Page 38 of Gold Rush

I turn on a fan, pace my room, then check my phone. Mallory texted earlier, asking if I wanted to come to dinner with her and the group of girls I have known forever yet don’t entirely consider friends. I’ve put off replying all day, not sure what to say. I should be going out more now that the obsessive studying has ended. Enjoying August and being back in my favorite city. But Flynn and I haven’t discussed when or how we’ll launch our arrangement, and I don’t want him thinking he ran me out of my apartment as soon as he arrived.

So, I message Mallory back, apologizing for not getting back to her sooner and saying I can’t make it tonight but hopefully next time. She likes the text immediately. I also have a new message from my mom, asking if I’ll be able to visit the Hamptons again before the end of summer. Not sure what to say to that, I leave it unanswered for now.

I toss my phone on the mattress, watching it bounce, before turning toward the full-length mirror in the corner. I put on a cute sundress this morning. Now I feel overdressed, like I’m trying too hard, so I change into cotton boxer shorts and a T-shirt.

When I crack my door open, Flynn’s is still closed. I exhale a sigh of relief, feel ridiculous, then pad down the hallway and into the living room. I grab my laptop off the charger before settling on the couch and using one of my carefully arranged pillows as a makeshift desk.

My stomach rumbles. I didn’t want to order dinner until Flynn arrived, and I was too distracted once he did to ask what he wanted. I browse menus online until I hear a throat clear.

I glance up, startled. I’m used to living alone.

Flynn is standing beside the bookshelf next to the television, his damp hair a couple of shades darker than usual. He’s changed into a similar version of his previous outfit—shorts and a T-shirt—except these shorts are navy and his T-shirt is gray. He’s barefoot, appearing entirely at ease in my apartment.

That makes one of us.

“You working?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say automatically. “I mean, no. I was—what do you want for dinner? I’m ordering food.”

“Takeout? Why don’t we make something here?”

“Oh—well—” I stammer as he heads for the fridge, sliding my laptop to the side and standing. “I⁠—”

“Where’s all your food?” Flynn already has the door open.

“Don’t have many groceries,” I finish.

I can’t cook. Like, really can’t cook. I try to boil pasta, and salty water spills all over the stove. I try to fry an egg, and half the yolk winds up baked to the skillet. Meat is especially problematic. I’ll follow the temperature and time directions exactly, yet it comes out underdone or rubbery. I’ve tried to improve. My mom can cook, and Wren can whip up a perfect meal, no problem. But me? I can make a salad—dressing drizzled over greens—and oatmeal, and that’s about it. I buy prepared foods or order from restaurants for any meal that’s more substantial.

“Okay.” Flynn shuts the fridge. “I’ll go shopping. There’s a market just down the street.”

“I can’t cook,” I state, resolving to be up front. It’s not like he won’t notice the utter lack of anything impressive being made in the kitchen while he’s living here for the foreseeable future. “Nothing flavorful or impressive at least.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “What can you make?”

“Uh, salads. And oatmeal.”

Flynn laughs. He’s laughing at me, but it’s still a nice sound. Warm and deep. Then he heads for the door. He left his sneakers by the door. A pair of slides are set beside them, which he’s currently slipping on.

“Where are you going?”

“I just told you, grocery shopping.”

“And I just told you, I can’t make anything.”

“I can.” He’s patting his pockets, seemingly checking he has his phone.

“Edible?” I ask dubiously.

Never once have I heard any mention of Flynn possessing cooking abilities. Considering how much everyone loves to discuss his other skills, it seems highly unlikely he’s any good at it.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re in any position to judge. But, yes, I can cook edible meals. My parents weren’t around much, and we didn’t have a private chef. So, I taught myself a few things.”

Now I feel really badly.

“Mostly to impress girls.”

Sympathy over.