Parker (The Stewarts of Skagway #5)

Chapter 1

Parker

Five-twenty a.m. is an absurd time for a flight to leave.

(It’s even worse for a night owl, like me.)

And yet, every time I book a flight to the Lower 48—knowing what I know and who I am—I still end up booking the earliest one available. Why? Because I live in Alaska, and it takes forever to get anywhere. From two or three months out, it always seems like a good idea.But on the morning of said flight after already traveling from Skagway to Juneau the night before? It feels like a major mistake.

I think Einstein said that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again, hoping for a different result.

“Maybe I’m insane,” I mutter, stumbling into the Juneau airport at four o’clock in the morning and sleepwalking to the ticket counter to check my bags.

One saving grace of early travel from a relatively small airport is that the security line is nonexistent, and I breeze right through. On the second level, I head to the small café, find a table in the far corner by the windows, and plop down with my backpack and laptop bag.

“Coffee?”

“Dear God, yes,” I say, looking up at the young waitress. “Thank you.”

She flips over the pre-set coffee cup on the table and pours me a cup. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Nope. Black’s good.”

“Need a menu?”

“No, thanks.” It’s too early for me to eat. “Just the coffee.”

“You got it,” she says, sauntering away to fill someone else’s cup.

I sit back in my chair, surveying the sparsely filled café. Since most of the in-state flights leave from downstairs, I assume almost everyone else here, like me, is headed to Seattle.

And from Seattle , I think, to Sin City.

Unzipping the side of my backpack, I pull out my phone and open the browser. I type in Adventure-Seekers Travel Convention Las Vegas and wait for the official website to load.

I think I hear a ( loathed ) familiar voice in the terminal, and my head whips up, scanning the café first, then the concourse beyond. When I don’t see the freakishly large body and scraggly beard that should accompany said voice, my shoulders, which are bunched around my ears, relax. I had the misfortune of seeing my brother’s best friend, Quinn, on Christmas Eve, and he informed me that he, too, was headed to Vegas for this conference. I try to put that revolting information out of my mind, but now that I’ve remembered, my gag reflex is almost triggered.

Quinn Morgan.

Ugh.

The first and forever bane of my existence .

After another quick scan of the terminal, I remind myself that there are several flights from Juneau to Seattle every day so there’s little chance we’re on the same one. And heck! Maybe I’ll luck out, and Quinn will decide not to attend the conference, after all. I glance down at my phone again, scrolling through the hundreds of participating vendors, grimacing when I note that Morgan E-Bike Rentals is still on the list.

Annoying! I’ve been going to this conference for two years now, and it’s my favorite—

“More coffee?”

I look up. “Yes, please.”

“You headed to Seattle?”

“Yep.”

“Same as those folks over there. They’re visiting their grandson.”

“I’m only connecting there. My final destination is Las Vegas.”

“Oooo!” she says, her eyes lighting up. “I’ve always wanted to go to Vegas! Do you gamble?”

“No. My family owns a travel business. I’m attending a conference.”

“Business, huh?” She looks surprised. “I wouldn’t have clocked you over eighteen.”

“I get that a lot,” I say, grinning at her. “I’m twenty-two.”

“So…you’re going to a travel conference?”

I take a sip of the hot, bitter coffee. “Yep. We do tours out of Skagway. This conference networks our business to travel agents in the Lower 48.”

“Skagway. Huh. I’m from Haines.”

“We’re neighbors.”

There’s a 45-minute fast ferry that goes back and forth between Haines and Skagway several times a day in the summer and a DOT car ferry that picks up the slack for the rest of the year. Unlike Skagway, which functions primarily as a tourist town and isn’t flush with year-round shopping and services, Haines is a more conventional, livable town. In fact, plenty of folks in Skagway head over to Haines for the health center, grocery stores, auto part shop, and home goods store. I’ve been grateful for the sports and outdoor shops in Haines more than once when an Amazon delivery got delayed.

“Not anymore,” she says, pursing her lips. “I live here now, in Juneau, and I like it a lot better than Haines. More people. More tourists. More to see. More to do.”

“Then you’ll definitely have to get to Las Vegas at some point,” I say. “If you think Juneau’s hopping, Vegas will blow your mind.”

“I’ve seen it in the movies,” she says wistfully. “You know, like The Hangover and Ocean’s Eleven . It looks amazing. I’m saving up. I can’t wait to get out of Alaska.”

This is a familiar theme among some young Alaskans: they “can’t wait” to leave Alaska. And I mean, yes, the first time you go to a city —or even a large town!— in the Lower 48, you realize that McDonald’s, Home Depot, and Target are all within five minutes of each other. Everything is close and enormous—hotels, malls, airports— everything . You can’t beat the convenience. You want something? You need something? You step out of your door and go get it. No need to wait two or three weeks for Amazon to deliver.

That said, since I was eighteen, I’ve been going to travel conventions for my family, and I’ve visited Las Vegas, Memphis, Fort Lauderdale, and Frankfurt, Germany. And so far, I’ve never seen anywhere as beautiful as Alaska. And the farm-raised salmon served everywhere else in the world? OMG. So gross. The people aren’t as friendly or patient, and whether you realize it or not, you start missing the mountains and the fresh air after about a week away. Or at least, I do. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy traveling for business. I like stocking up at Target. And I love seeing a little bit of the wider world. But after a week or two somewhere else, I can’t wait to get back home.

There’s an announcement saying that my flight will start boarding in ten minutes, so I leave twenty dollars under my coffee cup—much more than I owe, but I figure I may as well contribute to her get-out-of-Alaska fund—and swing my backpack onto my shoulder.

And that’s when I see him, standing in line at the café.

Quinn Morgan.

Blech.

I stare straight ahead, fast walking on autopilot, and hoping that if I’m quick enough, he won’t see me.

“Parker! Parker Stewart!”

Shit.

I turn around to scowl at him.

“I thought that was you!” he says, a wide smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. A quick perusal of his stupid face shows me that he’s trimmed his formerly ratchet beard and cut his scraggly hair since the last time I saw him. It’s not a huge improvement, but he looks a little less like Bigfoot and slightly more human now. “Wait up! I’m just grabbing coffee and a muffin. I’ll walk over to the gate with you.”

I give him a look that makes it clear I’d sooner eat glass then turn and walk away.

With any luck, I’ll get in line before him and be able to avoid him for the trip to Seattle. I stop by the ladies’ room, peeing as quick as I can, relieved when I don’t see him at the gate. I hop into line, scan my ticket, and sail onto the jetway.

Quinn averted. Yes!

“Welcome to Alaska Airlines,” says the flight attendant inside the jetway.

“Thanks.”

Even though it’s early, it looks to be a full flight, and the passengers in front of me move slowly, putting their belongings in overhead compartments before sliding into their seats. Clammy, cold, January air seeps into the plane, and I shiver.

“Cold out there, huh?” booms a garrulous voice from behind me.

Fuuuuuck.

“Yes, sir,” says the flight attendant. “Where are you off to today? Somewhere warm, I hope!”

“Warmer than here,” says Quinn. “I’m going to Vegas. I hear it’s chilly this time of year, but I don’t care. It’s my first time there, and I’m going to see it all!”

“A Vegas virgin?” teases the flight attendant.

Quinn guffaws with laughter.

Even his laugh is annoying.

“Between you and me, I haven’t been a virgin in a looooong time.”

I roll my eyes, swallowing a comment about the unlucky girl who took his V-card. Moving up the aisle, I keep my head down, wondering what the chances are that he won’t notice me once he stops flirting.

Apparently, they’re not good. The two people between us slide into their seats, and there’s no one separating us anymore.

“Look who it is! Hey, Park!”

I sigh, refusing to turn around. It’s too early to deal with Quinn. I’m too tired for his crap.

“Wow!” he says, his voice loud enough to attract the attention of the people already seated around us. “You won’t even say hi? To your brother’s oldest and best friend? That’s cold, Parker Stewart!”

I glance at him over my shoulder, hoping my expression is sufficiently withering.

“Can you stop screaming? Geez! Hi!” I bark at him. “Satisfied?”

“There she is!” he chortles. “Little Miss Sunshine of Skagway…in the flesh!”

You are the most annoying person in the universe.

I turn back around, making deliberate eye contact with the lady in seat 16C.

“Hi, there,” I say to her, forcing my face to shift from irked to friendly. “Sorry. I’m beside you. In the middle.”

“Oh. Of course, dear,” she says, unbuckling her seat belt.

“You’re in 16-B?” bellows Quinn. “Wow! What are the chances? I’m in 18-C, two rows behind you! How about that?”

I grit my teeth and ignore him, willing the old lady to move faster so I can slide into my seat and get the hell away from my nemesis for the next two and a half hours.

“Guess you got your ticket late, huh? Middle seat surrounded by strangers. Sucks for you. Ha ha ha.” His ginormous carry-on duffel bag pushes into my lower back as I back up a little so my seatmate can step into the aisle.

She glances at me, then over my shoulder at Quinn, and then back at me. “Do you two know each other? Would you like to sit together?”

“No, thank you. Definitely not,” I say, sliding into the row and shoving my backpack under the seat in front of me.Meanwhile, I hear Quinn say, “Sure! Amazing! We’d love to sit together!”

“No we wouldn’t!” I chirp from my seat, shaking my head back and forth with increasingly deranged speed. “No! We don’t want to—”

“Sure we do! We’ve known each other forever! Let me grab your bag for you,” says Quinn. Leaning down, he takes the old lady’s bag from under the seat next to mine and hands it to her. “Here you go! This is real nice of you, ma’am.”

“Of course, young man,” she titters, charmed for no reason I can fathom. She steps down the aisle to take Quinn’s seat in row eighteen.

“Enjoy your flight!” he calls after her.

He opens an overhead compartment and shoves his duffel bag inside, then plops down beside me—all two thousand gazillion pounds of him—taking over our shared armrest and leaning his head back. Sighing like he’s just run a 10K, which I can guarantee has never happened in the entirety of his existence, he turns to me and grins.

“Hey, Park,” he says. “This is cozy.”

“Screw you, Quinn.” I snort. “This is hell.”

“C’mon,” he says. “Can’t we just—”

“You know? I don’t get you,” I say, turning to glare at him. “We can’t stand each other. I hate you. You hate me. For as long as I can remember, that’s how it’s been. So, why would you choose to sit here? It’s insane.”

He flinches, but I almost miss it because a split second later, he cackles with glee. “Because bugging you is one of my favorite hobbies.”

I blow out a frustrated breath, looking to my left. The teenage girl sitting by the window has headphones on and appears to be sleeping. No salvation there, but she inspires me to do the same. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m going to sleep.”

He stares at me for a second, like he has something to say, and I stare right back at him, at his swamp-green eyes under bushy black eyebrows…and have a sharp and sudden sense of déjà vu .

At the end of fifth grade, Quinn gave a presentation about how his family was of Irish descent and said that their name, Morgan, was an anglicized version of the Celtic surname, ó Muireagáin . Standing in front of his teacher, family, friends, and other students, he’d set up an easel with a large map of Ireland. Pointing to a county in the center of the map, he’d claimed to be descended from a clan of great lords who ruled over Teffia, in present-day county Longford, during the medieval ages.

At the end of his presentation, he’d bowed to applause, then looked directly at me, grinning with pride, winsome dimples denting his freckled cheeks. And for once, for just a split second, my heart had softened toward Quinn Morgan. I hadn’t seen him as a pest or nuisance in that instant. For just a second, I’d gotten a glimpse of—something different, something more—what a someday version of Quinn Morgan could look like: tall and confident, smart and cheerful, black Irish and handsome, like the actor who played Captain Hook in Once Upon a Time, my then-TV obsession.

Fueled by the romance of this notion, I’d imagined for a moment that his green eyes looked more emerald than swamp, that his chubbiness would stretch to tall and buff once he hit a growth spurt, and that his non-stop teasing and pranking was, perhaps, just maybe , a clumsy means of seeking my attention, not my scorn.

These revelations were short-lived and quickly overturned.

Later that day, Quinn and Sawyer had conspired to put a garter snake down the back of my T-shirt as I sat sunbathing by the Taiya River. After dispatching the snake and watching it slither away, I’d chased my brother and his friend back to the lodge. As I’d stood there on the porch cussing them out, with tears streaking down my cheeks, I’d noted that Quinn’s eyes were just as dull and swampy as they’d ever been.

He was no Captain Hook. No swashbuckling tease. No future hottie of the high seas. No. He was just dumb, old Quinn Morgan, Sawyer’s best buddy, world-class troublemaker, and as aggravating as ever.

“Fine,” he says with a little huff. “Go to sleep then.”

“I don’t need your permission, Quinn.”

“Whatever,” he mutters, reaching for a brown bag holding a muffin and stuffing his stupid face with it.

I pluck my earbuds from the side pocket of my backpack, pop them in my ears, and close my eyes to sleep.

***

Quinn

Here is something Parker Stewart has never understood about me:

Not once— never ever for a single second in the entire span of my life —have I ever hated her.

Exactly the opposite, in fact.

Despite my behavior, my feelings for Parker have never been vague…

I’ve loved her for as long as I can remember.

The way I behave around her—the way I treat her—is a direct reflection of how she feels about me . First and always, she’s seen me as her little brother’s annoying friend. And some of that reputation has been earned, yes. But the fact of the matter is, when you’ve known someone as long as Parker’s known me, when you’ve literally grown up beside them, you wear a lot of hats, and some of them, especially the early ones, aren’t that flattering.

I was the fat, little kindergartener who she caught picking his nose on the school bus.

( She teased me relentlessly about that .)

I was a lonely, only child third grader who wrangled an invitation to sleep over at Sawyer’s place anytime I could.

( And honestly, every weekend didn’t feel like too much to me, although in retrospect I can understand how it might have felt excessive to her. )

I was the mischievous fifth grader, desperate for her attention, who put a snake down the back of her shirt.

( I regret that particular prank…but one, it was Sawyer’s idea, and two, it was just a harmless garter snake. It wasn’t poisonous or anything .)

I was the awkward seventh grader who threw up his blue raspberry snow cone on her first ( and short-lived ) boyfriend’s brand-new white sneakers during the Yuletide fireworks.

( I’m pretty sure she still thinks I vomited on purpose, like it’s even possible to do that on-command. )

At some point—right around eighth grade, I think—I recognized that Parker was never going to like me, that she would probably always see me as a nuisance, a bother, and a pest. But this knowledge didn’t induce me to back off. No. It just made me frustrated. So what did I do? I doubled down. I worked even harder for her attention— any of her attention, even if it was her scorn.

In middle school and high school, for example, I’d find ways to get under her skin deliberately. I figured, if she thought the worst of me anyway, I may as well earn her contempt, and besides, her contempt still filled something inside of me. It meant I had some small portion of her attention—she felt something for me, even if it wasn’t positive. So, all the things she hated most about me? My big body and loud voice? My omnipresence in the daily life of her family? The teasing and the pranks? I used them to drive her crazy any chance I got. Because if I was driving her crazy, it meant I was still on her radar.

Somehow, that became our status quo.

I accepted my role as the eternal thorn in her side.

And mostly, I was okay with that.

I mean, I am okay with that. I pause for a moment, thinking this over. I’m okay with that, right?

As the flight attendants run through the safety demonstration, I glance to my left, where Parker’s pretending to sleep. I tenderly trace the familiar curves and planes of her face with my eyes. She’s a natural blonde with long straight hair that she usually wears in a messy bun at the base of her neck. Her lashes, which are a slightly darker blonde, rest on her cheeks, and were she to open her eyes, they’d be the same color as the summer sky over Taiya Peak. I’ve been stealing peeks at them for as long as I can remember. I caress the upturned slope of her nose, then drop my eyes to her lips, lingering there for a moment. Finally, I look away from her, sighing with frustration.

“All good, hon?” asks the flight attendant.

I wink at her. “Sure.”

“I heard that sigh. You get nervous about flying?”

“Nah. Just eager to get going.”

“Well, don’t worry.” She grins at me, her eyes soft. “We’ll be lifting off in a second.”

“Good to hear.”

“You, um…” She bites her lower lip as she leans closer to me. “You staying in Seattle tonight?” I’m not unfamiliar with come-ons from pretty women. I read her question loud and clear.

“Unfortunately, no. I’m connecting to Vegas in Seattle.”

“Hmm,” she hums, giving me a wry smile. “Lucky Vegas.”

I wink at her as she waves goodbye, then I lean a little to the right, watching her pert ass sway back and forth as she walks up the aisle checking seat belts. She’s cute. And down-to-fuck. That’s for sure.

Too bad I’m not staying overnight in Seattle, because I definitely would’ve considered—

“ She dodged a bullet.”

I look beside me to see one of Parker’s eyes cracked open.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I’m trying,” she complains, closing her eye again, “but per usual, you’re so loud, it’s hard.”

“That’s what she said,” I whisper close to her ear.

“You’re disgusting,” she mutters.

“Jealous much?” I ask, nudging her side with my elbow.

“As if,” she snorts, crossing her legs away from me, and resting her head on her left shoulder.

Part of me wants to inform her that regardless of what she might think, I don’t have trouble attracting female attention, and I rarely get complaints from the females I attract. But even in my head the words sound pathetic. Instead, I turn away from her and finish my muffin, comforting myself with the undeniable fact that most women like me. They find me funny, charming, and yes, Parker Stewart, you ice queen , attractive, too.

Ever since junior year in high school, when I sprouted up and started working out, I’ve been in fairly decent shape. I’m definitely a bigger guy, but that doesn’t bother me a bit, especially after being a runty kid. At six foot four inches tall and weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, I’m roughly the same size as Kansas City tight end, Travis Kelce. I keep busy, spending my summers crabbing and bicycling, and the off-season drinking, eating, snowmobiling, and skiing. My arms and legs are sinewed with muscle from use, but I’d have to hit the gym harder for a well-defined six-pack.

I have thick black hair and long black eyelashes that girls seem to dig, and green eyes that change color in the sunshine and contrast dramatically with the onyx of my pupils. I usually wear my hair long, in a bun or ponytail, but I cut it recently. Sometimes I like a beard in the wintertime, but the one I have right now is neatly trimmed at my father’s request. He said I needed to project a “clean cut, family-tour-guide image” for this conference, which was fine by me. I don’t get hung up on the way I look, but I’d say, without bragging or ego, that I’m, objectively, a pretty good-looking guy.

And more than that, I’m a pretty good guy.

I’m a good son to my parents and a good friend to the guys I work with. I’ve managed to stay friends with Sawyer for my entire life, despite his sister’s disdain. I’m easygoing and easy-to-please, a decent storyteller, a fair advice-giver, and generally well-liked.

But Parker’s never been able to see the good in me.

And while I know that’s partially my fault, it’s partially hers, too. She got so used to seeing me a certain way, she didn’t notice when I grew up. And so I just kept being a pain in her ass. Maybe that was easier than trying to show her the real me and still being reviled and rejected.

Because I can bear it that she hates the wisecracking, irritating, over-the-top me, but I think it just might break my stupid fucking heart if she hated the real me.

***

“Park,” I whisper two hours later, tapping gently on her shoulder. “Wake up. We’re landing.”

She cracks open those stunning baby blues, registering recognition, then annoyance.

“Don’t touch me,” she groans, closing her eyes.

“Fine. Go back to sleep. You can sit here all day and miss your connection to Vegas. See if I care.”

Taking a deep breath to rouse herself from sleep, she blinks slowly, then scowls at me. “I’m up. I’m up.”

“You were always a heavy sleeper,” I remember, grinning at her. “Your dad could never get you up on those camping trips we used to do.”

Her lips quirk up for a second. “The camp would be completely packed up except for me and my tent.”

“He’d send Harper or Reeve in there to wake you up because the rest of us would’ve caught hell.”

“Made sense. Harper was my second mama, and Reeve’s the baby.”

“Not so babyish anymore,” I say, pushing up my tray table and locking it in place.

“What does that mean?” she demands, her voice cracking like a whip.

I turn to find her sitting up straight, her eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed.

“What? What’d I say?”

“Are you checking out Reeve?” she asks, her face appalled.

“What? No! Never! Reeve’s like a little sister to me!”

“Except she’s not so ‘babyish’ anymore?” she snaps.

“Geez, Parker, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Save it,” she says, plucking the earbuds from her ears and jamming them into her backpack. “Just. Yuck. Stop.”

“I literally can’t say anything around you.”

“Because everything you say pretty much sucks. And FYI, I better not see you looking at Reeve. If I do, I’ll tell my brothers, and they’ll—”

“ End me ?” I finish for her. “Yeah. I know. You’ve been singing that song since we were kids.”

“Don’t forget it.”

“I don’t need to remember it because I have zero designs on Reeve.”

“Well, you better not.”

“I don’t!” I bellow. “So, just shut up about it.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up, Quinn. You shut up.”

“Oh my god,” says the girl on the other side of Parker, “can you both just shut up?”

We stare at her for a second, then Parker turns to me and sticks out her tongue.

“So mature,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

“Takes one to know one,” she whispers back.

“Pain in the ass.”

“Annoying as ever.”

“I can still hear you,” says the girl by the window, leaning forward a little to glare at us.

Parker crosses her arms over her chest and stares straight ahead. I do the same. Ten minutes later, we’ve landed in Seattle and we’re taxiing to our gate. As we wait for the okay to unbuckle our seat belts, Parker turns to me.

“Quinn.”

“Parker.”

Her forehead wrinkles. Her eyebrows snap together. She gulps before speaking to me in a soft, level voice.

“Can you please, like for real, please just ignore me this week? Please just leave me alone while we’re in Las Vegas? Can’t we just act like we don’t know each other? Like we’ve never even met? Can’t I just be some stranger you’d pass in a hotel lobby, or in a train station, and never even notice? Please, Quinn?”

It twists my heart in knots to think of Parker being a stranger to me and me to her. Moreover, if I say yes, I’ll be lying to her. I can’t imagine a day—an hour, a minute, a second—in which I could ignore Parker Stewart. Since I was five years old, all I’ve craved is to know her.

But then it occurs to me, in a flash of awareness, how amazing it would be to be new to her, to be someone she’s never met before…someone she doesn’t know…some stranger who she happens upon for the very first time while on a business trip in Las Vegas. Would she see me then? Without the baggage of our shared past, could she see the real me? And if she did, would she give me a chance? Might she even like me?

“Strangers?” I ask her.

“Yeah,” she says. “Strangers. No history. No familiarity. Nothing. I’ll just be a face in the crowd, and you’ll be the same to me.”

I scan her eyes. “You sure that’s what you want?”

“Quinn. It’s what I’ve always wanted,” she says earnestly.

And that’s when it occurs to me all over again.

She will never see you.

She will never know you.

She will never want you.

And she will never, ever love you the way you’ve always loved her.

“Always,” I repeat, darting a quick glance at her lips before sliding my eyes back up to hers. This time I won’t dig my heels in. I won’t double-down. I won’t annoy her just for the sake of being near her. “We’ll just be…strangers.”

“Yes,” she says, nodding once, with a quick jerk of her head. “No more teasing. No more sparring. No more pranks. Just peace. Please, Quinn.”

No more of seeing her eyes flash with annoyance, or her lips purse with fury. No more of Parker Stewart. Can I live like that? Without her?

Something deep inside of me breaks as I consider a life without Parker.

It hurts to agree to this. I feel like I’m giving up on something that I want more than anything on earth, more than anything else in my life. But the reality is that I’m never going to get that something if I stay on this course.

Insanity is, after all, doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for a different outcome. And despite what Parker might think, I’m not actually insane.

And looked at in a different light, maybe agreeing to her request isn’t giving up. Maybe it’s just switching gears. Maybe it’s just changing direction. Maybe it’s admitting that if you want something—or someone—bad enough, you have to let her go first. Completely.

“Strangers,” I say softly. “Okay.”

I look away from her, over the heads of the people in front of me, wishing I could get the fuck off this plane and away from her.

“Thanks,” I hear her mumble, but I don’t look over, and I don’t answer.

There’s no need.

After all, we’re strangers now.