Page 37 of Gold Rush

I punch the line of pillows on the couch before rearranging them for a third time today.

Julian Parks has always struck me as a pretentious jerk, which tracks with everything Flynn has told me, so I have no qualms about misleading him. Lying to my family is another matter. It’s the only aspect of this charade I feel guilty about.

Both unfortunately and fortunately, I suspect they’ll be thrilled once the initial shock fades. I am—was? am?—the sole Kensington holdout when it comes to Flynn Parks. He’s close with all my cousins, not just Kit. Wren adores him. He’s like a third son to Scarlett and Crew. My parents asked—repeatedly—how he was liking law school whenever I visited while living in Boston. Even my grandfather smiles around him, and Arthur Kensington is notoriously hard to please.

A firm knock yanks my attention from the couch to the front door.

He’s here. Anyone else would have to be buzzed up, but I added his name to the approved list this morning.

I’ve had all day to prepare, yet I feel flustered and rattled as I hustle over to the door, flipping the lock and yanking it open.

Flynn glances up. He’s in the midst of swiping sweat off his forehead with his left bicep, his right hand readjusting the backward baseball cap he’s wearing before both arms fall to his sides. The sleeves of his T-shirt have been cut off, the holes wide enough that I can see the ridge of his obliques on either side. His black basketball shorts stop just above his knees.

“Hey, roomie.”

My eyes dart from his white sneakers up to his boyish grin, panic seeping through me at the prospect of living in close proximity to a guy I’ve always objectively known was attractive, but never really recognized was ridiculously hot.

My fingers tighten around the doorknob. “You’re late.”

“Yep,” Flynn confirms cheerfully, hiking a backpack higher up his shoulder. The motion lifts the hem of his shirt a couple of inches, flashing a strip of taut, tan skin.

I’ve only ever seen him consume alcohol and carbs. How does he have abs?

“So … am I allowed inside, or is the lease for this prime part of the hallway?”

It’s Flynn Parks, I remind myself. You’ve known him forever. He’s annoyed you for almost as long. Remember?

I step left, keeping ahold of the handle so the door swings wider.

It takes Flynn four trips to transfer the three suitcases, five boxes, and a duffel bag that he piled in the hallway into my apartment. Despite what he said about storage, he did bring a piece of furniture. A wooden side table with a single drawer.

I should offer to help, but I don’t. He hasn’t even indicated if he’ll pay rent. Not that I need the money, but it’s another example of what I’ve always known about him—Flynn is self-absorbed. He’s getting plenty out of this arrangement. He can carry his own belongings.

While I close and relock the door, Flynn wipes his forehead again. Then straightens and surveys my pristine apartment, decorated in subtle shades of cream and beige. I find it soothing. Carson called it boring, and I brace myself for a similar comment from Flynn.

“I should probably shower before I touch anything.”

“I mean, you can,” I say awkwardly.

“Down the hall?”

“Yeah. On the left.”

He nods, picking up the suitcases and heading down the hallway. I trail a few feet behind, curious about his initial reaction to the room. What was intended to be a guest space is more sparsely decorated than the rest of my apartment. I bought an identical mattress, bed frame, and dresser to the ones in my bedroom. The previous tenant painted the walls a pale yellow, and I haven’t changed the color.

“There are clean sheets on the bed,” I say as he sets his bags down. “And towels in the bathroom.” I nod toward the door to the right of the bed, which leads into the en suite.

Rather than ask if room service is included, Flynn stays serious. “Thanks, Rory. I really appreciate this.”

For all the times I’ve scoffed at his lack of sincerity, its appearance now makes me extremely uncomfortable. It’s far more effective since he’s rarely earnest.

“I had the space,” I say. “And you were right; it’ll make the other stuff easier. More believable, I mean.”

He doesn’t reply, just continues looking at me. This room already feels different. Already feels separate from my space. His presence has infiltrated it. I can smell him, and it’s not an unpleasant, sweaty scent. It’s masculine—woody and spicy and probably a deodorant or an aftershave that millions of men wear, yet I’ll now associate with Flynn.

“Okay, well, I’ll let you get settled.” I retreat into my bedroom, closing the door and listening to the thud of his steps as he moves the rest of his belongings into his bedroom. I don’t relax until I hear his door shut across the hall, presumably to shower.

Meaning he’ll be naked in my apartment.