With a flick of his wrist, the mixer is on and spinning around the wet ingredients.
“Oh my God, this is better than I even imagined,” I mutter more to myself than him and snag my phone off the counter. “I have to get photo proof of this or else your sister won’t believe me.”
Flynn chuckles at that and tries to grab my phone with a playful hand, but I dodge his movements with a few bobs and weaves. “Traitor.”
I grin and snap a quick action shot.
And just for good measure, I take three more photos of big, bad Flynn standing in front of the KitchenAid mixer with a paper chef’s hat on his head.
To be honest, the whole scene is far hotter than I ever thought it could be. Like my own personal food porn, but minus the food.
Hello, ovaries. Please don’t explode.
But before I can even fire off a message to Winnie, my phone vibrates in my hands with a text.
Duncan Jones: Daisy, baby, how have you been? Damien told me you’re in New York for the next couple of months, and since I’m going to be in the Big Apple next weekend, I was wondering if you wanted to schedule that rain check. Pretty sure you owe me a date. ;)
“God, no! No, no, no, no!” The Michael Scott GIF of him reacting to Toby’s unexpected presence in the office flashes in my mind. And then another stupid text chimes through.
Duncan Jones: I won’t take no for an answer, and I promise you’ll have the time of your life.
“Uh…excuse me?” I question out loud, staring down at the screen of my phone in irritation. “That’s not how it works, bucko.”
“Everything okay?”
I glance up to find Flynn looking at me with concern, and the sounds of the mixer have been silenced by the off switch.
“Yeah,” I answer through a sigh. “Just some unwanted attention from a guy I worked with at the LA office.”
“Unwanted attention?” he asks, and I hold my phone out toward him so he can read the text messages.
“Well, he sounds like a real fucking prick,” Flynn comments, and I shrug.
“He’s…a little overzealous.”
“He won’t take no for an answer,” Flynn repeats Duncan’s words. “That’s not overzealous, babe. That’s harassment.”
“I don’t think he realizes that.”
“Who is this fuck?”
“Just some agent at the fir—” I pause for a moment when all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. “Actually, you’ve seen him. You know who Duncan is.”
Flynn quirks a brow.
“He’s the guy you thought I was running away from at the Wynn. Right before I made you take me for a ride on your bike and wed me into holy matrimony.”
A smile lifts the corners of his mouth, and moments later, his fingers tap across the screen.
“What are you doing?”
With one more tap to the keys, he hands my phone back, and I look down at the screen.
Me: This is Flynn Winslow, Daisy’s husband. It’s time you lose her number. That is, unless you’d like for both of us to join you on the forced “rain check.” If that’s the case, then name the time and place, and we’ll be there.
Oh, holy macaroni. Pretty sure he just threw down the gauntlet.
I don’t know whether to be grateful or freaked out. I glance from my phone to Flynn’s face to my phone again. I can imagine Duncan’s head is spinning over the news that I’m married, but I’m not exactly mad about that.
I’m just… I don’t know? Shocked? Confused? But also, oddly happy.
The Flynn I met in Vegas was quiet, a bit surly even, but the Flynn who’s standing in front of me now, the one who just played texting-knight-in-shining-armor feels different. He’s still Flynn, but he’s more fun-loving, more open, freer with his words. He’s just…more.
And all that more is really starting to get to your heart…
“Dais, what good is having a husband if you can’t use him to run off douchebags?” His question is rhetorical and highlighted by an amused rasp in his voice.
I look back up to meet his steady gaze and open my mouth to respond, but I quickly shut it when I realize I don’t know what to respond.
His point is undeniable. The odds of Duncan texting me again are probably below zero now, and I’m not upset about that reality. The first time I met him, I thought he was just the office flirt, but the more I’ve gotten to know him, the more red flags have popped up. Truth be told, any man who feels a woman owes him something deserves a swift kick in the dick.
“Promise me this,” Flynn adds. “If you end up back in LA, don’t let that fuck make you feel like you have to oblige him with your time.”
His words sent a shock wave into my chest, and all I can do is nod.
If I end up back in LA? Not when I end up back in LA? As in, maybe, I could end up in New York? With him?
Don’t get your hopes up, Daisy. That’s not at all what he meant. He meant you’ll be free to be wherever you want to be in the country because you won’t have to answer to the government. Or him. Or anyone. You’ll be alone. Again.
“How about that delicious cake!” I blurt, probably a little too loudly for our close proximity but the exact right volume to drown out my crazy thoughts.
Flynn smirks, and with a flick of his wrist, he turns the mixer back on. It doesn’t take long before all the ingredients have been added and the batter is the kind of smooth, silky consistency that contestants on The Great British Bake Off would go gaga over.
“Do we get to taste it?” I question, nodding down toward the bowl. “Pretty sure all good bakers test the batter before they commit to putting their cake in the oven.”
“Oh yeah,” he answers.
Dipping one long index finger into the bowl, Flynn lifts his batter-covered digit toward me and gently swipes it against my neck. The coolness of the batter makes me squeal out in surprise, but he’s undeterred. Lips to my skin, he sucks and licks at my neck until the batter is gone, and tingles proceed to shoot down my spine and straight between my thighs.
“Mmm, it’s good,” he whispers against my neck. “But I need to check one more thing.”
His big hands around my hips, he lifts me up and onto the kitchen counter and spreads my legs so wide that my skirt bunches up my thighs. One more finger into the batter, he swipes it across the skin of my inner thigh, just inches away from where the hem of my black panties begins.
“Yep,” he says quietly and glances up at me with mischievousness lifting one side of his mouth. “I definitely need one more taste. Just to be sure.”
“O-of course,” I mutter. “It’s always good to be sure about something like cake or cupcakes or brownies or anything with batter, really…”
What are you even talking about right now?
“Glad you agree,” Flynn says, and his warm breath brushes against my inner thigh. It’s a confusing sensation, the cold of the batter and the warmth of his mouth, but oh my stars, does it feel good.