Parker (The Stewarts of Skagway #5)

Chapter 5

Parker

…his tongue slides against mine, slick and hot, as he groans into my mouth. I swallow the sound, fisting my fingers in his T-shirt, relieved when he breaks off our kiss for a second to pull it over his head. Mine follows his, and he pulls me closer, my lacy bra the only barrier between the heat of his skin flush against the softness of mine.

“I always knew it could be like this, Park,” he whispers close to my ear, his teeth nipping the lobe gently. A shiver runs down my spine as I slide my fingers into the waistband of his sweats. He’s bare beneath, and my hands slide lower to splay flat against the smooth roundness of his ass. His mouth skims down the curve of my throat, his fingers unclasping my bra, and his lips sucking one pert nipple into the wet heat of his mouth.

I gasp from the sweet sharpness of the sensation…

…and my eyes fly open.

It takes me a second to realize—one, it’s morning, and two, I was dreaming.

I clench my jaw and throw an arm over my eyes.

I was dreaming of Quinn.

Still breathing shallow and fast, I slide my hand over my stomach and under my panties, which are drenched. My sex is slick with cum, and I realize that I must have orgasmed in my sleep, but my clit is throbbing for another release.

My middle finger slides easily between the soft folds, and I gasp as an image of Quinn Morgan, answering his hotel door in a towel, floods my brain. I bite my lower lip to punish myself, the copper taste of blood dripping onto my tongue.

Don’t think about him , I think, rubbing the tight, puckered nub in faster circles. Think about someone else. The guy dating Zendaya…or—or the Harry Potter guy. He’s gotten hot, right? Or…or…or Austin something-or-other! The Elvis guy. He’s so gorgeous…

Except I can feel my body losing momentum. My clit still throbs, but my head’s killing the experience. Fuck it. Fine! Just this once! I picture Quinn sitting on the edge of his bed, his hair still damp and tousled from his shower, his chest bare, a steak in front of him and a glass of wine at his lips.

My body spasms almost immediately, my pelvis jerking off the bed as warm waves make me shake and shiver under the covers.

When my orgasm subsides, I lift my arm, open my eyes and groan.

What the fuck is going on with me?

Whipping off the covers, I march to the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping into its bracing, pelting warmth.

“I’m not attracted to Quinn Morgan,” I say aloud, hoping that hearing the words will make them so, but all I hear is the tinny rasp of a lie.

Here are the facts:

I was pissed when those girls in the lounge were bitchy to him.

I was jealous when he had lunch with Skylar.

I was touched by his apology in the car.

I was attracted to him in his hotel room last night.

“…and you just got off while picturing him,” I add, my voice echoing off the marble walls of the shower stall, full of disgust. “Yuck.”

Last night, when Harper said he was in love with me, I felt such resistance to her words, such defiance. Part of that feeling was a reaction to the way I’ve always felt about Quinn (i.e., we hate each other and always have ) … but part of it, I have to admit, may have been that I felt embarrassed about being so clueless.

How did I miss the fact that my literal nemesis has romantic feelings for me?

I lather my hair with shampoo, wondering if the main reason I went to his room last night was to look into his eyes and try to gauge the veracity of my sister’s claim.

So…is Harper right?

Unfortunately, I have no clear answer to this question.

Emotionally-speaking, I’m confused. Only one thing seems to be coming into clear focus. After a lifetime of vitriol, I don’t hate Quinn Morgan anymore.

After our talk in the car and Quinn’s apology, I can’t hate him anymore. I’m not petty like that. Once an apology has been given and accepted, there’s no place for hate…which means that the Quinn Morgan-Parker Stewart status quo that I’ve accepted for most of my life is suddenly gone.

What’s left in its place?

I don’t know.

Where I once felt annoyance to the point of loathing, there’s now a tentative peace. Emotional peace only, however, because physically-speaking, I’m feeling more hot and bothered by him than ever before. Quinn Morgan, someone whom I never really allowed myself to consider attractive, is suddenly inspiring the sexiest dreams I’ve ever had.

I once read this article online that said hate and love use the same brain circuits. It makes sense, right? I mean, both emotions are profoundly intense, and both are strong behavioral motivators. If Harper’s right, it’s possible that for Quinn, the jump from hate to love, at some point or another, wasn’t so far. But for me? I picture a wide chasm between the two emotions. I may not hate Quinn anymore, but I certainly don’t feel love for him. I’m not even sure I feel like .

Which is why my newly discovered, and scorching hot, attraction to Quinn is so confusing and unwelcome. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t see it coming. I don’t like it. I don’t want it. And I have no idea what to do with it now that it’s here.

As for Quinn’s feelings for me—which Harper believes are real, true, and long-standing…I can’t even go there. His feelings aren’t any of my business unless he shares them with me. Not to mention, whatever they are—whatever they’ve been or may become—I’m under no obligation to encourage, accept, or reciprocate them. I still don’t know if I believe they exist…and part of me—a large part of me—hopes they don’t. Attraction or not, I don’t trust Quinn, which makes liking him— letting alone ever loving him —feel impossible.

I end my shower with the same emotion I felt when I turned on the water—confusion. But I don’t have time to marinate in my thoughts anymore. I have a convention to attend and a brand to sell. My family’s counting on me, and frankly, I’m grateful to be done thinking about Quinn Morgan for now.

Turning off the water, I towel off and blow dry my hair before dressing in my usual Stewart Travel polo shirt and pressed khaki skort. Staring at myself in the mirror as I dust blush on my cheeks and brush mascara on my lashes, I remind myself that the purpose for my trip to Vegas is business, not personal.

Quinn Morgan notwithstanding , I tell myself , try to keep it that way.

***

The convention center is buzzing with activity when I enter the room and walk down the aisle to my table. I keep my eyes straight ahead, trying not to look at Quinn’s table until the last second, when I glance left to find he’s not there. Huh. He’s probably in the bathroom or meeting up with other travel planners for breakfast before the day begins—

“Watch it!”

Boiling hot liquid sloshes onto my shirt, burning my skin through the fabric of my polo shirt. Without thinking, I gasp in pain and pull it over my head, throwing it on the floor where it joins the four coffee cups and one cardboard tray that have been spilled. Standing in a drenched aqua sports bra and sodden skort, I jerk my head up to face the person who bumped into me.

“What the heck?” I cry.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” he demands, staring at me with bright blue eyes. His face softens as it scans mine. “Are you okay?”

“Watch where I’m going? You bumped into me !” I cry, looking down at the exposed skin over my bra to find it red and angry. “And no, I’m not okay! I’m burned! It hurts!”

When I look back up, he’s whipping his own polo shirt over his head and holding it out to me. This act of chivalry reveals a tan, toned torso that, frankly, is worth noticing.

“Here. Put this on,” he says.

I take the red polo shirt and throw it over my head. Looking down, I see the words Jones Hospitality Group embroidered in cursive over my heart.

Jones. Like Skylar Jones. Like the Jones brother who worked with Hunter last summer and was such an asshole. Was it Dick? No. That wasn’t it. I whip my head up again. It was—

“I’m Rick. Rick Jones,” he says, holding out his hand. “And you are…?”

“Parker Stewart,” I say, crossing my arms over my still-tender chest. Out of loyalty to Hunter, I’m not shaking Rick Jones’s hand.

“Yeah,” he says, a slow grin spreading across his not-ugly face. “I know who you are, actually. I saw you once.”

“Is that right?”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, still grinning at me. And shoot, but that’s a sexy smile . “I worked with your brother, Hunter, last summer. When we pulled into Skagway, you and your sister were waiting for him at the docks.”

“I remember waiting for him,” I say. “But I don’t remember you.”

“I was up on deck. I asked Hunter if you were legal. He said he’d beat me black and blue if I went near you.”

“Sounds like Hunter,” I say, laughing softly as I picture my oldest brother getting protective.

“But Hunter’s not here now,” says Rick Jones, crossing his arms over his chest. His arms are muscular, and his naked pecs pop above them, his washboard abs contoured and hard below. Damn it, he’s not bad looking. “How about lunch, Parker?”

“With you?”

“You’re wearing my breakfast,” he says, leaning into some sexy banter. “Least you can do is buy me lunch.”

“You’re fresh,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says, “but I’m cute, right?”

I’m about to tell him that he’s not that cute, when—

“What the fuck, Rick?”

I look over my shoulder to find Quinn and Skylar standing behind me. When Quinn catches my eyes, his whole face changes—his emeralds sparkle, his dimples crater, his lips, the same ones that were kissing me so passionately in my dreams, smile at me. Sigh. My whole body responds in ways I desperately wish I could ignore, but I can’t. I’m glad to see him. That’s the truth.

“What happened?” snaps Skylar, gesturing to the coffee-geddon on the ground.

“Collision,” says Rick, winking at me.

Skylar kneels down on the floor, picking up cups and tops and fitting them back into the wet, flimsy cardboard drink tray. Large circles of spilled coffee discolor the tan hotel carpet.

“Why are you half naked?” she asks her brother, standing up. My sopping wet shirt dangles from her index finger. “Whose shirt is this?”

“Hers,” says Rick, winking at me. His eyes slide to Quinn, to whom he offers his hand. “Hey. I’m Rick Jones.”

As Skylar hands me my coffee-soaked polo, Quinn’s gaze drops to the monogram on the one I’m wearing. His eyes narrow at me for a second before he looks back at Rick, taking his hand. “Quinn Morgan.”

“Oh, yeah. Morgan,” says Rick appraisingly. “You own a little bike outfit, right? Out of Skagway?”

“So very, very little,” Quinn snarks, taking back his hand. “One bike. We rent it by the hour.”

Rick’s eyebrows raise a touch before he hoots with laughter, pointing at Quinn. “Oh, shit! I like your style, man.”

“Great,” deadpans Quinn. “I was really hoping for your approval.” He slides his eyes to me. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” I say, gesturing to Rick. “We crashed into each other.”

“And your shirt fell off?” Quinn’s voice is gritty.

“No,” I say, feeling a little defensive. “I was covered in coffee. And it was hot. Really hot.”

“So, you took your shirt off?” he asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah, I did. It was burning my skin. And also, screw you, Quinn.” I stare at him for a long moment, then take off Rick’s shirt and hand it back to him. I stand in front of both men, in the middle of a busy convention hall, hands on my hips, in my bright aqua bra. “Thanks so much for the loan, Rick. Real nice of you. Now, I think I’ll go upstairs and change.”

As I start walking away, Rick calls after me.

“Hey, Parker! Are we on for lunch or what?”

I turn around and look at Quinn, who’s visibly fuming, then at Rick, who’s smiling like the cat that got the cream.

“Absolutely,” I say, crossing my arms under my breasts to purposely lift and thrust them. “I’m four tables down from you. Pick me up at twelve!”

Then I turn back around and keep walking.

***

Quinn

Goddamn it.

I stand there, side by side with Rick-fucking-Jones, and watch Parker’s half-naked march to the convention room exit, along with every other Y-chromosome lucky enough to catch sight of the spectacle.

Once she’s out of sight, Rick turns to me. “So…are you two exes?”

“What?”

“Is she your ex-girlfriend?” asks Rick. “Because you two are giving off some strong ex-vibes.”

I’d like to smash this guy’s smug face in, and that’s a fact. I’ve known him for all of ten seconds, and I completely understand why Hunter hated him. I’m comforted by the fact that I’m several inches taller and a whole lot bigger than he is. I could take him if I needed to. Easy.

“No.”

“No, but…it’s complicated?”

“What’s with you, man?” I take a step toward him, into his personal space. “I, literally, just met you. Can you back off?”

“Whoa.” He holds up his palms in a quasi-submissive gesture, but that annoying, smart-ass smirk is still in place. “I’m just curious.”

“She stares at him like they’re exes,” offers Skylar, who’s standing behind her table, within earshot of us. “I can vouch for that.” She looks at me. “And I’d say there’s unfinished business on his side, too.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, walking around my table and busying myself with getting my laptop set up.

Rick gives up on talking to me and tells Skylar he’ll go get them some fresh coffee. I’m glad when he leaves, but it bugs me that he’s having lunch with Parker later. I don’t trust that guy as far as I can throw him, and I feel a responsibility to keep Parker safe. Maybe later, when they head to lunch, I’ll follow them from a distance and just make sure that Rick’s behaving himself. That’s the least I can do for Sawyer, right?

With fifteen minutes before the convention center doors open and nothing left to do, I sit down in the chair behind my table and pretend to look at my phone, but my eyes don’t focus on the screen. My finger scrolls like I’m catching up on social media, but all I’m really doing is thinking about the last three days with Parker.

On the plane, as we were landing in Seattle, she asked that we be strangers to each other, and once I got over feeling hurt by that request, I took it as an opportunity to turn over a new leaf with her. If we regressed our relationship to the point of strangers, maybe we’d have a chance to clean the slate. And if the slate was clean, maybe I’d have a chance to be new to her. And against all odds, that plan seems to have worked. So far, so good. So great. So amazing, in fact. Over the last few days, I’ve felt a giant shift in our relationship. When I stopped teasing her, she started softening toward me. When I genuinely apologized for past wrongs, she graciously forgave me. And I do believe that these steps could open a door for us—maybe only a crack for now—but a door into something new. To peace, for sure. To mutual attraction, I’m almost positive. And though I hesitate to even hope for it— after longing for it all my life— maybe even to affection.

No matter what, I need to stay the course. This new development, of Parker having lunch with Rick Jones, isn’t the time to act like a jealous boyfriend or lunatic child. If I revert to my old ways of teasing her in a bid to divert her attention from Rick, all I’ll really be doing is pushing her full force into Rick’s arms.

“Hey!”

I look up to see Skylar standing in front of my table.

“Yeah?” I ask. I’m feeling a little more cautious of her after this morning. I feel like she sold me out a little when she told Rick that Parker and I had ‘unfinished business.’ “What’s up?”

“So, they’ve got a date for lunch…what’re you doing?”

I shrug. “I’ll just grab something.”

“Are you sure? My brother just texted me that he made a reservation for the four of us for lunch. Should I tell him to cancel or…?”

“No!” I say. “No. Lunch sounds good.”

“Just kidding,” says Skylar, pocketing her phone. “Rick didn’t text me. I made that up to see if you’d jump at the chance to go to lunch with your ex.”

I narrow my eyes at her, remembering Parker’s warning about Skylar from yesterday. I guess giving Skylar the benefit of the doubt wasn’t a smart move after all.

“Parker’s not my ex.”

“Yeah, right,” says Skylar. “She’s your something . That’s for sure.”

Yes. She is my something , I think, but I don’t owe Skylar Jones any explanations.

“Fine,” she chirps, smiling broadly before going back to her table. “You do you, Quinn Morgan.”

Just then, I catch Parker walking back down the aisle, dressed in a fresh aqua polo shirt. I try to make eye contact, but she breezes past me like she can’t be bothered to acknowledge I’m alive. Strangers again. Great. Across the aisle, Skylar makes an exaggerated frowny-face, then pretends to whimper like an ignored puppy. When I roll my eyes, she cackles with laughter.

I’m really starting not to like her.

“Five minutes, vendors! Five minutes until the doors open!”

I plunk back down in my chair, glancing in Parker’s direction before picking up my phone again to find I have a message waiting. It’s from a number I don’t recognize, but has an Alaska area code. I click on it.

907-555-1623:

Hi, Quinn. Can I give you some advice?

I stare at the message for a minute, then look up at Skylar, to find her chatting on the phone with someone. Looking down the aisle at Parker, I find her busy straightening out her brochures. It isn’t one of them. Huh. Who is it?

I look down at my phone again, typing out a message.

QUINN:

Who is this? How’d you get my number?

907-555-1623:

Sorry, but I need to remain anonymous. Trust me when I say that I know you, I know her, and I have your best interests at heart. Do you want the advice or not?

Not gonna lie— this is weird.

Also, not a lie— I’m one hundred and fifty percent intrigued.

QUINN:

Okay. I’ll take the advice.

907-555-1623:

Here goes…

For the most part, she can take care of herself.

She doesn’t like surprises.

She loves thoughtfulness, but not with strings attached.

She has an excellent bullshit radar, so be genuine to the point of vulnerable.

She overthinks everything, so be patient.

Don’t move too fast, or you’ll just piss her off.

Good luck.

I read the text once, then read it again, immediately recognizing that this person isn’t lying—they obviously know both of us pretty well, and they’re definitely trying to help me, which I one hundred percent appreciate…but I’m also itching to figure out who it is.

Sawyer? No. Sawyer’s busy with Ivy. She’s the only thing on his mind right now. Not to mention, the last couple of times Parker came up in conversation between us, Sawyer warned me to stay away from her.

Reeve? Possibly, but Reeve hasn’t had a nice word for me in years. She sees me as her sister’s tormentor and probably always will. I can’t imagine her trying to help me win Parker over.

Harper? I narrow my eyes at the screen. Maybe Harper. Harper’s always taken on a mama-bear role when it comes to her siblings. If she felt that I could make Parker happy, she’d risk Parker’s anger to help make it happen.

Aside from those three, there are still more possibilities—my mom, who’s always loved the Stewart girls; Ms. Stewart or Paw-Paw, Parker’s grandparents; or her dad, Gary, my dad’s best friend, who’s been like a surrogate uncle to me. Even Hunter, Tanner, and McKenna have been known to poke their noses into their other siblings’ affairs. Frankly, it could be any of them.

Who is writing to me isn’t actually important. What is important, is that one, they obviously know us both well; two, their advice is excellent; and three, they think I stand a chance of winning over Parker.

A smile—real and genuine—blooms across my face as the convention center doors open, and I greet the first wave of travel agents today.

***

Since Parker can “take care of herself,” she’ll just be annoyed if she catches me following her and Rick to lunch. She didn’t ask for my company or protection, and as my mystery texter points out, she likely doesn’t need it.

So, as much as I hate the idea of them dining together, I decide my time can be better spent. With thirty minutes to kill, I get in line for a sandwich at the closest take-out place and turn my attention to the advice of my anonymous friend instead. S he loves thoughtfulness, but not with strings attached.

The little turtle charm was thoughtful, I think, but it wasn’t well-received. Maybe because it came from me. Maybe she thought that accepting it from me meant that she owed me something in return.

No strings attached.

Maybe the key to doing something thoughtful for Parker was to do it in such a way that she didn’t feel pressured by or indebted to the giver.

But she loves turtles, right?

Hmm.

On the plane from Seattle to Las Vegas, I watched a tourism promotion video and was surprised to learn that there’s an aquarium at one of the hotels on the strip. In the video, it said that when you buy tickets to the aquarium, part of your admission fee goes back into conservation efforts, protecting natural resources and aquatic species. And I could be remembering wrong, but I’m almost positive that there were sea turtles in the video I watched.

Let’s see… I could get her a ticket to the aquarium and slip it under the hotel room door, and then show up there by chance, and—

No.

She doesn’t like surprises. She likes thoughtfulness with no strings attached.

Think about Parker. Think about Parker.

“What’ll you have?”

I look up to realize that it’s my turn to order. “What’s good here?”

“It’s Vegas,” he says. “Everything’s good.” When I don’t respond, he takes pity on me. “People like the pastrami on rye with mustard.”

“I’ll take one,” I say, handing over my credit card.

“You want all the stuff on it? Sauerkraut? Swiss cheese? Pickles? Or just keep it simple?” he shrugs. “You ask me, simple’s always better.”

“Then keep it simple,” I say.

Keep it simple , I think.

What if I just walked up to her and invited her to go to the aquarium with me tonight?

No grand gestures. No subterfuge. No tricks. No ulterior motives other than wanting to do something together that we both might enjoy. Just a simple invitation.

Convinced that I’m on the right track, I take my sandwich and eat it at an empty counter in the food court, then head back into the convention center. As I’m getting ready to greet the afternoon attendees, Parker returns from lunch alone, headed back toward her table. Her eyebrows are knitted, and her lips are pursed. I know Parker, and Parker is pissed .

“Park!”

She slows down, stopping in front of my table. “What?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to smirk at her and ask, How was lunch? but I tell myself not to tease her. Maybe, someday, if we get to a good place, there’ll be a time and place for gentle teasing. But not right now.

“Ever been to the aquarium at the Mandalay Bay Hotel?”

Her face, which had been tense, relaxes. Her lips quirk up just a touch. “No, actually. It’s one of the few places in Vegas still on my list. Last time I tried to go, it was closed for a private event.”

“I think we’re done at four today, and the last entry at the aquarium is at seven. I thought I’d go. Want to come with me?”

She stares at me, her big blue eyes scanning my face carefully, like she’s looking for the twist or the trick or the catch. I keep my expression friendly, open and relaxed, letting her take her time as she decides whether or not she can trust my invitation.

She overthinks everything, so be patient.

Finally, her shoulders bunch up in a little shrug, and she nods her head. “Sure. Why not?”

“Wait. What?” I chuckle. I’m so surprised, I fucking chuckle.

Her eyebrows furrow. “Did you want me to say no?”

“No!” I cry, smiling at her. “I’m just…I’m just surprised you said yes.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, but she’s blushing a little. “I’ve wanted to go check it out. I may as well go with you.”

“Awesome,” I say. “It’s a date.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Oh. Okay. It’s not?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s just two people going to the same place at the same time.”

I’m about to volley back, Didn’t you just describe a date? But I remind myself, Don’t move too fast, or you’ll just piss her off. Make her comfortable.

“Yeah. Sure,” I say. “Just a field trip.”

“A field trip,” she says, relaxing again. “Exactly.”

As the doors open, welcoming the afternoon session of travel professionals, Parker’s eyes slide to the left. I follow them to see Rick Jones walking down our aisle toward us. As he gets closer, I note a red circle, approximately the size of Parker’s balled-up fist, around his right eye.

“Gotta go,” she says, her nostrils flaring with sudden displeasure. “But I’ll come to your room at five, and we can grab a cab to the Mandalay.”

“Sounds good,” I call to her back, watching as she continues to her table without sparing another look at her erstwhile lunch date.

Rick stops between Skylar’s and my tables, looking over at me first.

“Your ex is a total bitch!” he says, jabbing a finger at his bloodshot, swollen eye. “She did this!”

For the most part, she can take care of herself.

“Don’t ever call her a bitch again,” I say, crossing my arms over my muscular chest, “or your left eye will match your right.”

“Fuck you, Morgan.”

“Fuck you , Jones,” I answer back. “You just got slugged by a girl …and I’m guessing you deserved it.”

I’m glad I don’t know the reason she hit him. If I did, my threat to give him another black eye would surely become reality. If whatever he did was bad enough for her to hit him, I know her brothers would’ve pounded him.

“You know what?” he says. “She’s all yours. You two deserve each other.”

“I can only hope,” I say under my breath.

Rick steps behind his table, and Skylar coos over her little brother, telling him to go find some ice for the swelling.

As for me? This morning, the girl I liked had a date with the smug douche bag I’d just met and instantly hated.

Now? The girl I like just punched that same guy, and she has plans to go on a date—er, um—a field trip with me in a few hours.

I should go play the slots because right now, I’m the luckiest guy in Vegas.