by Max Monroe
“My Daisy…my strong, big-hearted, independent, doesn’t need a man Daisy is married?”
I look between Gwen and Flynn, and all I can do is nod.
“Daisy! What?! How? I need to know all the details, and I need to know them now. Seventy years of men flowing in and out of my life, and I can’t imagine committing to one of them. And, what? You found someone to do it with in the Yellow Pages? Fill me in here.”
Between one breath and the next, my phone is out of my hands and Flynn’s face is filling Gwen’s end of the camera line.
“Hi, Gwen,” he greets her, still flipping shirtless and only wearing a towel. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m sure you know our Daisy is a bit of a talker.”
Our Daisy?
“That she is.” Gwen smiles through a startled laugh. “Though, she doesn’t seem to be doing a whole lot of it right now.” My cheeks flame, and I move farther out of the camera frame of the call. Oh God. “Maybe you can explain to me how you fit in here—a whole husband I didn’t even know about.”
“I’m Flynn Winslow,” he says without a hint of nervousness in his voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gwen. I know this must be confusing and concerning for you, but I think you’ll understand best if I explain it this way—I’ve never in my life met a woman like Daisy, and I doubt I ever will again. She’s the kind of person you don’t forget, and given the opportunity, she’s the kind of person you don’t let go. Understand?”
“Well, this is quite the surprise,” Gwen comments, in a way that, to me, is completely nonsensical, a tiny shimmer of tears in her eyes, and Flynn smiles.
“It was for my family too.”
“I can’t decide if I’m mad at Daisy for not telling me anything or happy for her. Or maybe both.”
What the hell? I mean, that’s it? She’s just done with the questions?
“I think you’re probably just happy for me!” I blurt out loud enough for her to hear, too relieved to give my inner skeptic any credence.
“I think I am too, but I also think you have a lot to tell me,” Gwen responds, but I take heart in the fact that I can sense a smile in her voice.
“Before I make you give the phone back to Daisy, I have a few questions for you, Flynn.”
He nods.
“Are you taking good care of my girl?”
“Always.”
“Are you financially stable?”
He smiles. “Yes.”
“Any criminal background?”
He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”
“What if I told you I was going to hire a private investigator to do a secret background check on you?”
“I’d tell you to give him my number and address, and I’d be more than happy to give him all the information he needs.”
“I think I like you, Flynn Winslow,” Gwen eventually responds. “I’m not too happy that you and my Daisy got married without telling me, but I might be able to let that slide.”
Flynn smiles. “I hope you will, Gwen.”
“Daisy?” Gwen’s voice fills my ears, and I know it’s time for me to put on my big-girl panties and stop hiding in the corner.
“Yeah?” I respond and take my phone from Flynn’s outstretched hand.
He pats a gentle hand to my shoulder and mouths, “You okay?”
I nod.
He leans forward to press a kiss to my forehead before heading out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom.
“So, I guess congratulations are in order, huh?” Gwen questions, and I look at the screen to find her raising a pointed brow in my direction.
“Don’t be mad.” I cringe. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but it’s all been a bit of a whirlwind and it never felt like the right time and, yeah, I’m mostly just sorry you’re finding out like this.”
“I didn’t even know you were dating.”
That’s probably because I wasn’t.
“Shoot.” She shakes her head on a sigh, a horn honking in the background. “You’re lucky I have to head out for an art class, but just know, I have a lot more questions for you, missy.”
“Understandable.”
“Before I go, I have one question for you.”
“Ask me anything.” Well, besides why I got married. Don’t ask me that.
“Are you happy?” Her question is so simple, and my answer isn’t as complicated as I would’ve thought it would be.
“Yes,” I answer, and it doesn’t feel like a lie at all. It just feels…I don’t know…right?
“Good. That’s good, darling. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.” Gwen smiles. “Okay, well, I’ll definitely be talking to you soon.”
“Definitely.”
“And one more thing…” She pauses and drops her voice to a whisper. “Is Flynn nearby?”
I shake my head. “In the bedroom. Getting dressed.”
She waggles her brows. “After seeing that man in a towel, I can’t blame you for marrying him. I would’ve done the same.”
“Gwen!”
She winks. “Kisses, darling!”
And then she’s gone, off the screen and leaving me standing in the kitchen, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
You managed to tell Gwen you’re married…but you didn’t tell her why you got married. So basically, you’re still lying to her…
I lean my head back and blow out a breath.
“You okay, babe?” Flynn’s voice snags my attention, and I find him standing in the kitchen again, but fully dressed for the day.
“I will be once you take me for a big fat pancake breakfast with all the fixins.”
He quirks a brow. “Why do these pancakes seem like penance?”
“Because they are. First, for being an accomplice in my big marriage reveal to Gwen. And second,” I say and pointedly tug the collar of my robe down to show him all the glorious marks he left on me last night. “These.”
He smirks when he sees the tops of my breasts and then shakes his head. “You were going to have to tell Gwen at some point, and you can’t even pretend to not like those hickeys. Astronauts are taking photos of your smile right now from space.”
“Okay, so I might like the hickeys.”
“Then why are you trying to start an argument?”
“Look, Flynn, sorry to break it to you, but you married an occasionally crazy person who sometimes is irrational, and since you were the one who helped me break the news to Gwen and blessed me with all these hickeys and orgasms last night, I’m making you take me to breakfast.”
“Okay,” he says and shrugs. “Pancakes it is.”
No questions. No rebuttals. Not even an annoyed sigh.
Just…okay.
Sometimes, Daisy, this man is so perfect for you, it’s as if you made him up in your head.
We’ve been walking for a few blocks, in the direction of a restaurant Flynn said will cure my pancake breakfast cravings, and I’ve yet to feel anything but content. There’re plenty of people milling about the sidewalks, going into shops or grabbing a coffee or whatever it is they plan to fill their weekend with, and I find myself second-guessing my original conclusion that Los Angeles is where it’s at.
After being in New York for a while now, I’m starting to wonder what my life would be like had I started my American dream venture here. Would I be happier? Feel more at home?
You already know the answer to that question, sis.
I can’t refute the appeal of a Saturday morning in New York. Even dreaded Mondays feel different here. This city has a vibrancy, an undeniable pull that makes you want to be a part of it. It’s why people from all over the world travel here to experience it for themselves. There’s just something about this town that makes you feel alive, as if anything is possible.
A cool spring breeze brushes against my face and urges a shiver to roll up my spine. I wrap my arms around my chest a little tighter, tucking my sweater closer to my body.
“Here,” Flynn says, and I look over to fi
nd him taking off his black leather jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders.
“Nope. No way,” I refute and try to give his jacket back to him, but he wraps one strong arm around my shoulders and makes it impossible. “I can’t wear your ‘I’m a hot, bad boy jacket.’”
“What?” He looks down at me with an amused smirk.
“It’s, like, a staple of your wardrobe, Flynn. It feels sacrilegious for it to be anywhere but on your body.”
“Stake your claim, babe. Make sure no other women pick up on all these hot, bad-boy vibes I’m apparently giving off.”
“Now, don’t get all cocky about it.” I snort, and he just smirks.
I roll my eyes, but I also keep his jacket on. I mean, he might not get the appeal, but I sure as hell do. The instant I saw him all mysterious on his bike with this sexy jacket on, I threw caution to the wind and hopped on the back. Sure, I was in the middle of a pseudobreakdown, but that didn’t take away from the irresistible appeal.
Suddenly, I find myself watching all the female pedestrians on the sidewalk closely, gauging their reactions to Flynn when he strolls by them.
Lady in a sweatsuit and with a baby in a stroller? Double take.
A fortysomething woman in heels? Licks her flipping lips.
A white-haired granny with a black poodle? Pretty much drools.
Goodness, if he were my real husband, I’d probably have to consider a tracking device or something.
If he were your real husband, you know you wouldn’t have to worry about any of that because Flynn Winslow isn’t the kind of man who fucks around on his significant other.
My gaze moves to Flynn, and I can’t stop myself from taking inventory of how he reacts to other people…particularly, other women.
Eyes forward, he doesn’t really do anything but…guide us through the morning foot traffic. His eyes flit to the same people my eyes flit to—a very attractive brunette in heels, an enthusiastic man singing “YMCA” at the top of his lungs while jogging, a group of teenagers chatting and laughing and bumping into one another—but he never does anything that would raise a red flag if he were my actual spouse.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think a healthy relationship means you shouldn’t be able to look. We’re all human, and when faced with someone who is aesthetically attractive, it would go against our nature not to look. It’s natural. Normal, even.
But you should never feel like your spouse is looking with some kind of intention. You should never feel like your significant other is keeping their options open or that their eyes are showing more interest in someone other than you.
And even in a fake marriage, Flynn isn’t that kind of man.
Flynn is loyal to his core and has the kind of integrity that most men wish they had. If he weren’t so anti-relationship, anti-real marriage, there is no doubt in my mind that some lucky woman would’ve probably already locked his ass down.
Thank fuck that’s not the case. Though, pretty soon, once all your immigration shit is done, Flynn will be a free man again, and maybe he’ll want to give relationships and dating a shot…
I swallow hard against a knot in my throat and refocus on following Flynn’s lead as we cross the street and begin to walk past one of the Central Park entrances.
Spring is certainly showing herself inside the gates. Flowers are blooming and greenery is thriving and the action taking place within the park’s entrance is irrefutable. What looks to be white-and-red tented booths for a small carnival fill my vision and become a draw I can’t resist.
Fingers gripping Flynn’s shirt, I tug on the material and pull us both to a stop.
He looks down at me in curiosity, and I nod toward the inside of the park. His gaze follows my line of vision until he spots the tents and the small crowd of people, and then he meets my eyes again.
“Can we go?”
“To a carnival?”
I nod. “I have to at least get one of those funnel cakes.”
“What’s a funnel cake?”
I blink three times. “I’m sorry, did you just ask me what a funnel cake is? As in, you’ve never had one?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never had a funnel cake?” I question again, and he shakes his head on a soft chuckle.
His eyes narrow, and I know him well enough now to know they’re saying, “How many times do I need to answer this question?”
“Holy shit, Flynn!” I exclaim. “We have to fix this ASAP!”
“But what about the pancakes you were going on about?”
I shrug. “We can grab some after.”
His health-conscious mind is shocked. I can see the question written all over him. “Pancakes after funnel cake?”
“It’s Saturday, Flynn. And we can do and eat whatever the hell we want on Saturdays because calories don’t count on the weekends.”
He laughs at that, and I take it upon myself to grab his hand and pull him toward a tent that has the words Funnel Cakes written across the front of it.
We only have to stand in line for a few minutes before we pay the kind man with the rotund belly ten bucks for two funnel cakes. And once the paper plates filled with the greasy dough and covered in powdered sugar are in our hands, Flynn looks at me like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
“You are going to eat that cake, and you are going to love it,” I state with an index finger toward him. “I don’t care that you’re Mr. I Like To Eat Healthy. Today, you’re going to cheat it the hell up and savor the greasy deliciousness of a funnel cake with me.”
I’ve watched the routine way in which Flynn almost never misses a workout at the gym and selectively chooses his meals and snacks. Basically, most of what he puts into his body is devoid of processing and is packed with the kinds of nutrients that would make my family physician back in Vancouver sob out of happiness.
And if he does go the processed food route? Well, you best believe the next few meals will be clean with a capital C.
Flynn just shakes his head, but I don’t miss the whisper of a smile on his lips.
Yeah, he’s going to eat this cake and like it. I don’t care if I have to pry his mouth open and shove in each bite. There is no human being alive who should snub their nose at a funnel cake.
“You know, babe,” he says and takes my free hand to guide us over to an empty bench. “When it comes to food, you’re kind of bossy.”
“Because food is important, Flynn,” I state and sit down in the empty spot beside him. “Everyone needs to eat. It is the foundation on which our bodies grow.”
He eyes me with a knowing look. “This funnel cake is the foundation of a heart attack.”
“If you eat too many. Everything in moderation.”
He laughs and surprises a squeal out of me by pulling me into his lap. His lips are near my ear, and he whispers, “You like having the last word. Love it, even.”
“What?” I press my nose against his and stare into his eyes. “No, I don’t.”
He smirks and steals a kiss. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“Of course you don’t mind. You barely talk.”
He winks. “And you talk enough for the both of us.”
“Just shut up and try the funnel cake.” And with that, I tear off a piece of his funnel cake and all but shove it into his mouth. His surprised laughter blows powdered sugar into my face, which creates a domino effect of giggles.
“You like it?” I ask once I catch my breath, but more laughs leave my lips when I realize just how much powdered sugar has managed to get all over Flynn’s face.
“I love it. Greasy, sugary, full of fat. A true foundation of nutrients, like you said,” he responds cheekily and tears a piece of funnel cake from his plate. But he doesn’t put it to his lips. Nope. He takes a page from my book and rubs the cake across my cheek before pressing it against my lips.
“Here, babe. Have a bite.”
I snort. “What the hell?”
“Oh, that’s not how you eat funnel c
akes? You don’t shove them in each other’s faces? I was just following your lead.”
“You’re such a smartass,” I retort, but yeah, I also take that bite because funnel cake. Everyone and their mother loves funnel cake.
And you really love funnel cake when you’re eating it with Flynn. Come to think of it, there’re starting to be a lot of things you really love with him…
Sunday, May 12th
Flynn
Daisy is a bed hog. Covers, sheets, comforter, pillows, she will steal it all. I know this because ever since she moved in with me, I wake up with my head flat on the mattress and my body completely bare of anything.
With a fresh cup of coffee in my hand, I step into the bedroom and note the ridiculous way that my wife is wrapped up in the comforter like a human burrito and how her tiny body manages to take up most of the king-sized mattress.
I smile at the scene as I step closer to the bed and take her in. Her wild curls fan out over the three pillows beneath her head, and her eyelashes flutter ever so slightly, as if she’s still sleeping but also still close to waking up.
This woman. She’s absurdly adorable.
The soft sounds of music from one of my favorite operas play through the Bluetooth speakers of my apartment, and I carefully sit on the bed beside Daisy. Coffee lifted closer to her face, I wait for her brain to make sense of the familiar scent.
It doesn’t take long. Daisy loves coffee. It’s her morning go-to.
Her green eyes open slowly and meet mine. They look almost emerald in the light of the day, shimmering like gemstones beneath the rays of the sun that have filtered in through the window.
“Morning, babe.”
“Morning,” she rasps through a still-sleepy voice and clears her throat. A hint of a smile lifts her mouth when she glances down at the cup in my hand. “Is that coffee?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Nope.”
“What?” she questions and sits up in bed. The comforter falls down her body, revealing miles upon miles of gloriously naked skin.
“I’m kidding,” I say with a small grin and carefully hand the fresh cup of joe to her.