Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(41)

“Yum. I could make mashed potatoes.”

“It’s a plan.”

A pause. “You sound different,” Laurel said slyly. “You have a good day?”

“Nothin’ special. Just feeling more like normal, I guess.”

“Glad to hear it. And you look nice in that shirt.”

He frowned, lost.

A laugh came through the line. “Look up, Flynn.”

He did, spotting a redhead in jeans and an olive jacket heading his way, a familiar purple umbrella under one arm. He smiled and switched off his phone. “On the subway, huh? What the f*ck’re you doin’ here?”

She slid her own phone into her purse as she reached him and leaned up for a kiss. “Coming to see you.”

“You’re lucky I’m so predictable.” The first raindrop fell, hitting him on his bare biceps. “Should I grab my shit? You got other plans for me?”

“I do, but they won’t take long. You can still torture yourself as scheduled.”

“You got my curiosity piqued, honey. What’s up?”

“Firstly, I have news.” And good news, to judge by the smile she was failing to hold in.

She’d had a second interview at that biotech place a good week and a half ago. After all that silence, she’d begun insisting they must not want her, but he’d kept shushing her, reminding her it took a while to check references. And that they’d be retarded not to hire her.

“That company call you back, finally?” he asked.

“They did indeed.”

“And?”

She didn’t say anything, just smiled a mile wide and nodded so hard her hair bounced.

“Laurel, that is f*cking fantastic.” He hauled her against him, jabbed in the ribs by her umbrella but not caring. He rocked her back and forth, probably squeezed the life half out of her, but he couldn’t let go. He just wanted to smell her hair and memorize the smothered laughter warming the base of his throat. Fuck, she’d waited a long time for this.

He let her go, grinning as he took her in, almost like it was the first time. “Holy shit. You really did it, huh?”

“I guess I did.”

“When do you start?”

“A couple weeks.” She was glowing, practically hovering off the asphalt. He didn’t think he’d ever seen this version of Laurel. He wondered what he could do to make her acquaintance more often.

“I’ll go in and fill out some paperwork before then, but my official first day is April seventeenth.”

“Jesus, f*ck the chicken—lemme take you someplace nice, tonight.”

“No, no. I want exactly what you said. It’s so dreary out, let’s hunker down inside.”

“Your call. But you’re getting a party, whether you like it or not. Second I tell Heather the news is the second she’ll start callin’ to ask what your favorite dessert is.”

“I’ll look forward to that.” Laurel changed then, her smile suddenly more shy than exuberant. Little droplets of rain were gathering in her hair, shiny like dew. Flynn could feel them dampening his tee and spiking his eyelashes. He reached for her umbrella, ripping the Velcro strap free and popping it open to hand over.

“Thanks.” Definitely shy. No mistaking it.

“You got somethin’ else to say?” he asked.

She pursed her lips, took a breath in, a breath out. She set the umbrella down. It lolled in the breeze, collecting the mounting rain. He was about to stoop and grab it when she blurted, “I do. I have something else to say.”

“All right. Better make it snappy if that purse is real leather.”

“I have something to ask you,” she clarified, looking not at his face, but at some nowhere spot on his chest.

“Shoot.”

She dropped down, kneeling.

Flynn’s head gave a shake, a little spasm of surprise. It wasn’t the first time she’d dropped to her knees before him, but for one thing they weren’t in his apartment, and for another she was on one knee, not two. His eyes grew wide. “Whoa.”

Laurel cleared her throat officiously. “I kneel before you as a woman with her shit finally together,” she said, her hair wet now, gathering in long, slick waves, sticking to her cheeks. She tucked them behind her ears and met his stare. “I know you would’ve taken me as a woman with her shit still falling apart, but that’s not how I wanted to do this. And you don’t always get your way.”

“Honey,” was all he could think to say.

She reached into her jacket pocket, then there in her open palm sat a ring.

“Michael Flynn,” she began, voice breaking. She composed herself, blowing out a breath. “Will you marry me in approximately two years?”

A noiseless laugh jerked his shoulders and a smile spread across his lips. “You know I will. You sure you’ll be ready by then?”

“Well, I’m not done. Michael Paul Flynn, will you make me the happiest woman in Boston and drive my U-Haul when I move out of my apartment and into yours when my lease is up at the end of May?”

He laughed for real at that, feeling high and confused, but also pretty f*cking delighted. Rain was soaking his shirt, trickling down the hollow of his back, but it was hard to believe; it felt so exactly like a sunny summer’s day.