The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(66)

I roll my eyes at myself and shift my focus to waking up.

Hands over my head and toes pointed away from my body, I stretch out my arms and legs beneath the comforter. My muscles are sore and a bit achy, but it’s the good kind of discomfort. The one that serves as a delicious reminder of last night.

Once I’m out of bed, I grab my favorite fluffy robe from the closet and stop dead in my tracks when I catch my reflection in the mirror.

Are those hickeys on my boobs? And my freaking thighs?

Fingers to my skin, I tap at the bruised flesh and deduce that they are, in fact, hickeys. But why I smile over that truth is something I don’t understand. Normally, I’d be a bit ticked off if a man marked me like this, but being marked by Flynn with a bunch of hickeys? I don’t know what I am, but it’s not mad.

Because you l-o-v-e love it, you little floozy.

Okay, fine. So what if I like the idea of Flynn marking me? Pretty sure any woman would love a man like him giving their body that much attention.

A little niggle of discomfort sets up residence in my chest, and I write it off as another sign of my sex hangover. I’m probably a little dehydrated. Maybe even low on blood sugar, too.

Uh-huh. Sure, that’s all it is…

Instead of marinating in my brain’s early morning absurdity, I tie my robe around my naked body and pad into the kitchen. Once I start a pot of coffee—caffeine first, then water and food—I locate my phone where I left it on the counter, moments before Flynn’s and my cake baking turned to insanely hot sex.

Though, before I start to check for missed notifications, I don’t miss the fact that Flynn has already managed to clean up our mess from last night. Come to find out, the more time I spend living with him, the more I realize that Flynn Winslow is a man who cleans up after himself.

He’s like a unicorn of men. But minus the horn and sparkles.

Oh, but he has a horn. And it’s hella big and sits smack-dab between his legs.

I don’t know what it is about Flynn, but I swear on everything, my mind has never been this much of a horny harlot until he showed up.

Phone in my hand, I swipe my finger across the screen and start rolling through any texts, calls, or emails I’ve missed.

An email from Damien that is actually work-related and can be dealt with on Monday.

A passive-aggressive email from Tara regarding the property in SoHo that I staged two days ago. She rambles on for about five paragraphs, but the gist of her words revolves around second-guessing everything I did with the place.

Unfortunately for her, I already sent Damien and Thomas a few preview photos, and they both approved of my design aesthetic.

Suck on that, Tara.

Once I send Tara a friendly but equally passive-aggressive response updating her on the cold, hard facts, I check my text messages and find one from Gwen that came in a few hours ago. Dang. She must be up early.

Gwen: Darling, I miss you. How is New York treating you?

Me: I miss you too. And New York is good. Just staying very busy with work.

And, you know, living with my husband that you don’t know about.

Ugh. I cringe and run a hand down my face. Gwen is the one person I don’t lie to. Ever. And yet, here I am, lying to her.

Gwen: Well, I hope you’re not working so much that you aren’t enjoying this glorious Saturday. What’s that famous saying? All work and no play makes you a dull girl?

A laugh bubbles up from my lungs as I type out a response.

Me: It’s actually “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” And that quote is from The Shining. It’s the part where Jack Nicholson officially goes off the deep end. Right before he tries to kill his family.

Gwen: So, not a good quote for a happy Saturday?

Me: Nope. LOL.

Gwen: Bad quotes aside, do you have big weekend plans? Something fun, hopefully?

Before I can even respond, Incoming FaceTime Call Gwen pops up on the screen of my phone.

Oh boy. Nerves tickle my throat, and my finger hovers over the accept button, unsure of what to do. It’s one thing to lie to her through text message, but it’s a whole other ball game trying to do it while we’re face-to-face.

Eventually, though, guilt wins out, and I hit accept by the third ring.

“Darling! It’s so good to see you!” she exclaims, and a big grin consumes her face. Her excitement is infectious, and for a moment, I forget about everything but just being happy to see her. Sometimes I forget how lonely my life was before Gwen.

“I missed you. How are Vancouver and the girls and David?”

“Vancouver is the same. The girls are great. And David is starting to get on my nerves, so…” She shrugs but doesn’t say anything else.

“So…?”

“It means I don’t know how much longer I’m going to keep him around. You know I don’t like to strain my attention span.”

I snort. “Poor David.”

“No,” she disagrees with a little smile and a shake of her finger, always a proponent for women having the right to put themselves first like men usually do. “Not poor David. He’s become a stage five clinger—to the point that I had to tell him he could not, in fact, attend ladies’ night with me last night even though the rule is already right there in the name—so you should actually be saying Poor Gwen.”

How she even knows the term stage five clinger is beyond me, but it’s one of the many reasons why I love her.