Once my words fill our text box and I reread what I wrote, insta-mortification sets in.
Oh my God! Why did you send that?! Fix it!
Me: Ha. I’m kidding, obviously! Call me in whatever you like! Fully clothed, balls out, rocking out with your cock out! Doesn’t matter!
Ha-ha-ha, I’m an idiot.
Me: Holy hell. Can you just go ahead and ignore all of that?
Me: Oops. Besides the call me part. Still do that. Okay. Bye.
Daisy
After spending ten minutes on self-loathing and theoretical questions about life brought on by my text faux pas with Flynn, I eventually invested myself in finishing my staging plans for one of the properties Damien wants done before I relocate to New York, and my workday just sort of flew by.
I didn’t have time to sit and stew, and for that, I’m thankful. Because now that I’m done with my task list for the day, each and every one of my thoughts about those messages has come back with full force.
Hindsight is a bit of a bitch, and I realize now that my messages probably came off as a confusing combination of weird-as-hell and oddly serious. Not exactly the impression I’m going for, which, of course, makes me want to fix it. The solution teasingly seems like it rests in more messages. But thankfully—in part because of my age, and in part because I’m a lifetime member of the foot-in-the-mouth club—I know that’s not actually true. It will, however, probably make me sound like a crazy, nagging shrew to a man who’s done nothing but try to help me, and that’s the very last thing I want.
On a sigh, I drop my phone back onto my kitchen counter and busy myself with grabbing a yogurt and some granola. It’s a little after nine in the evening and this is a terrible dinner, but going to the effort to cook or order takeout at this point feels akin to starting a 5K run knowing my blood sugar is already low.
Regardless, I only get through one bite of my yogurt before my phone starts ringing from its abandoned spot on the counter, and I slip-slide across the kitchen like a newborn colt on a patch of ice trying to get to it in my stocking feet. I fumble and bumble attempting to set the yogurt down with the spoon inside, and I finally pick it up on what I know to be one of the last notes of my ringtone without looking at the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Daisy,” the caller says, the rich rumble of his voice immediately recognizable. A whole-body shiver starts at my toes and curls right into my buzzing brain. It’s weird, but I think the rarity of my new husband’s words ups their potency or something.
“Flynn.” I giggle involuntarily. “On the phone. Talking.”
“You asked me to call.”
“I did. You’re right. It’s just…you, on the phone, where you literally have no option but to talk in order to communicate. It’s almost nonsensical.”
It’s as if the man has a set quota of words per day, not to be exceeded. In the modern age of social media, where everyone is pretending to be the very best version of themselves by spewing bullshit from their keyboard at every turn, that’s refreshing, to say the least.
I wonder what percentage of total words in his lifetime have been used while in the bedroom?
My cheeks flush pink when memories of the one and only night I spent with Flynn Winslow fill up my head like helium in a balloon. Holy moly, he didn’t hold back any words that night. If anything, he was completely uninhibited, and his frequent use of words only spurred my pleasure further.
That was a hot night. One for the damn record books.
“Daisy?”
“Yeah?”
“You wanted to talk?”
“Oh, right,” I respond and cringe through an embarrassed smile. Clearing my throat, I yank my mind out of the gutter and focus on the actual priority. “So, I have good news and sort of bad news, I guess. I got the okay from my boss for my move to New York, but since I have a few more staging projects to finish up, I probably won’t be able to get out there for another week. Possibly ten days if my plan to work like a dog comes up a couple barks short of a tail wag.”
The silence stretches out for what feels like forever.
“Flynn?”
“A couple barks short of a tail wag?”
My cheeks warm as I suck my lips inside my mouth before popping them back out. “Of everything I said, that’s the part you heard?”
“I heard the rest. That was just the part that interested me.”
“The fact that it’s going to be at least a week before I can move out there doesn’t concern you?”
“I can assume from your tone that this isn’t the answer you’re looking for, but no, it doesn’t,” he answers matter-of-factly. “We’ve both sent USCIS everything they need for the application. From where I stand, everything that needs to be done is getting done, and I don’t see a problem with it taking a week for you to move out here.”
“Okayyy…but wouldn’t you say it’s a bit of a problem for showing proof of our marriage?”
“I think they’ll understand there’s a transition period, babe. Lives take time to shift.”
“And, what? We just don’t talk to each other all that time to make the anticipation grow stronger?” I retort. “That’s sketchy as hell, Flynn. It’s going to toss up all the red flags for the immigration overlords and make them suspicious of us. Of me. We’re going to have to think of other things to do to show we’re together and want to be together.”
“I’m a reasonable guy, Daisy, and I made an agreement with you. All you need to do is tell me what you think we should be doing, and I’ll do it.”
When I picture him standing there, most likely in his apartment in New York, holding a phone to his ear and having a conversation with me I can almost guarantee he’d rather not be having, plus the FaceTime call in his towel and everything else he’s done for me up until now, I know that’s true. Flynn Winslow has an irrefutable track record of keeping his word to me.
“I think…” I pause and, for some reason, find myself fumbling over my words. It makes zero sense, but I can only chalk it up to already feeling like I’m asking him for far too much. “We…uh…need to show proof of our relationship through other ways. Like…text messages…phone calls…you know, that sort of thing. And also, probably delete any damning evidence of contractual indifference from our previous conversations…”
“Okay.”
One word. Just like that, and he’s already agreed. Call me a sadist, but this feels too easy.
“Are you…uh…sure?”
“Daisy.”
Right. This is good. Great, even.
My need to get the ball rolling as soon as possible is too strong to deny. The call switched over to speaker, I pull up our text chat and type out a message—How was your day, hubby?
Once I hit send, I say, “Okay. Check your text messages.”
“My day was fine,” he responds, and laughter barrels from my belly and straight past my lips.
“Flynn!” I giggle. “You’re supposed to text me your answer back. You know…for evidentiary support.”
“Right. I just have one question.”