The Pact

by Max Monroe

  Not to mention, I’m finding that during and after sex, Flynn is far more talkative and freer with his words. Which is how I managed to get him engaging in a round of pillow talk with me in the darkness of his bedroom.

  “So, that’s Ty’s thing?” I question with a raise of my eyebrow. “He just brings random women to family events?”

  “Pretty much.” Flynn smirks. “And it’s never the same woman twice.”

  His brother Ty is quite the character. I mean, he just went along with the possibility that I was there as his date even though he didn’t even recognize me.

  “What about your dad? Why wasn’t he at family dinner?”

  “My dad left when we were kids,” Flynn whispers in answer to my question about the patriarch’s absence from the gathering. He strokes his fingers softly over the small of my back while I lie naked on my belly, my head turned on its side to face him on my pillow.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur back.

  “I’m not,” Flynn declares easily, his position mimicking mine and his voice quiet. “He left five rowdy kids to be raised alone by a sweet woman who didn’t deserve abandonment. I don’t need a dick for a dad just to say I have one. I have Uncle Brad and Aunt Paula and my mom and my brothers and sister, and that’s all I need.”

  I want desperately to add that he has me too, that I’m in his corner and always will be, but the truth is, I don’t really know. We’re an arranged marriage, designed and executed for the sole purpose of maintaining my residence in the country. But the night in Vegas and tonight—and the phone sex too—it’s all crossed a line into territory that I can’t quite explain.

  There’s passion and intimacy and interest there—I can feel it between us—but as far as I can tell, that’s as far as any intentions go for Flynn. No matter our easy companionship or the explosive chemistry we have in the bedroom, when the clock strikes midnight on my immigration crisis, Cinderella will go back to LA again and the prince will move on with his life.

  “I don’t have a dad either. Or a mom, for that matter. I grew up in the foster system in Canada.” Flynn’s fingers never stop moving on my back, but somehow it seems like the pressure of his touch changes or something. “I do have Gwen—she took me in when I was a teenager, but she’s not really a mother figure per se. She’s more of a slightly mature girlfriend.” I shrug into the soft linens of his—well, our—bed. “Nevertheless, I’m thankful for her. I don’t know where I’d be if she hadn’t made sure I got a chance to start adulthood on my feet.”

  I chuckle a little as I realize how much Gwen and Flynn have in common. “And thanks to you, I don’t have a bashed-up face from my epic adulthood stumble.”

  Flynn doesn’t say anything, as usual—though, he has been uncharacteristically open tonight—instead tucking a piece of my loose hair behind my ear.

  My eyes feel suddenly heavy, the weight of the move and the dinner and the one-bed situation leaving me in a potent exhale. I blink against the lure of sleep, eager to hear more soft secrets from my fake husband, but the pull is too strong.

  I’m no match for the solace of sleep, and the next thing I know, the only thing I see is the black backs of my eyelids.

  Tuesday, April 23rd

  Daisy

  My toes curl and my calves tighten as I stretch my arms to the ceiling and blink through the soft morning sunlight cutting through the windows and across my comforter-covered body. I roll over immediately to stretch myself in the cat cow position, and it’s only when I’m done that I realize where I am—which is not in my LA apartment.

  My groggy eyes transition quickly to alert, and I sit up in the bed, pulling the comforter up over my bare chest as I go. The room is pretty self-explanatory in its emptiness, but that doesn’t stop me from surveying the walls as though Flynn’s going to pop out of a secret Batcave behind one of them at any moment.

  His empty shelves stick out like an ugly thumb, and I wonder if he’s even considered filling them with some very manly décor. Nothing fancy, just, like, a plant or two and some heavy black stoneware and maybe, like, one gold accent.

  I rub at my lips with my pointer finger and my thumb as I flip through the rolodex of New York vendors in my head who I know have that kind of stuff on hand. I’m only a shelf and a half into my design plan when I shake myself awake from la-la land with a scrub of my face and a shimmy.

  “Stop it, Daisy. The man doesn’t need you and your design aesthetic throwing up all over his loft.”

  With an internal scoff, I push the comforter off with a toss, pausing slightly when the gust of wind from my brusque motion sends a tiny piece of notebook paper flying off the bed and onto the floor.

  I hop down and scoop it up quickly, and then I read through the short-stroked, manly scroll.

  Daisy-

  At work.

  -Flynn

  Oh. Well. I mean, I guess that makes sense. Of course he has work. His life didn’t stop just because I got here.

  Even if your own issues mean you’re a little disappointed that it didn’t…

  Moving on from the bed to the closet where one of my suitcases lies open for its unpacking, I dig through recklessly and toss on the first pair of sweatpants and T-shirt I come to. I have a lot of my life to get organized today so that I can be ready to focus on work when I start tomorrow, but I need coffee first.

  I pad my way down the hallway on careful feet, just in case Flynn’s note about going to work was a recent deposit and he hasn’t actually had time to leave, and peek into the main living area of the apartment with a crane of my neck that rivals several safari animals, even with their far more accommodating physiology.

  It doesn’t take but a moment to ascertain that this space, too, is empty. My lips purse and my shoulders settle as my body takes a beat to adjust. Walking normally then, I make my way behind the sofa and around into the kitchen to the coffeepot in the corner. The coffee itself, sugar, and mugs are all in the cabinet directly above, making my ability to set up the pot and switch it to brew swift and painless. For that, I’m thankful.

  The pot spits and gurgles as it works to produce my precious nectar, and I take that time to snoop a little bit more. Dishes are in the cabinet two down from the stove, spices in the one directly to the left. The counters are pretty devoid of things, both in decoration and functionality, and I make a mental note to see if he’s got a toaster somewhere.

  I’m not high-maintenance, but some peanut butter toast on my way out the door to work in the morning wouldn’t go amiss.

  During my scan, I notice my purse sitting on the corner of the island counter and walk immediately to it to dig through its contents and sort them. My phone, which I know is still inside, will need to be charged, and the shiny key I’m guessing Flynn left for me sitting next to my bag needs to be secured on my key ring.

  My stomach flutters as I slip the gold metal through the split in my silver ring, and I press myself into the counter in an attempt to stop it. My oh my, how strange this normally huge milestone feels.

  The move in. The next step. The declaration of intentions. Normally, that’s what the exchange of keys or codes or any general method for making yourself at home in someone else’s residence would mean, but not for us. For us, it’s a requirement in our charade with USCIS, and for Flynn, I’m sure a necessity so that he doesn’t have to babysit me twenty-four seven.

  I’ve just pushed the key past the final millimeter of the split, securing it in place with the rest of my own when my phone starts to ring wildly on the counter, my volume set quite apparently to the max.

  “Jesus,” I groan, swiping quickly without looking at the screen to stop the nearly violent playing of Gwen Stefani’s “Don’t Speak.” Evidently, a couple of months ago, I found the idea of making a song with that name my ringtone ironic. Right now, in the midst of my emotional confusion, it’s just obnoxious.

  “Hello?”

  “Daisy, doll! I’m officially back on dry land!” Gwen declares excitedly. “Ready to he
ar all about my favorite girl and her exciting life in the States!”

  Oh shittt. What am I going to tell Gwen about all this?

  With her gone on the cruise for the last two weeks, I haven’t even thought about how I might explain the fact that I’m married to a man I barely know in order to keep my exciting life in the States.

  Gwen’s an open-minded, fluid person, but I’m pretty sure if her pseudodaughter told her she climbed on the back of the bike of a man she didn’t know and expected herself to come out alive, she’d kind of object. If that pseudodaughter then told her she went on to marry him, move all the way across the country, and lie to pretty much everyone she comes in contact with, I’m pretty sure she’d call the police.

  Gah.

  “Daisy? Are you there? These stupid cell thingies never get good reception.”

  Speak, for the love of everything. Say something.

  “Sorry, Gwen. I’m here. I was just… Yeah, you were breaking up. How was the discount cruise? Was it the dollar store version of Alaska or the real one?”

  Gwen laughs. “I guess I don’t know for certain, as Kammie didn’t want to get off the boat, but the pictures I have look real.”

  I’m not surprised by this info. Kammie is the one broad in their girl group who always manages to put a snag in the plans.

  “Okay, but I’ll have to see the evidence to believe you.”

  “Of course, darling, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Why wouldn’t Kammie get off the boat?”

  “Something about her facelift scars showing in the reflection of the snow.”

  “Right. Of course. I mean, what else would it be, right?”

  Gwen’s laugh rolls like a soft melody, the ease of our normal conversations obviously—thankfully—conveying on her end. For my part, I’m so freaking nervous I could wet myself if I uncrossed my legs.

  “What about you, my little flower? How’s work? And Damien?”

  It might seem a little strange on the surface for Gwen to be asking about Damien, but the truth is, I started blurring the boss, employee, childhood guardian line a while ago. I’ve included them in the details of each other’s lives and forced them together more than a few times. Hell, not even a month ago, I forced Damien to sit on a FaceTime call with Gwen while she taught me—and Damien, because I dragged him into it—how to paint lilies like it was some kind of virtual chat with Bob Ross.

  “Work is good. Damien is still Damien. A powerhouse in Prada with no time for anyone’s shit.” I take a deep breath and pause to gather myself for the best truth I can come up with—the half-truth. “I’m actually in New York.”

  “New York? Oh, that’s exciting! For the day or for the week?”

  “For three months, actually.”

  “What? Three months?”

  “Yep. Dame had some special projects over here he wanted me to be involved in,” I lie, closing my eyes against the overwhelming wave of guilt nausea. Lie, lie, lie.

  “Wow! That’s pretty incredible, but three months is a long hotel stay. Even hopeless wanderers like me need little touches of home every now and then. Is he flying you home on any of the weekends?”

  I nearly draw blood from my tongue, working to keep myself from freaking out and spilling all the beans all over this phone conversation. “No, no trips home. But I’m… Well, I’m in an apartment not a hotel, so it’s not so bad.”

  “Damien has a company property, I guess? No way you managed a three-month lease somewhere.”

  “Mm-hmm. Something like that. I’m not really sure of the details.”

  I roll my eyes into my head and suck my lips into my mouth. Gah. I have to get off the phone. I can’t take much more of this.

  “Well, that’s great, love. I hope you have the best time. Oh, and don’t forget to give yourself some time away from work. Living somewhere on assignment like that, it’s so easy to grind yourself into the ground twenty-four hours a day. Treat yourself sometimes, okay?”

  “Okay, Gwen. I’ll try.”

  “Kisses, sweetie. My cab’s here to take me to the airport in Seattle. Let’s chat again soon.”

  “Okay. Safe travels.”

  “Thanks, darling. Bye!”

  “Bye,” I wheeze, hanging up the phone with absolutely the last vestige of control I have left and dropping it to the counter. I immediately double over and grab my stomach, the cramps of discomfort from deceit wreaking havoc.

  That was hard, I reason, but it was also for the best. Ultimately, this whole charade with Flynn is short-term. It’s going to come to an end, and if I’d told Gwen about it now, I’d have to explain why we were breaking up then. Because it is going to end—even if it didn’t seem so much like it was going to last night—and this will just be a blip in my history.

  Gwen didn’t need to know. Now, though…I need a distraction. I glance over to the yellow pillows on Flynn’s beautiful leather couch, and an idea strikes me.

  I won’t do much, I swear. Just enough to calm my nerves.

  Yeah, that’s the ticket.

  My hands shake slightly as I trim the last of the flower stems from the bouquet I got from the street vendor downstairs. They’re bright Gerbera daisies, reminiscent of the ones from our wedding with Marilyn, and it’s only now, in the light of Flynn’s nearly fucking renovated apartment—good going, Daisy—that it occurs to me what a poor choice they might be.

  Cripes, what in the world is Flynn going to think about all this?

  His couch and chairs are rearranged atop a new rug, he’s got new, tight black velvet barstools—one of which I’m sitting on—and cream-colored kiln-fired stoneware in the center of his island, and the regular non-Batcave entrance shelves in his bedroom are no longer empty. I also, kind of, maybe, changed out the hardware on both his kitchen and bathroom cabinets to a soft brushed brass that really livens up the masculinity of it all and added a throw blanket to the back of his leather couch so you can sit on it in shorts without getting cold.

  I’ve never seen Flynn flip out, but I’m pretty sure if there were going to be a time, coming home to a completely rearranged apartment by his temporary, not-for-real wife would do it.

  What was I thinking?!

  The sound of Flynn’s keys in the door lock startles me into motion, and I jump up from my spot, scooping up the scrap of newspaper with the flower trimmings into my arms and speed walk it over to the trash. I push the matte black vase with the daisies to the center of the counter and back toward the windows frantically, only stopping when the flesh of my palms touches glass.

  This way, if things get really bad, I can just heave myself backward and hope that the force of my body is enough to make the double panes shatter.

  Maybe plummeting to my death from the fifteenth floor is a little dramatic, but that’s where my mind goes in an emotional emergency of this caliber.

  The door finally creaks open what feels like several light-years later, and as expected, Flynn takes one quick gander at the apartment and freezes dead in his tracks.

  Oh crap, oh God.

  “I can put it all back!” I blurt suddenly, my muscles stretching and tightening into little iron rods.

  Flynn glances from me to the apartment again, scanning the space closely, and then…well, he shrugs.

  I nearly explode. “A shrug?! A shrug? That’s all you have to say?!”

  He shakes his head at me, sighs, and steps forward to lean his formidable weight into his strong, tanned hands on the island. It’s a motherfucking hot position, I’m not gonna lie.

  “My great-great-aunt’s painting is still there.” He shrugs again. “I don’t give a shit about the rest of it.”

  “Y-you don’t?”

  He gives me one small shake of his head. “Looks nice. And the leather on the couch is cold. Blanket’ll probably be good.”

  “I filled the shelves in the bedroom too,” I admit quickly. “I may have gone a little overboard on the plants.”

  He lifts a hand and gently
flicks the brightest orange daisy in the vase in front of him. “More flowers like the ones from the wedding?”

  My breath catches in my throat and makes it hard to swallow. He remembers. “No. Just greenery.”

  He lifts his shoulders a final time and, if I’m not mistaken, even grins a little. My heart flips over inside my chest. “I’m sure it looks good.” He turns to the drawer behind him and comes back with a stack of paper menus, tossing them to the counter in front of himself. “How about I order some takeout? Clearly, we’ve both been busy today.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Takeout sounds good.”

  To be completely honest, life with Flynn altogether is starting to sound a little too appealing.

  Tuesday, April 30th

  Daisy

  “Where are we on the Santa Monica property?” Thomas Grey asks the speaker in the center of the conference table. His demanding voice is a routine staple of our company start-the-week-right phone calls—which, yes, do occasionally occur on Tuesdays if Monday is too busy, and no, the irony isn’t lost on me—but I’m usually on the other end of them, making big, dramatic eyes at Damien while he pantomimes his jokes.

  I’ll admit, sitting next to serious Thomas while my new East Coast coworker Tara Insley shoots eye lasers at me from across the table isn’t quite the same good time.

  “Daisy, what’s your timeline on getting Frederick in there for listing photos?” Thomas asks me since I’m the one who did all the planning for the staging on the property before I left LA.

  “About three days,” I answer, even though I know Thomas doesn’t like to get any answer other than one that would involve a time traveler. “The setup is there, but Frederick doesn’t have any availability before that,” I clarify with a gulp.

  Thomas holds my eyes dangerously, and I hold my breath under his scrutiny. I mean, I know I’ll have to take in some fresh air soon if I don’t want to pass out, but if it takes him that long to tell me if three days is okay or not, I’d probably rather be unconscious anyway.