Come As You Are(42)

As “Arabian Nights” sounds softly through the speakers, I shrug at Flynn. “Guess I had genies on my mind.”

“Or genie costumes,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows at the reminder of another private exchange of ours.

Soon, my green tea is ready, and we head to Flynn’s office where I ask him a few more questions as I drink my tea.

After we finish, I stand, ready to head for the door, lest I be distracted by another magnificent meandering conversation with him that stimulates my mind and my heart. But before I go, I reach into my purse and take out a white bag with a pink sticker on it. I place it on his desk.

“Do you like cupcakes?” I ask nervously.

He blinks. “What kind of question is that? Are you testing to see if I’m secretly an alien?”

“Are you?”

“No, I’m not an alien, because I love cupcakes.”

“I picked this up for you.” I slide the bag closer.

His smile does funny things to my heart, makes it cartwheel as my skin heats, and I wonder what compelled me to buy him a sweet treat.

“I have no idea what you like to eat,” I say, explaining myself. “But it looked really good, so I took a guess.”

He peers into the bag and removes the treat. “Looks amazing. Are you trying to bribe me with cupcakes to give up all my secrets?”

“Is that all it’ll take?”

“Depends how good the cupcake is.”

“Then, please by all means, devour it.”

He drums his fingers on his desk, his eyes never straying from mine. “That isn’t what I want to devour.”

“It’s not?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Not in the least. But it might be a substitute.”

“I hope it tastes as good as what you really want,” I say breathily.

“I doubt anything tastes as good as what I really want.”

As he brings the cupcake to his lips, he stares at me. His expression is full of rampant lust and desire, and it almost feels like a dirty promise that at some point he’ll have me. He flicks the tip of his tongue over the icing and heat flares low in my belly.

I want to be that cupcake.

That cupcake really is orgasmic.



*

After I leave, I call Mr. Galloway and update him.

“Glad to hear it’s going well, and don’t forget, we have that opening coming up soon. If you deliver, we can create a beat. You could be the reporter to make it happen.”

That’s exactly what I want. “I’ll make it happen, sir.”

“Excellent. I’m told the advertising team is working overtime on the cause. As long as we get the ad support, we can start regular coverage.”

Images of watchmakers and cologne purveyors flash before my eyes. If there’s any publication that can drum up the necessary ad money, it’s Up Next. That’s what they do—land big money in sponsors, making it possible to write these deep features and hopefully keep covering technology.

“It’s going to be an exciting industry to follow,” I say, then I take stock of that comment for a second. Do I think it’s exciting because I care for Flynn? Or is it exciting in and of itself?

But the memory of the tea brewing and the soundtrack to Aladdin playing flashes before me, calling for attention. They were cool, plain and simple. This is a huge growth area. “I should have the piece done shortly. I’ve finished all the interviews with people who have worked with him and those who compete with him, as well as analysts and experts. I just need two more short interviews with him, and one with his brother. I should be finished shortly after. I’ll turn it in a few days early.”

“Excellent. I hope you’ll impress me. If you do, that will go a long way.”

I terribly want to impress him, to win him over.

The trouble is, every time I see the subject of my article, it’s harder and harder for me to be objective as I write about the man I’m falling for.





19





Flynn



We are officially freaking her out. It’s a trick we’ve employed since we were kids, and we probably will till the end of time. It honestly never gets old.

Sabrina’s eyes drift from Dylan to me and back as we stand near the bleachers at the softball field in Central Park. We are the spitting image of each other. Being identical twins, it’s not hard to look exactly like my brother.

But today, since we’re on the same softball team, the doppelg?nger effect is operating at full power. We’re in matching outfits—white shirts, blue sleeves, with the Katherine’s jeweler’s logo on the back of our gear. We both wear cargo shorts.

Sabrina’s hazel eyes are painted with the astonishment I’ve seen so many times when people meet us together.

Her index finger drifts from me to him and back. “If you didn’t have black glasses, I’m not entirely sure I could tell you apart. But I think I could.”

Naturally, that’s the cue for our next trick, something we did to our mom and our sister. We turn around, exchange eyeglasses, switch spots, do it again, then pivot once more to face Sabrina, playing our own game of three-card Monte. Two-Card twins.

She makes a stop sign with her hand. “Stop. It’s too freaky.”