Page 68 of The Muse
“Rupert,” Callie scolds.
“What? Honesty matters if things have progressed to the point of meeting her parents.”
“Listen”—I hold up my hand in surrender—“I have it on good authority that oversharing early in a relationship is not such a good idea.”
The Rawlings study me for a second before looking at each other. They’ve both cautioned me about telling her too early, but also about telling her too late. How the hell am I supposed to know the definition ofearlyandlateon this matter?
“That’s truesometimes,” she says, picking up Loki and cradling him in one arm. “However, it’s one thing to wait to tell her you don’t like her cooking. It’s another to mention, on your honeymoon, how you did time.”
“That’s a terrible example.” Rupert scoffs. “You were fine with my legal indiscretions. But I know if I were to say one bad thing about your cooking, I’d be on the street.”
“You are so full of it, Rupert Seaman Rawlings.” She flicks her wrist at him. “Flynn, we’re going to Pilates. Your clothes are on the vanity in the hall bathroom off the entryway. I’ll meet you in the car in ten minutes.”
When she’s out of the kitchen, I give Mr. Rawlings my full attention, crossing my arms over my chest.
He avoids eye contact, rinsing out his coffee mug at the sink.
“Your middle name is Semen?”
“S.E.A.M.A.N,” he says. “Like a sailor. Man of the sea.”
“Wow.” I roll my lips between my teeth to keep from grinning when he turns toward me, daring me to say another word. “I mean … you don’tcomeacross that name very often.”
“Go put on your unitard so you don’t make my wife late for class.”
I laugh at his attempt to get even, but when I stop into the bathroom and discover the black unitard, I close my eyes and tap my fists against my forehead. “Fuck.”
Before I open the bathroom door to head to the garage in the world’s most embarrassing getup, my phone chimes with a text.
June: What are you doing? Working?
Flynn: Mowing the lawn with my shirt off
Flynn: Chopping down trees with a big ax
Flynn: U?
I peek out the door and run toward the stairs.
“Have a good class,” Rupert calls.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of turning around so he can see the outline of my junk. Instead, I wave goodbye with my middle finger.
Fire me. Please. Do it!
He snickers. “Back at ya, bud.”
When I open the driver’s door to the Tesla, Callie smacks her hand over her mouth, eyes bugging out.
“You didn’t pick this out?” I ask, sliding into the seat.
She slowly shakes her head, snorting despite her best efforts.
I grumble, pulling out of the garage.
She clears her throat to compose herself while entering the address onto the screen. “He likes you.”
“Ya. For sure. This is the exact workout wear you buy for someone you like.”
