away. ‘For what it’s worth, Flynn,’ she says over her shoulder, ‘you look good with the kids. You ever think you’ll have some of your own?’

  ‘Fuck, no.’ These are just words delivered without any thought. ‘I’m strictly uncle material, me.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Chapter 17

  CHASTITY

  I pull out my phone for about the tenth time today, the hundredth time this week, and put it away.

  I will not call Flynn and ask how his face is.

  I will not call Flynn with an invitation to my bed.

  This week has been hectic and not in the fun way. I’ve barely moved from my studio office all week, catching up on all the horrible admin jobs I always postpone until the last minute, add to that the plans I need to make for the quarter ahead. In other words, burying my head in the Flynn free sand.

  I can’t afford to get involved with Flynn Phillips. We’re just not compatible. We’re not in the same place. Okay, physically, we may be in the same place sometimes—and those times are fun—but we’re not in the same place in our lives. I need to write that shit down a hundred times daily. Maybe make a mantra of it. Chant that a hundred times.

  Lord, his reaction when I suggested he might make a good dad—yes, I know, a slip from the vault that is my subconscious—anyone would think it was contagious. But I stand by my opinion because he will make a good dad. Though he’ll probably be one of those first time geriatric fathers, pushing the stroller from his wheelchair, because it’ll take him that long to grow up.

  No, that’s just my bitter lack of orgasm talking. Because my O? It’s still not turning up for solo flight.

  Thursday, I get back home around six, having grabbed takeaway from my local Italian joint. I’m just about to spoon the carby, garlicky pasta goodness into bowl when my front doorbell rings. Twice in two weeks? No one in Chelsea knocks on a door without issuing some forewarning that they’re about to. That’s what phones are for. Flynn gets a pass for not being a Londoner. Okay, Flynn gets a pass for bringing orgasmic gifts, and while I glance regretfully at my dinner and my stomach rumbles in protest as I make my way to the front door, I’m still hoping it’s Flynn.

  ‘There’s only so long a man can wait before taking things into his own hands,’ says a large bunch of flowers. Or, at least, the voice behind a large bunch of peach-coloured cabbage roses.

  ‘Erm . . . okay?’ My voice wavers as I try not to laugh, mainly from embarrassment. When was the last time a man gave me flowers? I can’t even remember. I can’t even get excited either because these flowers aren’t from Flynn.

  ‘I gave your friend my business card.’ My neighbour, Tate, lowers the hand-tied bouquet. While beautiful and expensive-looking, it isn’t some extravagant display but rather tasteful. ‘I thought you might give me a call. Maybe say hello in the street . . . knock on my door to welcome me into the neighbourhood?’

  ‘Oh.’ Really? Because he gave Paisley a business card? What am I? Mayor of Whacky town? ‘I’m sorry’—I am so not sorry— ‘I’ve been very preoccupied with work.’

  ‘Apology accepted and reinforced if you’ll have dinner with me,’ he says, passing the flowers into my hand.

  ‘Dinner?’ That sounded . . . like I thought he doesn’t have a chance. But flowers—really? Is that not a huge presumption?

  ‘Not because I brought you flowers,’ he adds quickly, almost as though reading my thoughts. ‘A coffee, then. Nothing nefarious, Professor. I promise.’ He holds up his right hand in a boy scout salute, something I recognise. Max was a cub scout
for a while.

  And, fuck it. Why do I get myself into these scrapes? Flowers at the door and a fictitious career?

  ‘I’m not actually a professor,’ I begin, unravelling myself from this knot. Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .

  ‘I know,’ Tate replies quite happily.

  ‘Well, then. I suppose that begs the question how?’ My stalker senses are tingling. Not that I’ve been stalked especially, but in my line of business, I have had to create a wall between myself and couple of the crazies in this world. Plus, who wouldn’t be slightly concerned to learn that someone who isn’t even a blip on your radar claims to know details about you?

  ‘Courtesy of Royal Mail.’

  ‘The postal service? I’m not sure I follow.’ My gaze slides over his shoulder and across the street to his door.

  ‘The postman delivered a piece of your mail to the wrong address,’ he explains, hiking a thumb in the same direction. ‘It wasn’t addressed to a professor or else I wouldn’t have spent the last couple of months calling you something else in my head. That is, at least, until you turned up in my restaurant when I introduced myself.’

  ‘I am . . . unsure how to process this information.’ Calling me what in his head? The neighbour who looks like she doesn’t want to be your friend? And if so, why are you on my doorstep?

  ‘Ah, I can see I’ve overplayed my hand. I’m a bit nervous. Can you tell?’ He laughs nervously. ‘I only mean that I might’ve seen you in passing and taken a bit of a shine to you.’

  ‘As far as anyone can when they don’t really know that person.’ I feel my eyebrows draw in. Am I being a judgmental bitch?

  ‘Exactly!’ He laughs, so obliviously unconcerned. So maybe I’m not as bad as I think I am, or maybe he’s hard to offend? ‘I’ll admit it. I’d seen you about and, as juvenile as it sounds, fancied you a bit.’

  ‘You fancied me?’ I repeat, my words quivering with just an edge of laughter.

  ‘I’m man enough to take your scorn,’ he responds happily. ‘I fancy you. Deal with it.’

  I let my gaze fall to the flowers, no longer sure how to proceed. ‘It’s been a while since anyone admitted to fancying me.’ Firstly, I haven’t heard that word for at least a decade. Secondly, I think I intimidate most men.

  ‘Now that I don’t believe.’

  ‘So this name of mine, the one you’ve been calling me in your head. Care to share it with me?’

  ‘Let me take you for a coffee, and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Blackmail rarely works,’ I reply, my voice holding a suggestion of schoolmarm.

  ‘I wonder if the Metropolitan police would disagree.’

  ‘I imagine that would be bad for business,’ I retort.

  ‘Come on,’ he cajoles. ‘Aren’t you at least a little curious?’

  ‘What you call me? Yes!’ My words hit the air as a chuckle. But other than that, not so much because I’m pretty sure that’s what killed the cat. That or frustration. And that cat will probably be me.

  Here lies Chastity Lenore Landry.

  Died from sexual frustration aged just twenty-nine.

  ‘In absence of your bantering answer, I’m going to take it as a yes.’ Are we bantering? Maybe I’m a little rusty at this whole thing.

  ‘It’s a free country. You can take it however you like,’ I respond evenly.

  ‘I love it when a woman says things like that.’ Shocked, I open my mouth to respond when he holds up a forestalling hand. ‘Sorry, that was absolutely not what I should’ve said, but the longer I stand here, the bigger arse I’ll make of myself. How about you put me out of my misery?’

  ‘It’s still called murder even if you asked for it.’

  ‘I deserved that, but I’d like to blame the glass of wine I drank before I came over here. Dutch courage and all.’ Unsure if that was a blatant ploy or a genuine admission, I look down at the flowers and take a deep breath.

  ‘Look,’ I begin, ‘I work a lot. In fact, I’ll be working most of this evening.’ Hint-hint. ‘How about we leave it to fate?’ His expression falters as though not quite catching my meaning. ‘One afternoon in the not too distant future, I may well pop into the restaurant for a coffee. Maybe if you’re there, we could have that coffee together?’

  ‘You’re likely to make a workaholic of me.’

  ‘Think of it as me protecting your business. I hear the mortality rate of new restaurants is pretty high.’

  ‘It’s a good job I own two more then, isn’t it?’ In man-speak, I think that’s Tate’s way of telling me how successful he is. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to put those in water.’ We glance at the flowers in my hand almost simultaneously.

  ‘They’re really lovely,’ I demure. A man brought me flowers. Maybe I should’ve been nicer to him.

  ‘Just think of me when you look at them,’ he says, stepping back onto the garden path. ‘I’ll be waiting . . .’

  I smile as I close the door and mutter, ‘Then you’d best not hold your breath.’

  When I return to my pasta dinner, it looks like congealed snails, but I do have a lengthy text.

  Aunt Cam: Darling, I did so enjoy yesterday’s new inclusion. One note of criticism if I may. While girl-on-girl is always mildly enjoyable, this craze with waxing all the hair from one’s body is a little much. I’m all for avoiding the horror of the seventies bush, but what you youngsters don’t seem to understand is when you get my age, it all falls out anyway. And believe me, you really could do with the coverage!

  Me: Thanks for the feedback and the horror story. I may well not sleep tonight.

  ~*~

  ‘Why are you staring at Stephen?’

  Friday morning and we have a session in the studio. Stephen is fairly new to the industry, and he’s doing a solo shoot, excuse the pun. I’m shooting him solo while he, ahem, shoots solo. Meanwhile, Hillary seems a little . . . distracted as Stephen undresses. We have a changing area, but the young blond says it’s no big deal. I think I’ve become immune to nakedness and Paisley meanwhile has eyes for no one by Keir. Which leaves Hillary. And his lolling tongue.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You remind me of a fat kid in a bakery.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Tearing his eyes away, he slides me a blank look.

  ‘She means you look like you want to cram him into your mouth,’ Paisley reiterates. ‘Like he’s cake.’

  ‘Hmm. Someone didn’t spill their coffee this morning, I see,’ he says testily, immediately reminding me of our last shoot and the brochure full of sperm I have in my home office. That is—sperm donors, I mean. Not actual jizz.

  But I’m not thirty yet, so I don’t have to think about it.

  ‘By coffee, do you mean sex?’ asks a slightly confused Paisley.

  ‘Why does it always come back to sex with you?’ Hillary replies with a slight flounce. ‘I thought I recognised him.’

  ‘What, by his ass?’ Paisley asks.

  ‘Don’t answer that,’ I add quickly.

  ‘It looked to me like you were trying to recognise him real hard,’ Paisley then adds.

  ‘Honestly, you two,’ Hills huffs. ‘I’m off to get the coconut oil.’

  ‘Is that for you or him or for you both?’ she calls after him.

  ‘You really shouldn’t tease him like that,’ I say, rifling in my bag for my notebook.

  ‘Me?’ Paisley squeaks. ‘You’re the one who likened him to a fat kid. If he sulks about anything, it’ll be the insult to his waistline.’ She’s right. When Paisley and I grab a wrap or sandwich for lunch, Hills always has a salad. Always. I’m not sure whether to believe him or not when he says he hasn’t had carbs since 2009.

  ‘So . . . ’ Paisley’s change of tone in that one word is enough to make me turn and run. ‘You and Flynn, huh?’

  ‘Me and Flynn what?’

  ‘Don’t play coy with me. I saw how you were on Sunday. I thought for at least one minute I might need to intervene. I mean,
Mac is a big guy, but you know my money will always be on you in any sort of conflict.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, abandoning my quest and moving to fiddle with one of the lights, which is Hillary’s job, not mine. But something tells me this should be a conversation we don’t have face to face. But at least she didn’t mention seeing me touching his chest.

  ‘I’m talking about the way you looked at Mac. Let’s just say we were all pleased we weren’t him. You looked pissed!’

  ‘I think you need glasses,’ I murmur, moving to adjust the settings on the other light.

  ‘Or not,’ she says, following me.

  ‘Don’t you have makeup brushes or something to wash?’

  ‘You’re like the quintessential momma bear when it comes to your friends. Fiercely protective and ready to throw down in defence of them. But what I don’t know is, has Flynn’s been moved into the stable as a temporary guest, like a lover? Or for good, like a friend.’

  Taking her by the arm, I pull her to the other side of the room. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’ I ask quietly. ‘That we slept together again? Because we did. But we are not a thing. Not by any stretch of the imagination.’

  ‘That’s what we all say. Look at Keir and me,’ she says with a grin.

  ‘That’s different,’ I reply, a hint of pleading in my voice.

  ‘Is it? I don’t see how.’

  ‘We’re not compatible, for a start. Not in the relationship sense, anyway.’

  ‘What brought you to that conclusion?’ she asks, twirling a lock of hair around her fingertip.

  ‘Well, he’s younger than me, for a start.’

  ‘No, he isn’t? Not really.’

  ‘Not—he either is or he isn’t,’ I respond, matching her frown.

  ‘Looks to me like you haven’t taken the time to find out,’ she responds slyly. ‘Too busy, huh?’

  ‘Just . . . don’t, okay?’

  ‘Why? What exactly have you got against him?’

  On a good day? All of me. Naked and pressed up to him from the strong lines of his thighs to the comforting coarseness of the hair on his chest. Not that I say any of that.