Slade said, taking away Flynn’s wineglass as soon as he came through the front door. He guided him to the couch. “I didn’t rate them all,” Flynn mumbled, listening to Becca come into the kitchen through the back. He was an idiot for kissing her. She kept telling him to stay away and he kept bulldozing her defenses. But now he had no more excuses to kiss her. Becca was a thief. She’d denied it with her mouth, but her eyes—those incredibly expressive dark eyes—couldn’t deny a thing. He should have trusted his instincts the first day he’d met her. She’d scammed him. And for what? A letter of recommendation. “You’ve rated enough wine for one day.” Slade turned back to the group, who weren’t paying any attention to Flynn. Yeah, Flynn had swallowed more wine than he should have. But Becca was a thief. There was no other explanation for her nonanswers.
