Parker (The Stewarts of Skagway #5)

Chapter 4

Parker

Knock, knock, knock.

I hop up from the couch where I’m watching TV and drinking a glass of wine.

“That was quick,” I say aloud as I cross the room to open the door.

After my Uber dropped me off at the hotel, I took a long, hot shower and opted for pajamas and room service instead of getting redressed and going downstairs to one of the many hotel restaurants.

When I open the door, however, there’s no linen-covered rolling cart with my dinner displayed artfully on top. Instead, a bellman stands before me with a tiny white shopping bag dangling from his index finger.

“I thought you were room service,” I tell him. Glancing at the bag, then back at him, a cock my head to the side. “I think you have the wrong room.”

“Are you Miss Parker Stewart?”

I blink at him. “Yes.”

As his finger advances closer to my face, the little bag swings merrily from it. “Then I have the right room.”

I take the bag and check the name on the envelope sticking out. Sure enough, there’s my name in bold block letters. I’m about to ask the bellhop where this came from and who sent it, but by the time I look up again, he’s gone.

Closing the door and stepping backward into my room, I regard the posh little bag that reads Terrene in lavender script.

“Where did you come from?”

When it doesn’t answer, I open the card instead. Someone’s written a little riddle on the stiff white cardstock and signed it “Q.”

Q? For who? For Quinn?

I drop the card and stare suspiciously at the lovely little bag, an unpleasant, but familiar, feeling unfurling in my stomach. I wonder if it holds something sinister or disgusting, like a squished insect or…or…or a dead rodent wrapped in pretty tissue paper. Just another prank to make Parker scream.

Taking a deep breath, I read the card again, remembering the way he looked at me when he said he was sorry. Did he mean it? Is it possible that there isn’t something horrible inside the bag, after all? That maybe, despite a shared history full of practical jokes and epic teasing at my expense, Quinn is really trying to apologize to me?

Bracing myself for the worst and hoping I’m not being played for a fool, I reach into the bag, gingerly maneuvering around tissue paper to find a small box. When I pull it free, I take a moment to admire the ornately tied bow before opening it. When I do, my breath catches.

There, on a little cloud of white fluff, sits a pink and silver turtle.

I like turtles. Sea turtles, especially.

I feel a smile bloom across my face as I touch the turtle’s pink back with the tip of my finger.

“A peace offering,” I whisper. “From Quinn Morgan, of all people.”

Gulping with emotion, I take the charm and hold it up to the light, watching as the crystals on the turtle’s back sparkle. It’s—at once—the most charming and thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.

But when I hear myself giggle, I wonder if I’m losing it. And there’s only one person in the world whom I trust when I need a stern, but gentle, reality check.

Call Harper.

Dropping the charm back into its box, I run into the bedroom, grab my phone and tell Siri to call my older sister. Perched on the couch in pajamas, staring at the charm, my entire being is abuzz when she answers.

“Park?”

“Harp!”

“What’s wrong? What’s going on? Are you sick? Are you okay? What’s happening?”

“No, no, no. I’m okay.” It occurs to me—in a flash of cringey self-awareness—that I didn’t note the time change, and I’ve called during the “forbidden” hours at Casa Raven. My beloved older sister is a mom, and we all try to leave her in peace during my niece’s daily bath and bedtime routine. “I’ll call later! Sorry!”

As I’m lowering the phone, I hear her bellow, “Get back here!”

I put the phone back up to my ear. “Yeah?”

“Aaron was out last week so he’s covering some of Joe’s hours this week. Daddy’s giving Wren a bath. I’m sitting on the couch with a glass of wine.”

“Oh!”

“But you still better have a good reason for calling me during bath time.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me! What’s going on?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, “Quinn Morgan gave me a turtle,” but oh my god, she wouldn’t even know what to do with that. I don’t know where to start.

Because she knows me better than I know myself, she says, “Stop overthinking, Parker. Just start at the beginning.”

I take a deep breath and let it go before telling her about how I ran into Quinn at the airport in Juneau, and that he was his regular asshole-y self when he insisted we sit together on the plane, but that since then, there’s been this weird change.

“He’s been, like, nice to me.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He left me alone on the flight from Seattle to Vegas. He didn’t bother me in the hotel lounge. He obviously didn’t know he was supposed to set up his table the night before, so he was all sweaty and panicked, bringing his boxes in the morning of the convention.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So I helped him set up his table. Then he went to lunch with Skylar Jones, and—”

“ Skylar Jones ?”

I groan. “Yeah. She’s here, too.”

“I can’t stand Skylar Jones,” says Harper.

“For whatever it’s worth,” I tell my older sister, “you’re way more buff than she is. And you’ve had a kid! You could take her, Harp. A hundred percent.”

“Appreciate you, Park. Keep going.”

“So, he went to lunch with her, and afterward, when he came over to thank me for helping him set up, I tried to warn him about her—about all the Joneses, actually—but it fell on deaf ears, and I thought we were back to the strangers thing.”

“Wait. Back up. The ‘strangers’ thing? What’s that?”

“Oh. Didn’t I mention that? On the first flight—the one where he was being a jerk—I asked if we could be strangers in Vegas, and he agreed.”

“Plot twist.”

“Wh—What does that mean?”

“Keep going,” she says. In the background I hear the sound of more wine being poured into a glass.

“So, earlier tonight I went to this park on the outskirts of Vegas…it’s called Red Rock Canyon, and it’s the only place near the city where you can get some fresh air. I wanted to take a short hike. Anyway, out of nowhere, Quinn pulls up.”

“Mm-hm. He followed you?”

“Oh my god! I said the same thing! But, no. He wanted fresh air, too.”

“So, you ignored him and went for your hike?”

I reach for my glass of wine and take a big sip. “No.”

“Mm-hmm. Why not?”

“What do you mean? It’s not like I could just ignore him! We were the only two people there. And—and he’s Sawyer’s best friend. We’ve known him forever and I—”

“You hate his guts.”

“Yeah! I do.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Harper, you know I hate him!”

“I know you think you hate him.”

“I do!”

“Mm-hmm. Then what?”

“He invited me to do the loop in his car, so I did. It’s a real pretty ride, Harp. We pass by this little plateau called Turtlehead Peak. That’s my favorite. But there are all sorts of trails and canyons, and—”

“Mm-hmm.”

“There was bluegrass and folk playing while we rode along.”

“Your favorites.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And we talked a little, too.”

“About?”

“I…I don’t know. I mean…it was good.” I take another gulp from my own glass of wine. “We talked about growing up together…and I said that Sawyer would get mean with me whenever Quinn showed up. I said I hated it when Quinn was around because Sawyer was a jerk to me.”

“You said that?”

“Yeah.”

“Go on.”

“And…and—well, this is weird and really surprising, but he apologized . Like Harp, he started out trying to blame it all on Sawyer, but then he took full responsibility for himself. He apologized to me, and he meant it. I could tell. Anyway, that was it. We finished the loop, and I met my Uber to come back to the city. And I guess he drove back to the resort because you know what just showed up at my door?”

“Tell me.”

“Remember I said we passed this spot on the drive called Turtlehead Peak?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this guy showed up at my door five seconds ago with a gift bag and—oh, my god!—inside was a little pink and silver turtle charm with a card from Quinn.”

“Mm-hmm. What did the card say?”

“You ready for this? It said that he was serious about apologizing, but he wasn’t serious about wanting to be strangers.” I pause for effect. “Harper, I’m freaking out! What is this? What does it mean? He’s my nemesis! Why is he giving me jewelry ?”

“So, here’s what I’m hearing…”

I hold my breath, waiting for her summary and sagely advice.

“Quinn Morgan finally got off his ass and did something about his feelings.”

I let my breath go in a loud huff. “Wait. What?”

“Parker.”

“Harper.”

“Parker!”

“ What ?”

“I can’t believe I have to say this.”

“You do!” I insist. “Because I have no idea what you’re talking about—what you’re thinking!”

“Parker, my clueless little sister.” She chuckles softly. “I reckon Quinn Morgan’s been in love with you for about as long as Joe Raven’s been in love with me. And without Sawyer around to steer him wrong this week, I think he’s finally doing something about it!”

And just like that…my world…is…shook .

My breathing goes shallow and quick.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

I feel dizzy.

And confused.

And angry.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I growl.

“Parker, you know this. You have to know this somewhere inside.”

“No!” Hot tears burn my eyes, and I have no idea why. “No, Harper! No, I don’t know this!” I swipe at my eyes. “You’re wrong. You’re totally wrong!”

“Okay, okay. Calm down.”

There’s a knock at my door, and I jump at the chance to eject myself from this conversation.

“My dinner’s here. I have to go.”

“Wait. Parker, talk to me.”

“No,” I say, clenching my teeth to hold back tears. “No. I have to go. Sorry I called during bath time. Love you. Bye.”

I can still hear her calling my name as I press End and run over to the door. This time, a hotel attendant stands behind a rolling cart which has silver dome-covered plates on top. But my appetite, which was voracious half an hour ago, is gone.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch, with the rolling cart untouched before me, I feel numb. And stupid. And after that, furious.

Furious is good. Fury makes my tears dry up quickly .

Quinn Morgan’s in love with me?

For me, this is not—as it might be for the heroine in a crappily-written, hare-brained, rom-com movie—good news. I’m not feeling particularly swoony about the prospect of Quinn’s long-standing “love” for me. I’m not feeling like some lucky girl, who somehow managed to snag the hero’s affections in spite of herself. I’m not going to dance around the room in a dreamy montage sequence with Taylor Swift playing in the background.

No, no, no. No to all of it.

For most of my life, I’ve been the butt of Quinn’s jokes, the target of his teasing, and the victim of his pranks. And if that’s how he shows his “love” for someone, I’d just as soon stay his enemy. My sister’s words revolt me, in fact. They make me sick. I don’t want Quinn’s masochistic brand of love. I don’t want anything from Quinn Morgan.

To be clear, I appreciated his apology today, and moreover, I believe it was sincere. It was touching in its own way. It even made me hope for peace between us. But love ? Hell, no. I’m a long way off from liking Quinn Morgan. Love is absolutely, positively impossible.

Snatching up the turtle charm, I mash it into the tissue of the gift bag, then I call the front desk and demand Quinn’s room number.

***

Quinn

Knock, knock, knock.

“Shoot!” I mutter. “That was quick!”

I wrap a towel around my waist, then rush from my hotel bathroom to the door. I don’t want them to think I’m not here and take my dinner back to the kitchen.

“Coming!”

I yank open the door, surprised to find it isn’t room service on the other side, but a fuming, furious Parker Stewart. Barefoot and wearing nothing but a flimsy tank top with skimpy shorts, it occurs to me that she’s in her pajamas. She thrusts a little white bag at me, pushing it against my damp, bare chest.

“Take it back!”

Conundrum. I can either let go of the towel I’m holding securely around my waist and take the bag, or I can hold on to the towel and let the bag fall to the floor.

I watch the bag bounce off my bare foot, then yank my head up, mouth gaping, shock stealing my words.

“What are—Parker! What is—Why are you—”

“I don’t want your stupid present!” she yells, turning on her heel and stalking down the hallway toward the elevator.

I kick the bag out of the way and chase after her, my fingers still clutching the bath towel, that, honestly, is feeling like extremely thin coverage in a public hallway.

“Wait a second! Wait! Parker! What’s going on?”

She jams her finger into the call button and stands close to the elevator doors, hands on her hips.

“Hey!” I bellow, stalking toward her. “Can you fucking talk to me?”

A room door across from the elevator opens, and a man sticks his head out. He looks at Parker, then at my bare chest and barely-there towel.

“Is everything okay here?”

“Mind your business,” I snap.

“Mind your business!” cries Parker at the same time, pressing the call button again.

“Are you being harassed?” he asks Parker.

“Shut up! If I was being harassed, I’d deck him,” she yells.

“That’s aggressive. I’m calling security,” he announces.

“No! She’s not—” I yell at the man, but he slams his door shut. “Great! Now security’s being called! Are you happy?”

“No. No, I’m not.” Parker looks at me over her shoulder, her lips tight and angry. “You better go back to your room.”

“Not unless you come with me.”

“Ha! As if!”

“You’re both disturbing the peace! And one of you is practically naked! I called security,” yells the man through his hotel room door. “They’re on the way.”

“If you think I’m taking the blame for—for—for whatever this is, you’re crazy ,” I hiss at Parker, turning around to lean on the wall beside the elevator. I stare at her face, and I know she feels my glare even though she refuses to look back at me. “When that elevator door opens, Parker, you’re going to have to deal with security, too.”

“Fine!” she huffs, marching back to my room. Following her inside the open door, I kick the white gift bag inside, then slam the door shut behind me. Standing against the wall of my room, with one hand still clutching my towel, I jab a finger at her.

“Stay here. I’m putting pants on.”

“Thank God,” she mutters.

I beeline back to the bathroom, grabbing a pair of sweatpants I’d laid out on my bed.

What the fuck just happened? She hated the turtle charm so much that she had to come here and—literally—throw it in my face? I’m baffled. Of all the reactions I thought the little gift might elicit, fury wasn’t on the list.

When I step back into my room, she’s still standing just inside the door, arms crossed over her chest and fuming.

I stand a good few feet away, just in case she plans to throw a punch.

“What…the…fuck, Parker?”

“I don’t need fucking—fucking gifts from you, Quinn!”

“Jesus!” I yell. “I was trying to be nice!”

“ Don’t be nice!” she cries, her cheeks red with anger. “It’s too late!”

“Too late? For what?”

“You can’t treat me like shit my whole life and then say sorry and send me jewelry, Quinn!”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

“Wait.” I hold up my hands. “Hear me out. Hear me out.”

She huffs at me. “Fine. What?”

“It wasn’t a gift . It was just a gesture. I just—god, I just wanted to let you know that I was listening. I heard you. I was sorry. I am sorry.” I sigh. “ I’m-sorry-here’s-a-turtle .”

“That’s not a thing.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Do you always buy jewelry for the women you apologize to?”

“Believe it or not, Parker…” I gesture between us. “ This isn’t an everyday occurrence for me.” I scratch my head and narrow my eyes at her. “Why are you so triggered by a gift, anyway? I thought you liked turtles.”

“I do!” she yells, uncrossing her arms and fisting her fingers by her sides. Her eyes dart away from me, like she’s thinking about something. When she looks back at me, there’s a new emotion on her face. Sheepishness? Embarrassment? I don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty sure it lives in that general emotional neighborhood. “Which is why I don’t want one from you .”

“Okay. Okay,” I say, stepping forward to sit on the corner of my bed. “But you could have just stopped by my table tomorrow and given it back.” I look up at her. “What’s this all about? This big show of coming to my room and throwing things at me?”

She leans against the wall behind her, tightening and releasing her jaw several times before looking up at me again. Her eyebrows are knitted. She bites her bottom lip before letting it go.

“Spit it out, Park.”

“I don’t want you to like me,” she says, her voice low and gritty, but her words clear.

Okay.

“Why not?”

She shrugs like a petulant four-year-old. “I just don’t.”

“Parker,” I say. “I apologized.”

“I know,” she says, finally looking up at me. Her eyes are glassy, like she might cry, which is slightly horrifying. Her emotions are all over the place, and I still don’t understand why. “But I don’t want you to like me.”

I can’t help it.

“Why not?” I ask again, keeping my tone gentle.

“Because I don’t want to like you ,” she says softly.

Knock, knock, knock.

She jumps half a foot, then lays a palm flat over her heart. “Security?”

“Nah. It’s just room service,” I say, grateful for the tension-breaker. I open the door, and a hotel attendant wheels a trolley into my room. I grab five bucks from my wallet and tip him before he leaves. I lift the silver dome covering the largest plate and the smell of grilled steak makes my mouth water.

“I said what I needed to say,” says Parker, glancing at my dinner. “I should go.”

“There’s plenty,” I say. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Then sit down,” I say, gesturing to the foot of my bed. “We can share.”

“I didn’t come here to share your—”

“I know that!” I growl, unable to keep the frustration from my voice. I sit down on the edge of the bed and throw up my hands. “You don’t like me. You don’t want me to like you. Fine. I heard you. So, go. You obviously don’t accept my apology.”

She hesitates by the door.

“Just go, Parker.”

Meanwhile, I uncover the T-bone steak, mashed potatoes, Mexican street corn, and warm rolls. Placing a napkin on my lap, I realize my chest is still bare. And while I’m not the most cut guy in the world, I’m no slouch either. When I look up, Parker’s staring at me. At me , not at my dinner.

“Anything you like?” I drawl.

“The s-steak!” she says, her eyes darting up my chest to my face. “I was looking at the steak!”

I cut the meat in half, patting the bed beside me. “Then come and eat some of it.”

She takes a deep breath, looking around the room in consternation. When her eyes alight on the desk chair, she walks over to it and rolls it to the other side of the room service trolley. As she perches on the edge of the chair across from me, I slide a roll plate to her, a big cut of steak hangs over the side, bone still in.

“Want potatoes?”

“No, thanks,” she says, picking up the bone and gnawing off a bite. Her eyes close as she chews, and her lips tilt up. If my eyes don’t deceive me, her chest even heaves a little under her clingy little top. Fuck. I’ve never noticed how much Parker enjoys her food, but her face looks almost orgasmic. My balls tighten.

Realizing that a half bottle of wine must be included with the dinner, I open the little bottle, pour myself a glass and chug it before digging into the corn.

“Fuck, that’s good,” I murmur, savoring the buttery kernels, mixed with queso, mayo, and paprika.

“I love street corn,” she says, licking her lips, which are slick from steak grease.

“Here.” I offer her my spoon. “Take a bite of whatever you want.”

She takes a big scoop of corn with the hand not holding the steak bone and hums with delight. “Mmm. Oh my god. So good. Soooo good.”

Look away , I tell myself. Don’t stare at her. Don’t even look at her, or you’re gonna get a boner.

“Wine?” I ask, refilling the only wineglass on the table and nudging it in her direction.

“Yeah. Thanks.” She takes a gulp, then bites into the steak again, moaning with pleasure. “Ummm. Mmm.”

And— fuck !—as hungry as I am for food, my body decides it’s starving for something else entirely. Second by second, my cock is filling with blood. I’m getting hard, and it’s going to be both obvious and uncomfortable if I don’t find some privacy and take care of it.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I mutter, standing up and pivoting as quickly as I can.

I close the door behind me and brace my hands on the sink, thinking about the way she looked sticking that steak bone in her mouth. And the sounds she made eating the corn…and drinking the wine. Christ! Sliding my left hand into my sweats, I find my cock standing tall and proud.

“Can I put on the TV?” Parker calls from the bedroom.

“Yep! Go for it!”

A second later, I can hear the ambient noise of a television show and sigh with relief. It’ll muffle any noise I’m about to make.

Fisting my erection in my hand, I rub it up and down quickly, my other hand braced flat against the mirror over the sink.

I close my eyes, picturing her breasts covered by a filmy piece of fabric. I imagine licking the flavors of my dinner off her lips, my tongue tangling with hers while her moans echo in my hotel room. With only the bathroom door between us, she’s about twelve feet away from me, her body warm and perfect. I want her. I’ve wanted her forever. And she’s never felt closer.

When I feel myself about to come, I yank down my pants and lean forward, swallowing my grunts as best I can and climaxing in milky spurts into the sink.

Dizzy with relief, I run the hot water and pull up my pants.

God, that felt like fire.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Uh, yeah!” I call through the door. I look around, trying to come up with a reason for being in here so long that doesn’t include taking a giant shit . “I left the floor wet after my shower. Just mopping it up!”

The floor is bone dry, so I take a second to wet a towel and throw it in the corner of the bathroom before I step back into the bedroom. When I do, she’s sitting back in the chair, knees bent against her chest, feet perched on the edge of the chair and the almost empty wineglass in her hand. I note with satisfaction that her steak bone is practically clean and most of the street corn is gone. She’s smiling at the TV, distracted, comfortable and content.

And for no good reason at all, the entire scene makes me insanely happy. So happy, in fact, that I lean against the bathroom doorway and stare at the ruffled bed and the trolley holding our half-eaten food, and at the gorgeous girl whom I’ve loved for as long as I’ve been alive.

She looks over at me, wrinkling her nose a little.

“You were in there a while. Did you light a match?”

“I didn’t… do that ,” I say. “The floor was wet, and I dried it up.”

“Well, you better sit down and eat,” she tells me, gesturing to the food with my wineglass, “or I’m gonna finish the rest.”

You’re welcome to it , I think, as long as you stay here with me . But I sit back down on the bed and dig in.

“What are you watching?”

She glances at me, then back at the TV. “This stuuuupid reality show.”

“Which one?”

“ Love is Blind ,” she says. “It’s on Netflix. I’m addicted. Three new episodes came out today, and I, like, can’t wait to see what happens.”

I’ve never heard of this show, which I tell her as I stuff my mouth with the best mashed potatoes I’ve ever eaten.

“Yeah,” she says. “Figures. You don’t love TV—”

What’s weird is that she’s right. I don’t. I don’t watch much TV at all, besides—

“—besides the Seahawks,” she says distractedly, finishing the wine as she stares rapt at her show.

I stop mid-chew.

It’s almost like she read my mind, except she didn’t. She just knows me. Whether she likes me or not, after a lifetime spent in close proximity, she knows me like the back of her hand…and—I remember the way she threw the turtle charm in my face— hates me just as much.

Damn you, hope, I think, tucking into a big bite of steak. Stop fucking with me.

“See her?” asks Parker, resting her bare feet on the desk and twisting the chair slightly to look at me. “She has two possibles.”

“Possibles?” I ask, gesturing for her to hand me the wineglass. I refill it, finish it, refill it again, and hand it back to her.

“Possible matches,” she explains, sipping the wine. “They get to know each other through a wall without ever seeing one another. When they finally meet, they have an emotional connection already established, and they just have to see if they have chemistry.”

“Do they?” I ask her. “Do they usually have chemistry?”

“Sometimes. Not always.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “But they always think they will. They want to want each other. They want it to work out because the emotional connection has already been made.”

I lower my voice, remembering the way she was staring at my chest earlier. “But it can’t work without chemistry, can it?”

“N-No,” she agrees. “It can’t.”

She’s still looking at me, and with an immense amount of satisfaction, I note color seep into her cheeks. Her eyes widen and darken, flicking to my lips. My gaze drops to her chest, where I see the unmistakable evidence of hardened nipples. I slide my eyes back up to see her tongue dart out to lick her lips, and stare at her mouth, mesmerized.

Holy shit. Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?

Yes, I fucking am.

Chemistry. I’m seeing…chemistry.

Suddenly, she blinks her eyes, clears her throat and gulps down the rest of the wine.

“I should go.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” she says, avoiding my eyes as she stands up. “I definitely do.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yep,” she mutters, hightailing it out of my room.

I don’t stop her. I watch her go, reaching for the remote and turning off the TV when the door latches shut behind her.

I learned a lot about Parker Stewart today, but here’s the most important thing of all.

Parker and I have chemistry.

She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t want it. But chemistry doesn’t care. It has a will of its own, and that will means she’s drawn to me against all odds, whether she likes it or not.

And while we’re far from home, in this strange city where she declared us strangers, then ended up spending the whole day with me, I intend to make the most of it.