We’ve been walking for a few blocks, in the direction of a restaurant Flynn said will cure my pancake breakfast cravings, and I’ve yet to feel anything but content. There’re plenty of people milling about the sidewalks, going into shops or grabbing a coffee or whatever it is they plan to fill their weekend with, and I find myself second-guessing my original conclusion that Los Angeles is where it’s at.
After being in New York for a while now, I’m starting to wonder what my life would be like had I started my American dream venture here. Would I be happier? Feel more at home?
You already know the answer to that question, sis.
I can’t refute the appeal of a Saturday morning in New York. Even dreaded Mondays feel different here. This city has a vibrancy, an undeniable pull that makes you want to be a part of it. It’s why people from all over the world travel here to experience it for themselves. There’s just something about this town that makes you feel alive, as if anything is possible.
A cool spring breeze brushes against my face and urges a shiver to roll up my spine. I wrap my arms around my chest a little tighter, tucking my sweater closer to my body.
“Here,” Flynn says, and I look over to find him taking off his black leather jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders.
“Nope. No way,” I refute and try to give his jacket back to him, but he wraps one strong arm around my shoulders and makes it impossible. “I can’t wear your ‘I’m a hot, bad boy jacket.’”
“What?” He looks down at me with an amused smirk.
“It’s, like, a staple of your wardrobe, Flynn. It feels sacrilegious for it to be anywhere but on your body.”
“Stake your claim, babe. Make sure no other women pick up on all these hot, bad-boy vibes I’m apparently giving off.”
“Now, don’t get all cocky about it.” I snort, and he just smirks.
I roll my eyes, but I also keep his jacket on. I mean, he might not get the appeal, but I sure as hell do. The instant I saw him all mysterious on his bike with this sexy jacket on, I threw caution to the wind and hopped on the back. Sure, I was in the middle of a pseudobreakdown, but that didn’t take away from the irresistible appeal.
Suddenly, I find myself watching all the female pedestrians on the sidewalk closely, gauging their reactions to Flynn when he strolls by them.
Lady in a sweatsuit and with a baby in a stroller? Double take.
A fortysomething woman in heels? Licks her flipping lips.
A white-haired granny with a black poodle? Pretty much drools.
Goodness, if he were my real husband, I’d probably have to consider a tracking device or something.
If he were your real husband, you know you wouldn’t have to worry about any of that because Flynn Winslow isn’t the kind of man who fucks around on his significant other.
My gaze moves to Flynn, and I can’t stop myself from taking inventory of how he reacts to other people…particularly, other women.
Eyes forward, he doesn’t really do anything but…guide us through the morning foot traffic. His eyes flit to the same people my eyes flit to—a very attractive brunette in heels, an enthusiastic man singing “YMCA” at the top of his lungs while jogging, a group of teenagers chatting and laughing and bumping into one another—but he never does anything that would raise a red flag if he were my actual spouse.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think a healthy relationship means you shouldn’t be able to look. We’re all human, and when faced with someone who is aesthetically attractive, it would go against our nature not to look. It’s natural. Normal, even.
But you should never feel like your spouse is looking with some kind of intention. You should never feel like your significant other is keeping their options open or that their eyes are showing more interest in someone other than you.
And even in a fake marriage, Flynn isn’t that kind of man.
Flynn is loyal to his core and has the kind of integrity that most men wish they had. If he weren’t so anti-relationship, anti-real marriage, there is no doubt in my mind that some lucky woman would’ve probably already locked his ass down.
Thank fuck that’s not the case. Though, pretty soon, once all your immigration shit is done, Flynn will be a free man again, and maybe he’ll want to give relationships and dating a shot…
I swallow hard against a knot in my throat and refocus on following Flynn’s lead as we cross the street and begin to walk past one of the Central Park entrances.
Spring is certainly showing herself inside the gates. Flowers are blooming and greenery is thriving and the action taking place within the park’s entrance is irrefutable. What looks to be white-and-red tented booths for a small carnival fill my vision and become a draw I can’t resist.
Fingers gripping Flynn’s shirt, I tug on the material and pull us both to a stop.
He looks down at me in curiosity, and I nod toward the inside of the park. His gaze follows my line of vision until he spots the tents and the small crowd of people, and then he meets my eyes again.
“Can we go?”
“To a carnival?”
I nod. “I have to at least get one of those funnel cakes.”
“What’s a funnel cake?”
I blink three times. “I’m sorry, did you just ask me what a funnel cake is? As in, you’ve never had one?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never had a funnel cake?” I question again, and he shakes his head on a soft chuckle.
His eyes narrow, and I know him well enough now to know they’re saying, “How many times do I need to answer this question?”
“Holy shit, Flynn!” I exclaim. “We have to fix this ASAP!”
“But what about the pancakes you were going on about?”
I shrug. “We can grab some after.”
His health-conscious mind is shocked. I can see the question written all over him. “Pancakes after funnel cake?”
“It’s Saturday, Flynn. And we can do and eat whatever the hell we want on Saturdays because calories don’t count on the weekends.”
He laughs at that, and I take it upon myself to grab his hand and pull him toward a tent that has the words Funnel Cakes written across the front of it.
We only have to stand in line for a few minutes before we pay the kind man with the rotund belly ten bucks for two funnel cakes. And once the paper plates filled with the greasy dough and covered in powdered sugar are in our hands, Flynn looks at me like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
“You are going to eat that cake, and you are going to love it,” I state with an index finger toward him. “I don’t care that you’re Mr. I Like To Eat Healthy. Today, you’re going to cheat it the hell up and savor the greasy deliciousness of a funnel cake with me.”
I’ve watched the routine way in which Flynn almost never misses a workout at the gym and selectively chooses his meals and snacks. Basically, most of what he puts into his body is devoid of processing and is packed with the kinds of nutrients that would make my family physician back in Vancouver sob out of happiness.
And if he does go the processed food route? Well, you best believe the next few meals will be clean with a capital C.
Flynn just shakes his head, but I don’t miss the whisper of a smile on his lips.