The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(20)

Flynn’s footsteps are soft, but not so much so that I don’t hear the pattern of them following me down the hall at a slightly slower pace. With the length of his legs, however, I’m sure he’s keeping up with me.

I grab my phone from my purse, saying a small prayer that it still has some battery juice, and scroll over to the Uber app to call myself a car.

“Have somewhere to be?” Flynn asks then, making my head whip up from my phone and my lips roll into my mouth.

“Oh yeah. I’m sorry, but I was supposed to be at another work function about half an hour ago.”

He raises his shoulders nonchalantly. “Of course. Do you want me to take you back to the Wynn? I have to go anyway.”

It’s a nice offer, one I’m not sure I’d be able to resist if I didn’t have a reason, to be honest. “Thanks, but no. It’s a brunch at an old client’s house—not at the hotel. I don’t know much about Vegas geography, but I’m pretty sure it’s in completely the opposite direction.”

I search his eyes for disappointment and could almost swear that I see a flash of it, but the amount of trust I have in myself right now, in my current state of emotional turmoil, is minuscule at best. Frankly, I’m probably just projecting.

I lick my lips, tightening my grip on my phone to get up the courage I need before suggesting, “I-I would like to get your phone number, if that’s okay. And give you mine? I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to send you some immigration paperwork at some point, and this is probably the easiest way to get in touch with me.” I laugh at myself, self-deprecation all too ripe with the evidence of my current situation. “Clearly, I can’t be trusted with the mail.”

Flynn actually smiles at that, and immediately, it’s melted butter where cartilage should be in my knees.

He reaches out and steadies me with one hand while easing my phone out of my hand and into his with the other. With a lot of pushing of buttons, he enters his number into my contact list and then pushes the call button to bestow his phone with the same information from me.

And just like that, I have a lifeline to the most interesting man—who just so happens to be my husband—I’ve ever met in my life.

I stare down at his programmed number. Damn. I really didn’t dream it. I got married last night.

In a rented wedding dress with Marilyn Monroe officiating, no less…

“Oh shoot!” I look up at Flynn. “My dress…the rental shop. It’s still on the chair in the bedroom and—”

“I’ll handle it,” he says with a soft smile, promptly stopping me from diving into a needless ramble about return policies.

“Thank you, Flynn,” I blurt as my eyes stay locked on his face and refuse to let go. “I’m really not sure if I said it in all the chaos of the night, what with my freak-out and basically making you convince me that it was the right thing to do to marry you…to pact with you.” I laugh, and he grins. “But thank you. You’ve quite possibly saved my life, and you’ve done it without even asking for anything in return. Please, if you ever figure out a way for me to repay you, I’m telling you now, don’t hold back. Okay?”

“Okay, Daisy.”

I nod then. Okay. That’s…done. My frazzled brain nearly mocks me. Oh yeah, Dais, you’ve really got everything completely buttoned up.

Light lasers through the window, a perfect beam of illumination reflecting off the paint of my Uber as it pulls into Flynn’s driveway and comes to a stop.

I glance back at my contracted husband and plaster the biggest smile on to my face that I can manage. “Well, I guess it’s time to go.”

He nods and then surprises me by moving forward, putting his strong, firm hands to my jaw, tipping my head back, and pressing his lips to my own.

It’s a delicate, strangely innocent kiss, given the intimate knowledge we have of each other from last night, but the jolt it rockets through my pounding chest is nearly enough to send me to the hospital.

“Goodbye, Daisy Winslow.”

My stomach turns over on itself as he reaches around me and opens the door, holding it for me gallantly.

I look from him, back to the house, and then out to the car.

I guess that…is really that.

“Goodbye, Flynn.”





Flynn

In an expensive Las Vegas penthouse stood a man with a crappy cup of hotel coffee made from a temperamental Keurig, the logistical, legal side of his life having changed dramatically overnight.

I, Flynn Winslow, am that man, and what a night it was.

I’m officially the first Winslow brother to be married, and no one’s ever even going to know about it. Fucking hell. That’s funny enough to almost make me laugh.

I take another sip of my coffee and stare out the massive windows of the penthouse suite that Remy, Ty, and I reserved for Jude’s bachelor party weekend. For once, the Strip looks calm and quiet, and very few tourists mill about on the sidewalks. Hell, even the neon lights of the desert city look almost reserved beneath the Nevada sun.

Now this is the kind of Vegas I can get behind.

“Damn, Flynn, you’re up early.”

I glance over my shoulder to find my eldest brother Remy shuffling toward the kitchen, most likely in search of coffee, and jerk my head toward the clock on the wall. He follows my gaze and cringes to himself.