The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(78)

Only seven more days, my mind whispers. Seven more days until the interview and your current cozy bubble of blissful sex and happy days with Flynn will come to an end.

And just like that, I’m decided.

“Tara, I have to run to the office really quick,” I announce in a rush, already starting the process of heading toward the door to grab my purse.

“What?” she questions back and looks at me like I just told her I’m going to set this loft on fire for the fun of it. “Why?”

Because I need to go have sex with my husband before he’s not my husband anymore.

“Uh…” I pause and search for a reason, any-fucking-reason. “Uh…Damien just texted, and he needs me to send him a few files from an LA property I helped stage. It’s urgent.”

Her narrowed eyes call my bluff, but I ignore her.

Instead, I offer a wave over my shoulder and head out the door before she can ask me anything else.

Of course, the instant the loft door shuts behind me and I step on to the elevator, I pull my phone out of my purse and fire off a text.

Me: If anyone asks, you needed me to send you very important papers about an LA property today.

Damien: And why would I need that?

Me: Because I wanted to play hooky, and I needed an excuse that didn’t end in Tara gouging my eyes out with her nails.

Damien: I hope this hooky at least involves something awesome and not going to the fucking dentist.

Me: That was one time! And there’s nothing wrong with liking clean teeth.

Damien: Daisy.

Me: Relax. This hooky involves…sexy kind of things.

Damien: You mean, you’re sneaking out of work to go home and fuck your hot husband?

Me: Something like that.

Damien: Since I’m technically your boss, I think I’m supposed to tell you I’ll let it slide this time, but don’t make a habit of it.

Damien: But as your friend, I’m saying… I got your back, doll.

Don’t make a habit of it? Not to worry, Dame. This habit of mine has a seven-day expiration.





Tuesday, May 28th

Daisy

At half past five, I step out of the entrance doors of EllisGrey’s New York office in Manhattan and stop just before I get past the outside awning. Rain falls from the sky in harsh, unrelenting waves, and I glance down at my favorite white silk blouse and sigh.

This is the opposite of what I want to be wearing right now.

It’s times like these that I wish I were the type of person who planned ahead. The kind of organized person who checks the weather and brings umbrellas and raincoats and slicker boots when there’s a prediction for rain.

But I’ve never been that person. Hell, I don’t even own an umbrella.

I check the time on my phone and realize I have exactly thirty minutes to get across town to the bridal shop where my bridesmaid dress for Sophie’s wedding is waiting for pickup.

Also not ideal for this kind of torrential rain situation.

I start to weigh out the taxi versus subway pros and cons, both of which seem to end in me giving my best impression of a spring break wet T-shirt contest, but the sound of my phone ringing from my purse stops me before I can decide which is the lesser of two evils.

Incoming Call Flynn flashes on the screen, and I answer it by the second ring.

“Hey, you.”

“Where are you?” he asks, and I look up at the protective canvas barrier above me.

“Welp. I’m standing underneath the awning outside my building and trying to decide how to avoid the rain while I run across town to get my bridesmaid dress. You don’t happen to have access to a teleportation device, do you?”

He chuckles. “What about an umbrella?”

“Well, that would certainly help, but how are you going to get it to me?”

“By car.”

“So…you’re going to send a car to drop an umbrella off to me?” I question on a snort. “That sounds like a waste of resources.”

“Not if I’m driving the car.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Huh?”

“I’m half a block away,” he expands.

“For real?” I question. “So, you can drive me to the shop to get my dress?”

“There’s no need. I already picked it up for you after I got my suit.”

The surprising, downright fan-fucking-tastic news makes me fist-pump the air. “Oh my goodness, Flynn! You’re my hero!” I exclaim so loud it startles the man working security at the entrance doors.

“Stay put. I’ll be there in a minute,” he says just as I look toward the street to see him pulling his Range Rover to a stop in front of the building. There’s a smile in his voice—an easiness he’s acquired when it comes to dealing with me that steals my breath unexpectedly.

He’s parked illegally and New York traffic is showing its disdain through obnoxious honks and middle fingers, but Flynn is undeterred. Out of the driver’s side door, he heads my way with an actual umbrella in his hand. Rain soaks his dark hair and his white T-shirt as he jogs toward me.

Holy hell. An actual hero. My heart feels as if it wants to burst out of my rib cage, and the burning, stinging pain in my jaw gets more and more intense. Tears, it seems, are trying their damnedest to make a showing right now, but there’s no way I’m letting some sappy emotion about all of this coming to an end ruin the moment for me.