Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(45)

“No?”

He urged her to turn so he could pull her close, her back plastered to his front. “Mm.”

For a while they lay in silence, rain pelting the shaded windows and the faint tick and whir of the thermostat the only sounds. In time Laurel said, “Things feel right again. Between us.”

His only reply was a kiss pressed to the back of her head.

“I worried maybe they’d changed for good.”

“They probably have,” he said. “Not sure how they couldn’t, when two people go through something like that together.”

“No, of course. But us, this… It feels the way it should again.”

“Amen.”

“I hope it always feels this easy. Even after we’ve been married a decade or three.”

“We’ll be okay.” His deep yawn pressed them tighter together. “We’ll both f*ck shit up now and then and hurt each other, too.”

“I guess that’s inevitable.”

“But even when we’re a hundred there’ll still be times when it feels like this.”

“When you’re a hundred and I’m ninety-seven,” Laurel corrected.

Another “Mm” warmed her scalp through her hair, sleepier than the first.

She ought not to get too comfortable, but she couldn’t bear to leave this bed just yet. In a few more minutes, when Flynn predictably passed out. He could nap and she’d dress and finish dinner, and they’d eat and later watch a movie, or maybe just lie here, talking, or not talking, or maybe nothing so innocent as any of those things. Like the shape of their future marriage, like the details of her new career, she’d have to wait to find out.

And until the answers arrived, she’d savor every second of the anticipation.





13





Laurel made her way back from the bathroom, edging through a bustling kitchen and out onto a spacious back deck. South Boston was awash in spring sunshine, neither warm nor cool but promising longer days, balmier nights.

It was just past three on a Sunday afternoon, two hours into the party. Laurel’s party, thrown by Heather to celebrate her new job. She’d been touched at the offer, remembering how she’d envied Kim this attention only a few weeks earlier.

The family had gone all-out in the barbecue department, and when Flynns were told to BYOB, it seems they all arrived with a case, so the beer and wine were flowing like the Charles. The venue was some cousin or other’s place in a humble but quiet corner of Southie, strands of Christmas lights and paper lanterns cascading from the second-floor fire escape down to the fence. Folding tables were set up along the perimeter, overflowing with every side dish imaginable. Laurel couldn’t help but think this wouldn’t make a bad wedding reception.

She and Flynn were seated at the head of a picnic table. He stood, stole Laurel’s wine glass and clanked it with a fork to call for silence. “Everybody got a drink handy…? Good.”

Laurel took her glass back, feeling her cheeks flush pink, knowing what was coming. They’d kept the engagement a secret these past couple weeks. She found her purse at her feet and hauled it into her lap, rummaging through the inner pocket.

“Toast!” Heather bellowed from the grill.

“Fuckin’ right.” He held his ginger ale aloft. “A toast to Laurel—officially an engineer, with insurance and business cards and all that awesome grown-up shit.”

A collage of clapping and glass-clinking and whoops answered him, and Laurel raised her wine in bashful appreciation, her other hand balled in her lap.

Flynn cast her a meaningful glance and she nodded.

“And a toast to me,” he went on, “because despite her brains, I somehow convinced her fool-ass to marry me.”

A second’s pause, one filled with raised eyebrows and curious murmurs, chased immediately by Heather’s, “You what?”

He looked down at Laurel and she stood, passing him the ring. He made a little show of flashing it around at the crowd, then took her hand and slid it onto her finger.

A flurry of surprised exclamations clashed with more clapping, the odd swear from the Flynn camp and incoherent squealing from Anne. Laurel had managed to keep the news a secret from her roommate, much as she’d hated taking the ring off.

“You set a date?” Heather demanded.

They exchanged a look. “Maybe next fall, or the following spring?” Laurel ventured. “I’m not in a rush.”

“Little Miss Cautious wants us to live together for a while first,” Flynn said.

“Don’t put off planning,” Heather warned. “If you wanna have it at Holy Cross you—”

“For f*ck’s sake, come ooh and ahh at the ring. Let’s save the church-wedding-versus-hell-bound-heathens fight for Thanksgiving, okay?”

“I’m just sayin’, you gotta book this shit in advance.”

“And I’m just reminding you, I’m an atheist and so’s Laurel, so don’t hold your breath. All right, now everybody get trashed and manhandle my gainfully employed fiancée’s sparkly hand, please.”

Heather was first in line. “Jesus. Nice work, Mike.” As she made her inspection, she asked Laurel, “You gonna be a Flynn?”

“I thought maybe I’d combine them, and be Laurel White Flynn, but your brother said a whiteflynn sounds like some kind of fish, so now I’m leaning toward just taking yours.” It wasn’t as though Laurel was especially attached to her name, or close with anyone who shared it. In fact, she felt far more endeared to this salty crew than she ever had to her own parents.