Page 184 of Sins of a King

“Good news,” I stated.

“Very. Read the article. Fred Winters’s career is over. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

We hung up and I handed Flynn’s phone back to him. “I’m hungry. You hungry?”

He grinned, reaching for me. “Famished.”

I went to him and jumped into his arms. Throwing my head back, I shouted with laughter. I felt light, joyful, like all the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. We were safe.

Everything was perfect.

Or so I thought—until his lips covered mine. Then I knew perfection.

Chapter 60

Flynn and I walked around the expansive three-thousand-square-foot penthouse apartment on 83rd and 5th, right across the street from Central Park. Large double pane glass windows let in the soft afternoon winter light and hit the dark wood floors.

I went into the kitchen, gliding my hand across the gray granite island. Passing steel appliances and custom designed wood cabinets, I headed for the sliding glass doors. Opening them, I stepped out onto the private balcony that wrapped around the corner of the building.

“What do you think?” Flynn asked, coming to stand next to me.

“The view is gorgeous,” I admired.

“What about the rest of the apartment?”

“I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?” he asked.

“I’m having a hard time picturing it as a home. I went from my tiny, cluttered, prewar studio to a penthouse hotel suite. This”—I turned my back on the skyline to face the sliding doors of the apartment—“isn’t either.”

Flynn grasped my cold hand in his and pulled me inside. We stood in the kitchen for a moment and he said, “Over there”—he pointed to the wall—“is where the kitchen table goes. Imagine Ash sitting there, drinking a glass of wine, telling you all the ways she’s ruined Duncan for anyone else.”

I chuckled, thinking about my best friend, who was currently in Scotland with a man who was nothing like her ex-fiancé.

Flynn led me out of the kitchen and back into the living room with a gas fireplace and the space for bookshelves along the walls, a gargantuan couch, and a baby grand piano. We walked down the hallway to the master bedroom with its own bathroom, including a state-of-the-art Jacuzzi tub, separate glass shower, and two sinks. “In here, we’ll get a king-sized, canopy bed. At night, I’ll hold you and rub your back when it gets sore.”

“Go on,” I whispered. “Paint me a picture.”

He nodded and then guided me out of the master bedroom and opened the door next to it. “And this room will be the nursery,” he stated. “With yellow giraffes and gray elephants. A mobile.” His smile was slow. “A Campbell plaid.”

My breath caught because I could see it. Everything he said.

“I don’t just want a home with you, Barrett. I want a life.”

“We can’t start fresh,” I said. “If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I know. I know there are things that I have to live with, but can’t we move forward? I want to move forward.”

Reaching up to caress his cheek, I took a deep breath. “Let’s move forward. Let’s make this place our home.”

Fabric swatches and paint samples took up every available space of the living room. Redecorating wasn’t complicated—not when all I had to do was make a choice. Flynn and I would hire people to paint and others to custom design our furniture.

The hotel phone rang and I answered it. It was the front desk, telling me that Jack Rhodes was here. I told them to send him up.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since I stormed into his office and told him to keep quiet about Flynn and what he knew.

The elevator doors opened and I peered at Jack’s face, trying to gauge his mood.