I search his eyes for disappointment and could almost swear that I see a flash of it, but the amount of trust I have in myself right now, in my current state of emotional turmoil, is minuscule at best. Frankly, I’m probably just projecting.
I lick my lips, tightening my grip on my phone to get up the courage I need before suggesting, “I-I would like to get your phone number, if that’s okay. And give you mine? I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to send you some immigration paperwork at some point, and this is probably the easiest way to get in touch with me.” I laugh at myself, self-deprecation all too ripe with the evidence of my current situation. “Clearly, I can’t be trusted with the mail.”
Flynn actually smiles at that, and immediately, it’s melted butter where cartilage should be in my knees.
He reaches out and steadies me with one hand while easing my phone out of my hand and into his with the other. With a lot of pushing of buttons, he enters his number into my contact list and then pushes the call button to bestow his phone with the same information from me.
And just like that, I have a lifeline to the most interesting man—who just so happens to be my husband—I’ve ever met in my life.
I stare down at his programmed number. Damn. I really didn’t dream it. I got married last night.
In a rented wedding dress with Marilyn Monroe officiating, no less…
“Oh shoot!” I look up at Flynn. “My dress…the rental shop. It’s still on the chair in the bedroom and—”
“I’ll handle it,” he says with a soft smile, promptly stopping me from diving into a needless ramble about return policies.
“Thank you, Flynn,” I blurt as my eyes stay locked on his face and refuse to let go. “I’m really not sure if I said it in all the chaos of the night, what with my freak-out and basically making you convince me that it was the right thing to do to marry you…to pact with you.” I laugh, and he grins. “But thank you. You’ve quite possibly saved my life, and you’ve done it without even asking for anything in return. Please, if you ever figure out a way for me to repay you, I’m telling you now, don’t hold back. Okay?”
“Okay, Daisy.”
I nod then. Okay. That’s…done. My frazzled brain nearly mocks me. Oh yeah, Dais, you’ve really got everything completely buttoned up.
Light lasers through the window, a perfect beam of illumination reflecting off the paint of my Uber as it pulls into Flynn’s driveway and comes to a stop.
I glance back at my contracted husband and plaster the biggest smile on to my face that I can manage. “Well, I guess it’s time to go.”
He nods and then surprises me by moving forward, putting his strong, firm hands to my jaw, tipping my head back, and pressing his lips to my own.
It’s a delicate, strangely innocent kiss, given the intimate knowledge we have of each other from last night, but the jolt it rockets through my pounding chest is nearly enough to send me to the hospital.
“Goodbye, Daisy Winslow.”
My stomach turns over on itself as he reaches around me and opens the door, holding it for me gallantly.
I look from him, back to the house, and then out to the car.
I guess that…is really that.
“Goodbye, Flynn.”
Flynn
In an expensive Las Vegas penthouse stood a man with a crappy cup of hotel coffee made from a temperamental Keurig, the logistical, legal side of his life having changed dramatically overnight.
I, Flynn Winslow, am that man, and what a night it was.
I’m officially the first Winslow brother to be married, and no one’s ever even going to know about it. Fucking hell. That’s funny enough to almost make me laugh.
I take another sip of my coffee and stare out the massive windows of the penthouse suite that Remy, Ty, and I reserved for Jude’s bachelor party weekend. For once, the Strip looks calm and quiet, and very few tourists mill about on the sidewalks. Hell, even the neon lights of the desert city look almost reserved beneath the Nevada sun.
Now this is the kind of Vegas I can get behind.
“Damn, Flynn, you’re up early.”
I glance over my shoulder to find my eldest brother Remy shuffling toward the kitchen, most likely in search of coffee, and jerk my head toward the clock on the wall. He follows my gaze and cringes to himself.
“Shit. It’s already eleven?”
I cover my smile with a sip from my coffee cup and turn back to face the window. I have a feeling the quiet atmosphere outside is compliments of many, many people in a state like my brother Remington.
Compared to the rest of my three brothers, I’m always the early bird who gets the worm, but when it comes to this weekend, it’s mostly because I don’t drink like a fucking fish. A beer or two is about as far as I get. And without me there to keep them in check last night, I can only imagine how close to dead they all came. This morning, of course—well, it’s a whole other story entirely.
Remy sets the Keurig to brew, and a groan escapes his lips as he puts his hand to his head. “I never should’ve agreed to do tequila shots last night. Ty and Jude are fucking assholes.”
Why he’d ever think our youngest brothers would steer him in a good direction when it comes to alcohol is beyond me. Most of the time, he’s old and wise enough to hold himself above their standards, but for whatever reason, this weekend, he’s been caught in the drunken tide with them.
I quirk an eyebrow in his direction.
“Shut up,” Remy snaps, making just the corner of my mouth kick up into a subtle grin.
“I didn’t say anything,” I counter.
“Trust me, your look implied it all. Was it the shots—or the bourbon you chose to keep drinking with the shots?” he mocks in a sarcastic voice that I think is supposed to represent my own. It’s even more ironic that, because of my absence, I don’t have a fucking clue what he was drinking.
A laugh escapes my throat. Evidently, his subconscious sounds a hell of a lot like me.
“Now’s not the time for your fucking logic, man,” he grumbles, holding his head with his hand and stumbling back toward the bathroom.
My phone chimes inside the pocket of my jeans, and I pull it out to find a text from our baby sister, Winnie. A successful physician for the New York Mavericks and married with an eight-year-old daughter, she may be the youngest Winslow sibling, but she definitely isn’t a baby anymore. The pigtailed, knobby-kneed version of Winifred that we all grew up with is a distant memory at this stage in our lives.
Winnie: Anyone in jail?
A small grin raises one corner of my mouth as I type out a quick response.
Me: Nope.
Winnie: Everyone still alive?
Me: Yes. Although, the hangovers Rem, Ty, and Jude are going to be facing today will probably make them wish they were dead.
It takes a special amount of alcohol to make three grown men not even realize they were missing the fourth member of their group.
Winnie: Let me guess…Ty started with the damn tequila shots, and Jude succumbed quickly to the peer pressure.
I might not know the exact details of last night’s debauchery, but after forty-one years on this earth studying these morons, I have a pretty good idea.
Me: Something like that.