‘What?’ I look down and remember the barely discernible image of a koala bear, just a black outline over navy cotton, the words a little washed out. ‘It saysI’m not a bear.I don’t have the koala-fictations. Marsupial humour.’
Rafferty, my brother and I, have this sort of competition going. We regularly send each other T-shirts with asinine or offensive slogans. The idea is to take a photograph while wearing the T-shirt you’ve been sent, kinda like a dare. And wearing it at home doesn’t count; you have to be out. Raff sent this one when the trade first started. It’s a little tame compared to his most recent delivery. Although it’s a T-shirt encouraging Aussie tourism in the Northern Territories, it’s not one for the kiddie crowd as it states:
CU (in the) NT.
Juno wriggles as Chastity snorts, so she sets her down, stepping closer still, her arms folded across her chest.This is all on her, I think, keeping my hands firmly in place. Still in my fucking pockets.
‘Have you been a fan of the ridiculous T-shirt long?’ she asks mildly. Her eyes smile though her mouth stays the same, those full lips slightly parted.As though she’d like to taste me.
‘Lifelong fan,’ I answer. ‘I might own one or ten a little too risqué for this crowd.’ I gesture to the kids on the swings and their impatient wiggling legs, my poor heart stuttering in shock as she places her palm flat in the middle of my chest. The connection is... everything.
‘Risqué? Flynn?’ She sort of pouts. ‘That can’t be so.’
‘I’m afraid it is. When I decided I was coming to lunch, I grabbed the first one out of the drawer to change. Besides, this one is Sorcha’s favourite.’
‘Why did you decide to come today of all days?’
‘Thought that would be obvious, duchess.’ She looks down at her hand as a crease forms between her perfect brows.
‘If my nipples were any harder, they’d give Chuck Norris a run for his money.’
She doesn’t laugh, just stares at my chest, but then her little finger stretches out, grazing my right nipple. I ball my fists tighter.Jesus fuck.
‘And I can sympathise,’ she whispers.
‘What are we doing here, duchess?’
Her eyes slide to the window and the people inside. ‘They can’t see.’
My heart sinks. ‘Are you worried about being seen with the help?’
‘Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more ridiculous,’ she murmurs, pulling her hand away. ‘For what it’s worth, Flynn,’ she says over her shoulder, ‘you look good with the kids. You ever think you’ll have some of your own?’
‘Fuck, no.’ These are just words delivered without any thought. ‘I’m strictly uncle material, me.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Chapter 17
CHASTITY
I pull out my phone for about the tenth time today, the hundredth time this week, and put it away.
I will not call Flynn and ask how his face is.
I will not call Flynn with an invitation to my bed.
This week has been hectic and not in the fun way. I’ve barely moved from my studio office all week, catching up on all the horrible admin jobs I always postpone until the last minute, add to that the plans I need to make for the quarter ahead.In other words, burying my head in the Flynn free sand.
I can’t afford to get involved with Flynn Phillips. We’re just not compatible. We’re not in the same place. Okay, physically, we may be in the same place sometimes—and those times are fun—but we’re not in the same place in our lives. I need to write that shit down a hundred times daily. Maybe make a mantra of it. Chantthata hundred times.
Lord, his reaction when I suggested he might make a good dad—yes, I know, a slip from the vault that is my subconscious—anyone would think it was contagious. But I stand by my opinion because he will make a good dad. Though he’ll probably be one of those first time geriatric fathers, pushing the stroller from his wheelchair, because it’ll take him that long to grow up.
No, that’s just my bitter lack of orgasm talking. Because myO? It’s still not turning up for solo flight.
Thursday, I get back home around six, having grabbed takeaway from my local Italian joint. I’m just about to spoon the carby, garlicky pasta goodness into bowl when my front doorbell rings. Twice in two weeks? No one in Chelsea knocks on a door without issuing some forewarning that they’re about to.That’s what phones are for.Flynn gets a pass for not being a Londoner. Okay, Flynn gets a pass for bringing orgasmic gifts, and while I glance regretfully at my dinner and my stomach rumbles in protest as I make my way to the front door, I’m still hoping it’s Flynn.
‘There’s only so long a man can wait before taking things into his own hands,’ says a large bunch of flowers. Or, at least, the voice behind a large bunch of peach-coloured cabbage roses.
