Parker (The Stewarts of Skagway #5)

Chapter 2

Parker

At two hundred and twenty dollars a night, my room at the MGM Aria isn’t cheap, but I don’t care. Stewart Tours foots the bill, and besides, the Aria is one of my favorite hotels on the strip. Why? Because there’s a massive convention center built into the property, which is super convenient, and means I don’t need to leave the premises unless I feel like it. And in early-January? I might not. January in Vegas offers a dry, desert cold with most days hovering in the 30s and 40s. For an Alaskan girl like me, who’s used to a more humid cold, Vegas feels biting.

The last two times I visited Las Vegas, I did a ton of sightseeing. This time, my plan is just to stay put and enjoy everything the Aria has to offer: eighteen high-end and quick-service eateries, a spa, a nightclub, a concert venue, various lounges, bars and boutiques, a fitness center, three swimming pools (all closed for the winter), a business center, and, of course, a giant casino. There’s plenty to keep me busy. In fact, I can, literally, take an Uber from the airport to the strip, step inside the Aria, work my convention every day for a week, eat at a different restaurant for every meal, go shopping, dancing, or gambling in my free time, and Uber back to the airport a week later, all without ever stepping foot onto a Las Vegas sidewalk.

As I enter the climate-controlled lobby, my sneakers thud softly on the glistening marble floors. Overhead, giant glittering snowflakes are suspended from the ceiling of the three-story-high atrium, catching streams of sunlight from the many windows and shimmering like diamonds.

With no wait at the check-in desk, I step up to the counter and return the smile of the desk clerk.

“Welcome to the Aria,” she says. “Checking in?”

“Yes,” I say, sliding my ID and credit card across the counter. “I’m here for the Adventure Travel convention.”

“Great!” she chirps, her fingernails clacking on the keyboard under the counter. “Looks like you booked a Stay Well Deluxe King Room, but…” She bites her bottom lip, then looks up at me with a little grin. “We were able to upgrade you!”

“Really?”

She nods. “We love to give our travel partners the opportunity to see our higher-end rooms when they’re available.”

“That’s amazing. Thank you!”

“You got it,” she says, sliding blank room cards through a reader, and imprinting them with my room number. “So, instead of a Stay Well Deluxe King, we’ve got you in a Tower Suite with a whirlpool tub, living room, and access to our VIP Lounge.”

“Wow!” I can’t help the little giggle that escapes through my lips. I’ve heard of people being upgraded before, of course, but it’s never happened to me. I’m not embarrassed to admit that it’s exhilarating when it finally does.

“One thing, though,” says the desk clerk as she slides the keycard envelope to me. “The room won’t be ready for another forty-five minutes. You are welcome to relax in the Aria Sky Suites VIP Lounge. We offer complimentary drinks and snacks there.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

She directs me across the lobby to a golden doorway, and I make my way down a bougie corridor to the lounge, taking a seat on a cobalt-blue velvet sectional. Sinking into the decadent plushness, I sigh, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.

Ahhh. This is the life. I could get used to—

“Thanks, man! I love a cold beer, you know?”

My eyes crack open as Quinn’s voice echoes like thunder through the soaring, mostly-marble lounge.

“Yes, sir. Nothing like it.”

I sit up straight to find you-know-who sitting at a cocktail table about twenty feet to my left. While he hasn’t noticed me yet, it’s only a matter of time until he does.

There goes my short-lived moment of zen…

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ I’m just Quinn.”

“I hope you enjoy the beer, Mr. Quinn,” says the server, bowing slightly before turning away.

Quinn lifts his beer, his eyes following the server who stops in front of me. I watch recognition flit over his features, but he controls it quickly, neutralizing his face completely and turning away from me.

“Can I get you anything from the bar, miss?”

I realize I’m still staring at Quinn and jerk my gaze away from him.

“Yeah, um, wine…I like wine.” My voice lifts on the word “wine,” like I’m asking a question. Damn it. Why am I flustered?

“Red, white, or rosé?” asks the server.

“Bubbles?”

“Of course, miss. Prosecco?”

“Perfect.”

The server places a cocktail napkin on the small table before me, then steps away to collect my drink. I glance over at Quinn again, expecting him to be staring at me in some sort of annoying or provocative manner, but he mostly has his back to me. I watch as he lifts his beer, takes another sip, then places the glass back down on the table. He doesn’t glance at me over his shoulder. He doesn’t boom my name. He doesn’t bound across the room to bother me. He doesn’t regard me at all.

He’s keeping his promise , it occurs to me, and it’s oddly touching.

The click-clack of high heels makes me turn to the right where I find two young women entering the lounge, pulling their expensive suitcases behind them. They’re both dressed in brightly colored mini-dresses, and one of them carries a small dog in her arms like a baby.

Quinn shifts in his seat to check them out, grinning languidly in their direction, and lifting his glass in salute as they get closer. No doubt they will find him charming and adorable. And objectively, I grudgingly admit, especially with his recent grooming, he is looking better than usual.

They stop between us, whispering to each other before sharing a giggle.

“Is that…a beer?” asks the one with the dog, a nasty little smirk tilting up her glossy, hot pink lips.

“Sure is,” he says, leaning back in his chair. He’s still smiling at them like they’ll find his Alaskan accent and checked flannel lumberjack shirt charming. He hasn’t realized yet that they’re way out of his league, and their snotty giggle was about him.

“Beer,” says the Dog-Mommy, glancing back at her friend with another little giggle. “That’s, like, so basic .”

“Basic?” asks Quinn, leaning forward a touch. I watch his face, reading him like a book I’ve opened a hundred times. He rubs his beard, his smile faltering a bit as he tilts his head to the side. “What’s that mean?”

Dog-Mommy flicks her dark, salon-wavy hair over her shoulder, looking at him like he’s caked mud on the bottom of her Jimmy Choos. “You don’t know what ‘basic’ means? That’s, like, so basic of you.”

“And now he’s meta,” says her friend, who’s wearing sunglasses, even though there are no windows in this lounge.

“Basic…means…boring,” says the Dog-Mommy, enunciating every word like Quinn’s an imbecile.

“Unsophisticated,” adds Sunglasses, staring down at her phone and looking bored.

“Uninspired.” Dog-Mommy moves her dog from the crook of one elbow to the crook of the other, laughing over her shoulder with her friend. “Beer. I mean, is he at his first frat party?”

“Is he twelve years old? He looks bigger than twelve years old.”

“He could’ve ordered anything, and he chose a beer. Ohmigod. Can you imagine?”

“Can you imagine,” asks Quinn, his loud voice overpowering theirs, his forefinger circling the rim of his glass, “being less of a bitch to a total and complete stranger?”

Dog-Mommy gasps from several feet away from him. Her friend lowers her shades to stare at him.

“ What did you say to me ?”

“—because that’s what I’m imagining as I drink my delicious fucking beer,” he finishes, flicking his eyes at her dismissively, like she’s the joke, not him.

The server returns, oblivious to the tension in the room as he places my Prosecco on the cocktail napkin in front of me.

“May I offer you some cocktail mix? We have nuts or pretzels.”

“Sure,” I murmur, my eyes glued to the drama in front of me.

“Both, then.” He hurries away to grab my snack.

“ Did you actually just call me a bitch ?” Dog-Mommy shrieks.

“If the shoe fits…” mutters Quinn, finishing his ‘delicious fucking beer.’

The young woman lowers her dog to the floor and puts her hands on her hips. I note that the dog’s wearing a rhinestone collar with a matching rhinestone leash. Ridiculous .

“You know what, sir?” she says, her eyes wide with indignation. “You’re, like, super…fucking…rude .”

“I’m not the only one,” Quinn drawls, sliding his eyes slowly from her face to her feet. “Your dog’s taking a shit on the hotel floor. I’d say that’s pretty fucking rude, too.”

While they gasp again in surprise, scolding the little dog and trying to decide what to do about the small hill of steaming poop, I find myself chuckling softly. And that’s right about when I lift my eyes to Quinn, who’s staring back at me, his green eyes sparkling with shared amusement. He lifts his glass to me in a salute identical to the one he gave to the girls when they first entered the lounge.

I raise my own glass in solidarity, taking a slow sip of the icy cold bubbles and feeling— of all things!— a brief and rare moment of rapport with the most annoying stranger in the world.

***

“They upgraded me,” I tell my sister, lying on my bed in a bathrobe and complimentary slippers. “It’s so deluxe, Reeve. Whirlpool. Mini bar. Floor-to-ceiling windows. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“You’re making me jealous. I wish I was there.”

“You should’ve come with me!”

“Gran never would’ve allowed me to go to Vegas with you. Be so serious.”

“Good point.” I roll off the bed and walk to the windows, staring out at the glittering, multicolored lights of the strip. “What’s going on at home?”

“Hmm. Well. Sawyer cleared most of his stuff out of his cabin this morning and said I could have it. He moved in with Ivy.”

This doesn’t surprise me. My younger brother and his sometimes-summer-hook-up are finally a couple, and I bet he’s not letting her out of his sight for a while.

“What else?”

“Hunter and Isabella went back to Seattle this afternoon.”

My oldest brother and his fiancée live in Seattle from October to May and return to Skagway for Thanksgiving, New Year’s and in the summer to live and work. Originally, I wasn’t Isabella’s biggest fan, though she seems to be making Hunter very happy, and that means a lot to me. We may end up as friends yet.

“What’re Tan and Ken up to?”

“Canoodling,” says Reeve. “They’re gonna be pregnant by the spring, you mark my words.”

“Gross, Reeve. He’s our brother.”

“Noted. How about you? How’s Vegas?”

“Cold. Busy. Loud.”

“Did you set up your table yet?”

“Yep. About an hour ago.”

“Everything arrived okay?”

“Yep. Good job.”

Reeve was in charge of packing and shipping all of our conference and marketing materials to Las Vegas last week.

“You have enough of everything?”

“They’re expecting twenty-five thousand attendees over the next few days, so there’s never enough…but I’ll be fine. I can always tell them to scan the QR code on the banner or business cards.”

“You’ll make it work,” says Reeve. “You always do.”

“What are you up to this week, babycakes?” I ask her.

“Tackling my annual reading list,” she says. “Paw-Paw’s been making me a fire every morning in the lodge. I snuggle up and read all day.”

“Lucky duck,” I tell her. “Sounds like heaven.”

“So…” she says, “have you run into anyone you know? Anyone especially annoying?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I saw Quinn in Juneau. We sat together on the plane.”

“On purpose?”

“He changed seats with someone else just to bug me.”

“Classic Quinn. He’s such a jerk.”

“He is…”

“Huh.”

“Huh…what?”

“You’re usually like, ‘Yeah, he is! He’s the biggest asshole who ever lived!’”

“Well, he is, of course,” I tell her. “But…okay, so, earlier, we were in this VIP Lounge sitting at two separate tables, right? And these two rich bitches come into the lounge, and they were giving him a hard time. They were making fun of him for drinking beer and not, like, scotch-on-the-rocks or something. It was…I don’t know…”

“Oh, no! Someone gave Quinn Morgan a hard time?” she asks, all sassy. “Good. He got a little taste of his own medicine. He deserves it.”

“From us , he deserves it.”

“What do you mean?”

I plop back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I recognize the feeling I’m having about the situation between Quinn and those girls, but it surprises me a little bit.

“Parker?” prompts Reeve.

I sigh. “Okay. So, you know how we can say whatever we want to Hunter, Tanner, and Sawyer? Like, we can call them jerks or assholes or call them out on their bullshit?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“But how would you feel if some other girl—who wasn’t you, me, or Harper—did that?”

“Pissed. Ready to throw down.”

“Right. Like, those boys are our family, we can say whatever we want. But if someone outside of our circle treated them like shit, it’d be unacceptable, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s how it felt,” I say, my lips twitching as the words leave my mouth. “It felt like I have the right to put Quinn in his place, but those girls…”

“Didn’t.”

“Yeah.”

“But Quinn’s not in our family,” points out Reeve. “He’s not our brother. He’s not even our friend.”

But he is in our circle , I think, biting back the words before I say them aloud.

“I know,” I say.

“So…”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say. “Maybe it’s because we’re both from the same small town in Alaska, and these bitches were in Vegas, all glammed up and being mean, and…I don’t know, Reeve. I can’t explain it. I just know I didn’t like it.”

“Did you say something to them?”

I grin at the ceiling as I remember how Quinn told Dog-Mommy she was acting like a “bitch,” right before pointing out the dog shit on the floor.

“Didn’t have to. Quinn had it covered.”

“Of course he did. Ugh! He’s so annoying.”

Except he wasn’t annoying. He was clever. He was funny.

Maybe , I think, if his teasing isn’t focused on you, it’s possible to be more objective about him. I haven’t had much of a chance to be objective about Quinn, since his wit is generally at my expense. No. Always at my expense. I lift my chin, reminding myself that I’ve been at the center of Quinn’s dartboard my whole life, and he doesn’t deserve my empathy or admiration.

“Yes,” I agree with her. “He is. Totally annoying.”

We talk for another twenty minutes about the books on Reeve’s Tbr list and everything she wants me to bring back from Vegas.

Quinn doesn’t come up again.

***

Quinn

It would have been great to know that most convention vendors set up their tables and booths the night before. Because here I am at 8:42 a.m., with eighteen minutes until the doors open, still trying to track down the boxes my dad had shipped to Vegas.

“Sorry, sir,” says a young guy in the Business Services Center. “I just checked again. We don’t have anything here for Ken Morton.”

“Quinn Morgan!” I say for the third time. “My name is Quinn Morgan, and the boxes would’ve been shipped from Skagway, Alaska.”

“And where’s that at?”

“ Alaska ,” I growl between clenched teeth.

He gives me a look, then heads back to a giant pile of brown cardboard boxes stacked behind him. I check my watch. I’ve got fifteen minutes to get my boxes, haul them over to the ballroom and set up my table before the first wave of attendees arrive. Shit and damn it. There’s no way I’ll be ready in time.

“Hey! I found ’em!”

“Great!” I say.

He wheels six large boxes over to me.

“Can I borrow this dolly? I’ll bring it right back.”

“Nope. Needs to stay here. My boss’ll kill me if it’s missing.”

“C’mon, man. I can’t carry all six of these at once.”

“You can make a few trips,” he suggests, turning to help the next person in line.

Luckily, the ballroom isn’t far from the BSC, but by the time I have all six boxes at my table, it’s after nine o’clock and waves of early birds are walking up and down the aisles, taking business cards from booths looking far more professional than mine. Not to mention, my dress shirt is soaked with sweat, and I need to piss. I hoof it to a corner of the massive convention center to visit the nearest restroom, and I swear, it’s after nine-thirty by the time I run back toward my table. Looking for a bare table and six sad boxes, I pass my table the first time down my aisle, because it turns out someone has started setting it up for me.

All of my boxes have been lined up behind the table and opened, a black tablecloth covers the table, a banner has been lashed to the front of the table and another set up in back. My brochure rack has been put together and stocked with information about Morgan E-Bikes, and our business cards have been fanned out invitingly.

I look around at the tables near me, finally spying Parker Stewart’s booth across the aisle and four down to the right. I raise my eyebrows at her, and she nods at me, offering a tiny smile. I’m so shocked, I gape at her for a second before she looks away to greet someone stepping up to her table.

Well, I’ll be damned.

She must have seen me struggling at my first convention and decided to give me a hand.

Something about this totally undeserved and unexpected act of kindness floods my stressed-out being with endorphins. I can feel my lips turning up as I plug in a laptop that will run a promotional video of our customers cycling in and around Skagway. My feet feel lighter as I add a sign-up sheet beside the pamphlets and a basket to hold raffle tickets for a giveaway. I can’t remember the last time Parker went out of her way to do something nice for me, but it fills my stomach with a happy buzz and feels amazing.

“Hey, neighbor.”

I look up to see a woman at the booth across the aisle waving at me. I’d guess she’s in her early-30s but in good fucking shape. Tall. Thin. Reddish-blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles. She stands up and walks across the aisle, offering me her hand, and giving me a full-length view of her assets. She’s wearing cowboy boots, a plaid flannel shirt tied in a knot under her breasts, and Daisy Dukes showcasing her long legs and work-of-art ass.

“Hey, neighbor,” I say, taking her hand and pumping it slowly.

“You’re from Skagway?” she asks, flicking a glance at my banner.

“Yep. We do e-bike rentals and bike tours. Mostly for cruisers.” A standing banner behind her table reads: Catch us in Ketchikan! “Wild guess, but are you from Ketchikan?”

“Oooo! You’re quick,” she says, grinning at me. She puts her hands in her back pockets, which puts her ample chest on fantastic display. “We get cruisers, too.”

“Ketchikan’s our main competition.”

“With good reason,” she says, ambling back behind her table. She grins at me. “Ketchikan’s the bomb. Skagway’s overrated.”

“Had to hide behind your table before sharing that opinion, huh?”

“I’m not scared of you Skagwegians,” she says, winking at me.

An older man, wearing a polo shirt that reads, Lee’s Travel, Santa Fe, NM , stops at her table, and I watch her turn on the charm.

“This your booth?”

I turn around to find a pair of ladies standing in front of my table.

“Yes, ma’am!” I say, hustling into position. “Morgan E-Bikes out of Skagway. I’m Quinn Morgan.”

They each shake my hand, then take a brochure and business card, explaining that they sell cruises out of somewhere in Delaware.

“Well, we’re happy to meet your clients at the dock or give them directions to our shop, which is just up Broadway.”

“Bike tours are popular,” says one of the ladies. “Are your prices competitive?”

“Better’n the excursions offered by the cruise ships.”

“Good to know. I’ll be in touch,” says one of the women, following her associate to the next table.

“By the way,” says the strawberry-blonde across the aisle, “I’m Skylar.”

“Quinn.”

“Yeah,” she says, “I heard.” Another travel agent sidles up to her table, and she’s back in action again.

I make sure my table looks perfect, then slide my eyes down the aisle to Parker. Unlike Skylar, who’s dressed like Lumberjack Barbie, Parker’s dressed more conservatively in an aqua blue Stewart Tours polo shirt tucked into a short khaki skirt. Her hair’s back in a neat ponytail, and her face has light traces of makeup. She looks all-American, classy and polished. Watching her talk to a trio of young male travel agents makes my heart clench.

Please just leave me alone while we’re in Las Vegas?

I blink my eyes, looking away from her.

“Hey, Quinn.”

I look up to find Skylar grinning at me.

“Hey, Skylar.”

“What’re you doing for lunch?”

“What’d you have in mind?”

She chuckles. “This conference room closes at twelve-thirty for half an hour. Wanna grab a bite with me?”

Parker’s words repeat in my head. Can’t we just act like we don’t know each other? Like we’ve never even met?

“That sounds great.”

***

My first morning at the convention flies by, and before I know it, the doors to the ballroom are closed, and everyone’s filing out to grab some lunch during the break. I fall into step beside Skylar, forcing myself not to look for Parker. It’s none of my business who she’s having lunch with.

“What’re you in the mood for?” asks my date, taking my arm.

“What are my options?”

“Only place close enough and fast enough,” she says, loading her voice with innuendo, “is the Proper Eats Food Hall, but they have a lot of choices.”

“Sounds good.”

We exit the ballroom, and Skylar pulls me down the hallway, past one of the three hotel pools and a couple of restaurants.

“The food hall’s great,” she says. “They’ve got everything: salads, deli sandwiches, burgers, Chinese, Italian, sushi—”

“Whoa!” I say, pausing in the archway of the food hall. My eyes dart around, counting one…two…three—oh my god, five restaurants that I can see, and there are probably more around the bend. Now, I don’t mean to sound like a hick, but honest to God, I’ve never seen so many food options in one place.

“First time at a food hall?” asks Skylar.

Delicious smells waft toward us, and my mouth waters.

“Yeah,” I say. “First time out of Alaska.”

“Then I take it you’ve never been to the Fifth Avenue Mall in Anchorage?”

“No. Why?”

“Because they have a food court there. Probably the only one in Alaska, but it’s way smaller than this,” she says with a little shrug. “I think there are six restaurants there. Here? There are twelve!”

“Twice as many,” I say with awe. “Where do we start? What’s your favorite spot?”

“Hmm. Hard to say. Probably a toss-up between Laughing Burgers and Tamaki Sushi.”

“Well, I can always get a decent burger in Skagway,” I tell her. “Good sushi’s harder to come by.”

“Sushi it is!” she crows, dragging me over to a black marble bar with stools.

We sit down side by side, and a waitress brings us menus.

“I don’t need one,” says Skylar. “I’d like the spicy shrimp, spicy tuna, and spicy salmon. Give him a second, though, huh?”

The waitress promises to return in a minute.

“Choose quick,” says Skylar, glancing at her phone. “We only have twenty minutes left.”

I scan the options, grateful for the pictures. But in the end, because I know so little about sushi, I decide to order the same thing as Skylar.

“Bring us two sakis, huh?” Skylar grins at the waitress, then back at me. “Don’t look now, Quinn Morgan, but you’ve got some serious attention coming from the other end of the bar. Looks like—oh my god—is that one of the Stewarts? Ugh. It is. Um…Parker, I think. One of the younger girls.”

Forgetting my promise for a second, I look over my shoulder to find Parker sitting across the bar from us on her own. She looks at me, then at Skylar, then looks quickly away. I wonder why she’s sitting all alone…which is followed by a quick stab of guilt. I feel unexpectedly protective of her. Here I am, laughing it up with my new friend, Skylar, while Parker’s sitting all alone.

But then again, that’s how she wants it. Strangers.

“Yeah,” I say, turning back to Skylar. “That’s Parker Stewart.”

“You know her?”

“I’m friends with her brother.”

“The Stewarts of Skagway,” she says, a hint of snark in her tone. “My little brother, Rick, did a gig with Hunter Stewart last summer and said he was a total douche. I know Harper, too. She and I were the same year in high school, and we both played soccer, so we went head-to-head a few times when Ketchikan played Skagway.”

“So you know them, too.”

“Not really,” says Skylar. “Like, not personally. But the panhandle’s only so big, you know? And they’re a major player in Skagway. My dad’s always saying, The Stewarts have Skagway, but we’ve got the rest .”

“The rest?”

“Yeah,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “My dad’s Landry Jones. Didn’t I mention that?”

She didn’t. But I’ve definitely heard of Landry Jones. He owns the biggest travel outfit in the state of Alaska, with shore tours offered in every city along the cruise route, and all sorts of other tours offered in the interior from Anchorage all the way up to Fairbanks.

“You’re Skylar…Jones.”

“Guilty,” she says, picking up her handleless tea cup and drinking whatever’s in it like a shot.

I do the same, then bust out coughing as hot liquor bathes my mouth.

“Oh god! What…is that?” I demand, swiping the tears from my eyes. “It’s nasty!”

She giggles. “Saki. Rice wine. It’s served hot.”

“No shit.”

I can’t help sneaking a quick glance at Parker, to see if she noticed me choking on Japanese wine, but she’s engrossed in her phone, thank God.

“So,” asks Skylar, “can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“If you’re friends with the Stewarts, how come you’re over here with me, instead of over there with her?”

I shrug. “It’s complicated.”

“Oooo. Intriguing! Did you two date?”

“No.”

“Did you date her best friend? Or her sister?”

“No and no.”

“Did her brother forbid you from going near her?”

“Yes, but that wouldn’t stop me.”

“That’s hot,” she says, running her index finger down my arm. “I like a man who goes after what he wants, regardless of the consequences.”

Our food arrives, and since we only have ten more minutes to eat and get back to the ballroom, we tuck into it.

“I’m…stumped,” says Skylar, holding up her chopsticks between bites of raw tuna. “What’s the complication between you two?”

I scarf down the spicy shrimp, thinking that the seafood in Alaska is about a thousand times fresher and more delicious. The sushi I had in Juneau when I was crabbing beats this Vegas crap any day.

“She hates my guts.”

When I look up, Skylar’s staring at me with wide eyes. “Why?”

“She has her reasons.”

“Are they valid?”

I think about this for a second, about the person I’ve been to Parker Stewart for most of our lives. An annoying, pranking, teasing, omnipresent pest.

“I guess,” I mutter, swallowing a big bite of tasteless tuna roll.

“Fascinating,” says Skylar, leaning her elbow on the bar and cupping her cheek with her palm. “Well, I like you more and more, Quinn Morgan.”

I look over my shoulder to discover that Parker’s gone. She ate, paid and left, all without saying a word to me. Wow. I know we’re supposed to be strangers, but damn, that stings.

“At least someone does.” I say to Skylar, picking up the tab for lunch.