The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(57)

I laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, I move my desk chair around a lot.”

Daisy’s answering smile is so mesmerizing, I don’t even look before pushing the front door open onto the sidewalk and almost take out a guy with a giant inflatable lollipop. He stumbles to the side and swings the thing like a sword, and Daisy’s eyes sparkle. “New York is wild, man.”

I grin. That it is.

Thankfully, the little diner I like to frequent for lunch is only right across the street, and after a quick jaywalk, we’re inside again.

I escort Daisy straight to the table in the back where the framed reservation sign with my name on it sits. She reads it aloud as we scoot into our respective sides of the booth. “Reserved for Flynn Winslow.” She snorts. “Come here often, do you?”

I shrug. “Just about every day for fifteen years.”

“Wow! Holy shit, you’re a creature of habit! I can’t believe it. The guy nobody knows anything about does the same dang thing every day.”

“You make it sound like I’m some sort of phantom,” I say with a laugh. “No one has ever asked me where I have lunch, so I haven’t offered it up. That’s it.”

“No one has ever asked you?”

I shake my head, and Barbara, my favorite quiet waitress, sets a couple of plates with burgers in front of us along with two glasses of water, and then heads back for the kitchen. I glance to the food and then at Daisy. “Is this okay? She obviously just assumed you wanted what I get.”

Daisy waves off the food faux pas and pops a fry into her mouth before leaning into her elbows on the table and whispering intently, diving right back into the conversation we were having before Barb brought the food. “Your sister talks like you’re ex-CIA, and you’re telling me it’s all because people don’t ask you?”

I shrug. I mean, yeah. If they asked, I’d answer. But I’m not going to fucking gab for no reason. I pick up my burger and take a bite.

“Holy shit. That’s…groundbreaking, really.”

I roll my eyes with a shake of my head and a dry laugh, and Daisy reaches across the table and grabs my hand to stop me.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

“What’s your favorite holiday?”

“All of them that bring the family together.”

“What do you do with your free time?”

“Work out. Scope out real estate investments. Volunteer at the homeless shelter Uptown.”

She stops her continuous giggle then to get serious. “You volunteer at the homeless shelter?”

I shrug. “Once a month or so.”

“God, Flynn.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “You’re…well, you’re kind of a catch of a husband, you know that?”

“Oh,” I murmur, her comment reminding me of the envelope in my pocket. “I almost forgot.” Pulling it out, I toss it into the center of the table, her eyes following it and scanning until she makes out the address of the sender in the top left corner. I lean over my plate and take more bites.

Daisy stops eating altogether, and as soon she understands what it is, her whole demeanor changes.

“Oh my God, that’s from Immigration.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“That’s from Immigration, Flynn!” she repeats, this time much more manically.

“Yeah, I know. I saw the address,” I reply calmly.

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t open it.”

“You didn’t open it?” she nearly shrieks, making a couple of the regulars look our direction. But I don’t give a shit who’s watching us, so I don’t pay them any mind.

“Daisy.”

“Okay, you said that, but why? Why didn’t you open it?”

“Why don’t you just open it now?” I suggest instead of answering.

She nods then, grabbing the envelope and ripping into it without much finesse. The envelope is practically shredded, and I lean down to pick up a stray piece of it that’s fluttered to the floor.

By the time I straighten back up in my seat, Daisy is fully engrossed in the letter and chanting the phrase, “Oh my God,” over and over again under her breath.

I raise my eyebrows in question, and she says it again, extending the last word like some sort of prayer. “Oh my Gooood, Flynn! They want to do the interview in less than a month! Holy shit, they want to do the interview May 31st!”

May 31st. The day of Jude and Sophie’s wedding.

Daisy’s eyes have turned wild and crazy as she frantically glances between me and the letter in her hands. “Geez Louise, what are we going to do?”

“Go to the interview?”

“Flynn, they said three months, and that’s only like a month and a half! They must know!”

My eyebrows draw together. “Know what?”

“About us! About the sham! That I’m a big fat phony who needs to get deported!”

“Daisy, relax.” I reach out to place my hand over hers. “They don’t know anything. You’re Canadian. You’re, like, the most nonthreatening type of immigrant. They’re probably just ready to push your stuff through.”

“I just can’t believe it’s that soon,” she says, her voice despondent in a way I’m not entirely sure I understand. This is good news. The sooner they do the interview, the sooner we know there’s no chance Daisy’s going to get forced to leave.