Gwen didn’t need to know. Now, though…I need a distraction. I glance over to the yellow pillows on Flynn’s beautiful leather couch, and an idea strikes me.
I won’t do much, I swear. Just enough to calm my nerves.
Yeah, that’s the ticket.
My hands shake slightly as I trim the last of the flower stems from the bouquet I got from the street vendor downstairs. They’re bright Gerbera daisies, reminiscent of the ones from our wedding with Marilyn, and it’s only now, in the light of Flynn’s nearly fucking renovated apartment—good going, Daisy—that it occurs to me what a poor choice they might be.
Cripes, what in the world is Flynn going to think about all this?
His couch and chairs are rearranged atop a new rug, he’s got new, tight black velvet barstools—one of which I’m sitting on—and cream-colored kiln-fired stoneware in the center of his island, and the regular non-Batcave entrance shelves in his bedroom are no longer empty. I also, kind of, maybe, changed out the hardware on both his kitchen and bathroom cabinets to a soft brushed brass that really livens up the masculinity of it all and added a throw blanket to the back of his leather couch so you can sit on it in shorts without getting cold.
I’ve never seen Flynn flip out, but I’m pretty sure if there were going to be a time, coming home to a completely rearranged apartment by his temporary, not-for-real wife would do it.
What was I thinking?!
The sound of Flynn’s keys in the door lock startles me into motion, and I jump up from my spot, scooping up the scrap of newspaper with the flower trimmings into my arms and speed walk it over to the trash. I push the matte black vase with the daisies to the center of the counter and back toward the windows frantically, only stopping when the flesh of my palms touches glass.
This way, if things get really bad, I can just heave myself backward and hope that the force of my body is enough to make the double panes shatter.
Maybe plummeting to my death from the fifteenth floor is a little dramatic, but that’s where my mind goes in an emotional emergency of this caliber.
The door finally creaks open what feels like several light-years later, and as expected, Flynn takes one quick gander at the apartment and freezes dead in his tracks.
Oh crap, oh God.
“I can put it all back!” I blurt suddenly, my muscles stretching and tightening into little iron rods.
Flynn glances from me to the apartment again, scanning the space closely, and then…well, he shrugs.
I nearly explode. “A shrug?! A shrug? That’s all you have to say?!”
He shakes his head at me, sighs, and steps forward to lean his formidable weight into his strong, tanned hands on the island. It’s a motherfucking hot position, I’m not gonna lie.
“My great-great-aunt’s painting is still there.” He shrugs again. “I don’t give a shit about the rest of it.”
“Y-you don’t?”
He gives me one small shake of his head. “Looks nice. And the leather on the couch is cold. Blanket’ll probably be good.”
“I filled the shelves in the bedroom too,” I admit quickly. “I may have gone a little overboard on the plants.”
He lifts a hand and gently flicks the brightest orange daisy in the vase in front of him. “More flowers like the ones from the wedding?”
My breath catches in my throat and makes it hard to swallow. He remembers. “No. Just greenery.”
He lifts his shoulders a final time and, if I’m not mistaken, even grins a little. My heart flips over inside my chest. “I’m sure it looks good.” He turns to the drawer behind him and comes back with a stack of paper menus, tossing them to the counter in front of himself. “How about I order some takeout? Clearly, we’ve both been busy today.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Takeout sounds good.”
To be completely honest, life with Flynn altogether is starting to sound a little too appealing.
Tuesday, April 30th
Daisy
“Where are we on the Santa Monica property?” Thomas Grey asks the speaker in the center of the conference table. His demanding voice is a routine staple of our company start-the-week-right phone calls—which, yes, do occasionally occur on Tuesdays if Monday is too busy, and no, the irony isn’t lost on me—but I’m usually on the other end of them, making big, dramatic eyes at Damien while he pantomimes his jokes.
I’ll admit, sitting next to serious Thomas while my new East Coast coworker Tara Insley shoots eye lasers at me from across the table isn’t quite the same good time.