The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(49)

Gwen’s an open-minded, fluid person, but I’m pretty sure if her pseudodaughter told her she climbed on the back of the bike of a man she didn’t know and expected herself to come out alive, she’d kind of object. If that pseudodaughter then told her she went on to marry him, move all the way across the country, and lie to pretty much everyone she comes in contact with, I’m pretty sure she’d call the police.

Gah.

“Daisy? Are you there? These stupid cell thingies never get good reception.”

Speak, for the love of everything. Say something.

“Sorry, Gwen. I’m here. I was just… Yeah, you were breaking up. How was the discount cruise? Was it the dollar store version of Alaska or the real one?”

Gwen laughs. “I guess I don’t know for certain, as Kammie didn’t want to get off the boat, but the pictures I have look real.”

I’m not surprised by this info. Kammie is the one broad in their girl group who always manages to put a snag in the plans.

“Okay, but I’ll have to see the evidence to believe you.”

“Of course, darling, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Why wouldn’t Kammie get off the boat?”

“Something about her facelift scars showing in the reflection of the snow.”

“Right. Of course. I mean, what else would it be, right?”

Gwen’s laugh rolls like a soft melody, the ease of our normal conversations obviously—thankfully—conveying on her end. For my part, I’m so freaking nervous I could wet myself if I uncrossed my legs.

“What about you, my little flower? How’s work? And Damien?”

It might seem a little strange on the surface for Gwen to be asking about Damien, but the truth is, I started blurring the boss, employee, childhood guardian line a while ago. I’ve included them in the details of each other’s lives and forced them together more than a few times. Hell, not even a month ago, I forced Damien to sit on a FaceTime call with Gwen while she taught me—and Damien, because I dragged him into it—how to paint lilies like it was some kind of virtual chat with Bob Ross.

“Work is good. Damien is still Damien. A powerhouse in Prada with no time for anyone’s shit.” I take a deep breath and pause to gather myself for the best truth I can come up with—the half-truth. “I’m actually in New York.”

“New York? Oh, that’s exciting! For the day or for the week?”

“For three months, actually.”

“What? Three months?”

“Yep. Dame had some special projects over here he wanted me to be involved in,” I lie, closing my eyes against the overwhelming wave of guilt nausea. Lie, lie, lie.

“Wow! That’s pretty incredible, but three months is a long hotel stay. Even hopeless wanderers like me need little touches of home every now and then. Is he flying you home on any of the weekends?”

I nearly draw blood from my tongue, working to keep myself from freaking out and spilling all the beans all over this phone conversation. “No, no trips home. But I’m… Well, I’m in an apartment not a hotel, so it’s not so bad.”

“Damien has a company property, I guess? No way you managed a three-month lease somewhere.”

“Mm-hmm. Something like that. I’m not really sure of the details.”

I roll my eyes into my head and suck my lips into my mouth. Gah. I have to get off the phone. I can’t take much more of this.

“Well, that’s great, love. I hope you have the best time. Oh, and don’t forget to give yourself some time away from work. Living somewhere on assignment like that, it’s so easy to grind yourself into the ground twenty-four hours a day. Treat yourself sometimes, okay?”

“Okay, Gwen. I’ll try.”

“Kisses, sweetie. My cab’s here to take me to the airport in Seattle. Let’s chat again soon.”

“Okay. Safe travels.”

“Thanks, darling. Bye!”

“Bye,” I wheeze, hanging up the phone with absolutely the last vestige of control I have left and dropping it to the counter. I immediately double over and grab my stomach, the cramps of discomfort from deceit wreaking havoc.

That was hard, I reason, but it was also for the best. Ultimately, this whole charade with Flynn is short-term. It’s going to come to an end, and if I’d told Gwen about it now, I’d have to explain why we were breaking up then. Because it is going to end—even if it didn’t seem so much like it was going to last night—and this will just be a blip in my history.

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.