Mom gives me a tiny approving nod.
When Flynn sits next to me, he rests his hand on my leg.Highon my leg. What’s happening? I’ve thrown myself at him, and he’s given me crumbs. But now that we’re in public, with my parents, he’s thinking dirty thoughts and teasing me with a seductively placed hand, fingers brushing my inner thigh exposed from my short skirt?
“Did you have a good flight?” Flynn asks my parents, reaching for his glass of water.
They look at each other for a split second, nodding in sync.
“Do you like to fly?” I ask Flynn before either of my parents elaborates on their trip.
“Dunno.” He shrugs before sipping his water. “Never been on a plane. Never left Minnesota, for that matter. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve crossed the border into Iowa once or twice.”
“How old are you?” Mom asks.
“Twenty-five.”
“And you’ve never been on a plane?” Her eyebrows rise.
Flynn shakes his head like it’s no big deal, like it’s perfectly normal to be twenty-five and have no travel experience.
“I know you’ve been to California and here, obviously,” he says to me. “Have you been to other states?”
My dad chokes on his drink.
I scowl at him while he presses his fist to his mouth. Then I smile softly at Flynn. “Yeah, I’ve been to a few other states. What are you going to order?”
Just as I think things are back on track—food is ordered, and Mom lists off a few places they plan to see while in Minneapolis—my dad derails the evening again. “So, Flynn,” he says. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”
I wrinkle my nose at him. Could he be any more archaic? The gleam in his blue eyes negates his seriousness, but I don’t know if Flynn sees it.
“Well”—Flynn finishes chewing the warm bread that he dipped in olive oil—“I have not been in her pants, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Mom snorts, spitting a few drops of wine, instantly blushing as it splatters toward my plate.
I want to die, but there’s no time for that because Flynn returns his hand to my leg and his pinky finger brushes my crotch. With a tiny gasp, I cover his hand with mine, but I don’t know if I want to push him away or keep him there.
“I like you, Flynn,” Dad says, tossing an approving grin in our direction. “I like you a lot.”
Flynn’s shoulders push back an extra inch as he takes a breath and returns his own brand of an approving smile. Does Flynn know what the wordintentionmeans? And why is my dad letting him get away with a ridiculous answer? Intentions are plans for the future. Flynn told my dad what had not happened in the past. That’s not an intention.
I bite my lower lip when Flynn’s pinky finger makes another brush between my legs. Through the corner of my eye, I catch the twitch of a smile along Flynn’s lips just before he stabs his fork into his salad.
“So what do you do, Mr. Malone?” Flynn asks.
I cautiously eye my dad.
“Not enough,” Mom teases.
Flynn chuckles. “Are you retired?”
Dad playfully scowls at my mom while shaking his head. “I do a little of this and that. I’ve worked on a horse ranch; I was a guidance counselor; I’ve worked for ZIP Tunes; but mostly I do whatever Henna tells me to do.”
I stare at Flynn as he slowly nods. And I wait for him to ask more questions, but he doesn’t. When he’s not looking at her, Mom gives me a little wink.
“So how did you two meet?” Flynn asks my parents as our food is delivered to our table.
When everyone has their meal, I clear my throat. I know my parents don’t enjoy sharing their story with just anyone, but I could listen to it a million times and never tire of hearing it.
Mom and Dad look at each other.
