The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(30)

Technology and the internet make it pathetically easy to enable my nosiness, and within a few typed words and clicks on my keyboard, my screen showcases an aerial view of a swanky building located in Midtown. Certified proof that Flynn Winslow has done really fucking well for himself.

Which only makes me more curious about this man and where he lives and what his life is like…

Me: Okay…so…I have two questions… Is New York where you live full time? And what do you do for a living?

Flynn: Yes. Electrical engineer.

Me: That’s cool. Way above my head, I’m sure, but cool. LOL. I’m an interior designer and stager for EllisGrey. That’s a big real estate firm based out of LA.

I’m not shocked when he doesn’t respond, but I’m also not done asking questions.

Me: Is that the only thing you do to make money?

I’m well aware that electrical engineers—any engineers, really—make a very healthy living. But from what I’ve seen of Flynn’s life so far, it feels like there’s more to his financial story.

Flynn: Investments

Short and to the point. Always.

Me: So, not to sound stalkerish, but I Googled your NYC address, and your building is pretty damn swanky. It also makes the designer in me VERY curious what it looks like on the inside… Did you use the same color palette in your New York apartment as in your Vegas home?

Don’t get me wrong, his Vegas home is a stunner. But it could certainly use little eye-catching pops of color here and there to break up the constant use of bland neutrals. Seriously, Flynn, a little color won’t kill ya.

Flynn: Daisy?

Me: Yeah?

Flynn: Stop talking to me about color palettes.

His response makes me grin. And it also gives me a brilliant idea…





Friday, April 12th, New York

Flynn

A little after eight in the evening, I step beneath the awning of my building entrance, offer a curt smile to Carl the evening doorman, and head inside the doors. After a quick stop at the small alcove with the mailboxes, I find a stack of mail inside my metal box and a large package sitting right below it on the floor.

The label is written in very pretty, feminine handwriting, and beside the sender’s name—Daisy Winslow—sits a little smiley face.

I don’t know why that makes me smile, but it does. It also makes me shake my head. The woman is a trip.

I tuck the box under my arm, and instead of being lazy and taking the elevator, I jog up the fifteen flights of stairs to my apartment. I might’ve just finished a grueling workout with my brother Jude, but I’m always game for more cardio. It keeps me young, fit, and focused.

Once I’m inside, I drop my keys and wallet on the kitchen counter, turn on a few lights, and hit play on my Bluetooth speakers so a little music from one of my saved playlists gives some ambiance. The soft, soothing sounds of Claude Debussy fill my apartment, but the lull of relaxation it provides only lasts until my cell vibrating inside the pocket of my sweats grabs my attention.

Jude: You guys, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think we need to move forward with an intervention for Flynn.

The ongoing group chat. With my crazy fucking brothers.

Ty: What the fuck are you talking about?

Jude: Flynn is on steroids.

I roll my eyes at the absurd accusation and keep reading.

Ty: Bullshit.

Remy: Yeah, I call bullshit.

Jude: Well, maybe you assholes should start joining us at the gym. That motherfucker doesn’t quit. Like, ever. And the amount of weight he can lift is absurd. There’s no other explanation besides steroids.

Ty: So, let me get this straight, bro, you think Flynn is on steroids because he’s kicking your ass at the gym? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Jude: Wow, Ty. Way to take a very serious concern of mine and turn it into a joke.

Remy: Serious concern? HA. This just keeps getting better.

Jude: Fuck you, Rem.

Remy: Jude, sweetheart, I just want you to know you have no reason to feel insecure. I think you are very, VERY strong, and I’m proud of you. Even if your fiancée can out-lift you.

On a soft chuckle, I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and open the fridge to pull out everything I need for dinner. After this evening’s hard workout—a workout that apparently has Jude whining like a little bitch—a meal loaded with protein and iron is imperative for muscle healing and growth.

Steak, asparagus, and potatoes are tonight’s dinner choice, and it’s not long before I have everything on the stove and cooking. While I wait for my steak to grill, I grab the package Daisy sent and open it.

Inside sits the paperwork I was expecting, but also, something else—two pale-yellow throw pillows.

She sent me fucking pillows? And yellow ones, at that?

A note is attached to one of the pillows, and in her now familiar girlie script, it reads, If your New York place is anything like your Vegas house, then, no offense, but you need some color.

I laugh and roll my eyes at the same time. Frankly, I have no idea what would make a woman like Daisy think a man like me wants fucking yellow throw pillows on his goddamn couch, but I can’t deny I’m inspired by the confidence it took to make that kind of assessment of me.

Intriguing, that Daisy.

I check the stove, flip over my steak and asparagus, and before I can stop myself, I’m heading out of the kitchen with those two ridiculous pillows in hand to test her theory. Once I toss them on my cognac leather couch, I step back, prepared to disprove her theory.