Parker (The Stewarts of Skagway #5)

Chapter 7

Parker

Stop crying, I tell myself. Stop it right now.

But for the entire cab ride, tears stream down my cheeks. When we get to the Aria, I pay the driver and slide out of the car, heading straight to the elevators and grateful that the doors open as soon as I press the button. I’m in the safe haven of my room five minutes later, throwing handfuls of cold water at my face. My tears finally subside, but my eyes still burn, and my cheeks are red and patchy.

Changing into pajamas, I crawl under the covers with my phone and call the only person who can possibly help me feel better—my big sister.

“You’re calling me during bath time again,” she says when she answers the phone. “That’s twice in one week, Park. This better be good.”

“You were right,” I mumble.

Splash, splish, splash.

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“You were right! About Quinn!”

“Of course I was,” she says. “Hold on a sec.” I hear her ask Joe to take over bath time, and a few seconds later, she’s somewhere quiet. Since it’s wintertime, she’s not out on the porch. I imagine her curled up on her sofa or bed, covered with a warm blanket. I wish I was there, cuddled up beside her. “Talk to me.”

“H-Harp,” I sob, stupid tears filling my eyes again. “Why d-didn’t anyone ever t-tell me?”

“Tell you what?” she asks gently. “That your nemesis was wildly in love with you?”

“I f-feel like such an—an idiot.” I try to take a deep breath, but it’s jagged and uneven.

“Don’t cry, Park,” says my sister. “You never cry. I can’t stand it.”

“S-Sorry,” I say. “But it sucks.”

“What happened? I thought you were avoiding him while you were in Vegas.”

“I tried,” I say, blowing my nose. “But we kind of went out on a date tonight.”

“Wait. You did what, now?”

It all comes out in a rush. “He mentioned that he wanted to see the aquarium and so did I, so we went together, and…and, shoot. It was nice, Harper. It was really nice. I didn’t know how much I needed a hug until he gave me one. And then we went out to dinner, and I had my head on his shoulder, and he had his arm around me, and I saw it in the selfie. I saw his eyes. I saw that he…that he loves me. And so I asked him, and he said he did.”

More tears. God, I didn’t know I had this much saltwater in my body. And what’s more, I’m not even a hundred percent certain of why I’m crying. I just am. And it won’t stop.

“Park, honey, I’m so lost. Why was he hugging you? Why did you have your head on his shoulder?”

“For the selfie!” I say, feeling frustrated. It’s not Harper’s fault. I’m not telling her all of this in a way that’ll make sense to her. It barely makes sense to me. “To mess with Sawyer.”

“The hug came earlier, though?”

“Yeah. Because Rick Jones tried to lick cotton candy off my breast, which upset me, so—”

“PARKER KATHARINE STEWART!”

Now, that tone? That mama-bear-no-nonsense-back-the-hell-up tone that my older sister just used? That makes my tears dry up and my breath catch. It’s like a strong, swift smack to the face and jolts me out of my pity party.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I’m pouring myself a glass of wine. I think you better start at the beginning and go slow, you hear?”

Turns out that going back through my entire day has a therapeutic effect that I didn’t see coming. Rick spilling the coffee. Quinn bristling when I took off Rick’s shirt. My disastrous lunch date. My unexpectedly lovely aquarium date. A dinner that should have been casual turning into a declaration of lifetime love. And my reaction to that declaration—anger, suspicion, sorrow, and ultimately, I think, confusion.

When I finish, there’s silence on the other end of the line before I hear Harper clear her throat. “A lot’s happened in Vegas, Park.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why do you think your reaction to Quinn loving you is so strong? I mean, I know it might have caught you off-guard, but if all he ever really was to you, was a nuisance, prankster, and tease, why didn’t you just laugh in his face and shrug it off as nonsense? Why does it matter so much?”

These are good questions. Really good questions.

Why are Quinn’s feelings for me hitting me so hard? Why am I feeling so unhinged? Why am I crying like this? I barely recognize myself in these emotions, they’re so foreign to me—all over the place and so fiercely intense—I’m at a loss to answer her.

“I don’t know,” I tell Harper honestly. “I don’t understand myself right now. That’s why I called you .”

“So you want to know what I think without hanging up the phone on me and running away?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Okay. Here’s what I think. The line between hate and love is thin, Park. It’s more of a scrim—a gauze, a veil—than a wall. You can see through it. It doesn’t take too much strength or imagination to punch through it to the other side.” I hear her take a sip of her wine as I roll her words around in my head. “When I told Joe about Moriah, I could feel his hatred. It breaks my heart to remember, but I felt it in my gut, in my soul. He hated me for keeping our first daughter a secret.” Another sip as she composes herself. “But as Wren grew inside of my body, she helped to bind us back together. We found our love again. To be clear, I’d never stopped loving Joe. Not for a single moment. But for Joe,” she says, “I’m pretty sure it was his hatred for me that kept his love alive. They’re two sides of the same coin.” She pauses for just a second before finishing. “Last week, you would’ve said you hated Quinn—and you won’t like what I’m about to say—but I think it’s possible, over the last three days, that you punched through the scrim…to love.”

“I don’t love Quinn,” I sob, my voice soft and unconvincing. “I barely like him.”

“Your feelings for him are really complicated,” she says gently. “But they’ve always run closer to love and hate, than to indifference. You’ve never, ever been indifferent to Quinn. That’s why you couldn’t laugh in his face and shrug away his feelings when he told you he loves you. You care about Quinn. You always have.”

She’s right. I know she’s right, but I can’t admit it out loud. Not yet.

“Also, Park, people change. The ten-year-old prankster and the twenty-one-year-old man may share the same DNA, but they are totally different humans. He’s grown up. He’s changed. Assuming he’s the same snotty kid who put reptiles down your back is unfair to him…and to you.”

Now, this is an argument that makes more sense to my tired brain. Harper’s right. People do change. And giving people a chance, or the benefit of the doubt, is something I pride myself on.

“I guess.”

“You don’t guess. You know.”

“Fine. I know.”

“So, isn’t it possible that your hatred for Quinn kept the possibility of love alive? For all these years? Just like Joe hating me ultimately helped him fall in love with me all over again.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Harp. Joe never stopped loving you.”

“Yes, he did,” she says softly, the pain in her voice audible. “It’s only now, when we’re safe, that I can see how close I came to losing him.” She clears her throat. “I have to go to the bathroom, and then I’m going to check on Joe and Wren. I’ll be back in a sec, okay?”

“Take your time,” I murmur, thinking about everything she’s said.

My mind turns to her question —Isn’t it possible that your hatred for Quinn kept the possibility of love alive?— over and over.

Was there ever a possibility of love between me and Quinn? Some seed? Some moment? I rack my brain for a memory that answers this question…and a second later, I remember.

Applause.

A bow.

His wide grin and deep dimples.

A vision of someday when Quinn would be tall and confident, smart and cheerful, black Irish and handsome, like the actor who played Captain Hook in Once Upon A Time.

The notion that maybe, just maybe, his non-stop teasing and pranking was a clumsy means of seeking my attention, not my scorn.

That was the moment.

The moment that Quinn realized he loved me.

The moment I realized that one day, someday, I could love Quinn.

That was the moment the scrim between love and hate was the thinnest…until now.

I take a deep, solid breath for the first time in hours and let it go slowly. There’s a relief in untangling intense feelings, and that relief leads to strength. Even if you’re not crazy about where you land, if you can see everything clearly, you have a fighting chance of understanding yourself and figuring out a way through.

I don’t know what I want to do about Quinn. I have never really liked the whole “he pulled your pigtails and made you cry because he likes you” conceit. I get it that boys are less mature and rowdier than girls, but I don’t think that should give them a free pass to plague you endlessly either.

But, then again, if I think back on Quinn’s and my interactions, they grew sparser and less physical by high school. By then, it was mostly verbal sparring, and if I’m very, very honest with myself, a part of me liked it.

I liked the attention because, let’s be honest, Quinn did get tall, confident, and handsome. And yet, no matter who he was dating, his eyes always found mine. He always sidled over to me for a little bit of conversational warfare, and part of me welcomed it.

I liked the way his clever quips and comments pushed me to hone my insult game. Sometimes, when I was bored, I’d think of a really great zinger for Quinn, and I’d hold onto it like a nugget of gold until I could fling it in his face. And man, it felt good. I got a high from going back and forth with him.

I have to face it. Over the years, I willingly engaged in battles-of-wit with Quinn. I’d see him coming, and instead of running, I’d brace myself for a showdown, and more often than not, my competitive side would lean into the challenge, not away from it.

Something about Quinn—even if it was his pranks and teasing—attracted me to him on some level.

Now, that’s not to say that Quinn wasn’t exhausting. He was. There was only so much verbal sparring I could take before I wanted to punch him in the face, run away, or be left alone. But I could’ve given him the silent treatment years ago, and I think he would’ve stopped coming at me. The thing is, Quinn thrived on my disdain. He liked our back and forth just as much as I did.

“Hey!” says Harper. “I’m back.”

“How’re Joe and Wren?”

“Good. Joe’s asleep on the floor next to her crib.” She laughs softly. “I’ll wake him up when we hang up.”

“Sorry I stole that time from you.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “You needed me.”

“I did.”

“You sound way better than you did when you called. Feeling better, too?”

“Yeah,” I tell her, my tears gone now. “Way better.”

“What’s your plan? What’re you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” I answer honestly. “But I’m pretty sure this hasn’t been a one-sided thing. I think you’re right about hate and love. I think there’s a part of me that’s always liked fighting with Quinn. I think it kept the door open.”

“What door?” asks my sister. “Where does it lead?”

“I don’t know yet,” I say again. “But it might be time to walk through and find out.”

“Sawyer’s going to have a stroke if you come back from Vegas as a couple. Reeve, too”

“Slow down, sis!” I yell.

“Never say never,” says Harper. “Oh! And speaking of Reeve…she’s being a little weird. I wanted to ask if you’ve ever noticed anything going on between her and Aaron?”

“Aaron, the policeman, Aaron?”

“He’s the only Aaron we know, Park.”

“Yeah, but… No. No, I haven’t seen anything. What do you think you’re seeing?”

“Not sure yet,” she says, her tone evasive. “But I’m going to keep an eye on it.”

“And fill me in?”

“You got it.”

“Hey, Harp,” I say, my heart filling with gratitude for my big sister. “I love you so much. You know that, right?”

“For sure,” she says, her voice so full of love, it could keep me warm on the top of Denali in January. “I love you, too.”

We hang up.

I place my phone on the bedside table.

And sleep like a baby.

***

Quinn

I sleep like hell and wake up like the devil.

Fuck, but I never—not in a million years—saw that conversation coming last night.

In my wildest, weirdest dreams, I never thought I’d arrive in Vegas agreeing to be strangers with Parker and leave having told her I love her.

Don’t get me wrong. After harboring deep feelings for her for over a decade, there’s a certain relief in coming clean. But I wouldn’t have done it like that. And I wouldn’t have done it after a tentative three-day ceasefire. The timing sucks, and I’m afraid that instead of giving me the chance I’ve always wanted, the depth and intensity of my feelings will scare her away, making it easier for her to turn her back on me, build a brick wall between us, and never look my way again.

She knows I love her.

And I only have three more days to make my case.

Then we go back to Skagway, where I worry that everything will go back to the way it was…unless we’ve made some real progress before we get there.

I scrub my hands over my face, growl with frustration, then whip the covers off my naked body and stalk to the bathroom. In the comforting warmth of the shower, I lean my head on the tile wall, close my eyes, and indulge myself with a highlight reel from yesterday.

The way her tits looked only covered by a wet, thin sports bra.

When she agreed to go to the aquarium with me.

Standing beside her in the hotel elevator.

Sitting beside her in the taxi.

That hug in the aquarium. Oh, man, the way it felt to hold her.

The feeling of her head on my shoulder.

The way her soft hair felt beneath my lips.

Her eyes, widening with realization, as we stared at our reflection on my phone screen.

And her voice as she asked me if I was in love with her.

Fuck, her voice. Her devastation. Her tears.

All of it means something to me. Something big. Something possible.

My cock has stiffened during my recollections and juts straight out from my body, tall and hard. I fist it with my soap-slicked hand and stroke it firmly, base to tip, letting the hot water rinse it clean, before my hands cover it with suds again.

Bracing one hand on the wall, I think of Parker’s body flush against mine at the aquarium. I imagine that the building’s closed for the night, but we’ve been locked inside. Her clothes come off in my fantasy, and we’re both naked, her breasts flattened against my chest as I cup the side of her face and lean down to kiss her.

I have a good mental image to draw from—of Parker kissing her prom date in front of me a few years ago. I remember the way her eyes had fluttered closed, the way her fingers had threaded through his hair, the way she’d leaned up on tiptoes because he, like me, was taller than her.

Now I switch the image in my head, and I imagine it’s me kissing her. It’s me touching her face. It’s my tongue sliding relentlessly against hers.

My orgasm imminent, I cup my balls, full and firm with cum, still stroking my dick with my other hand. My balls tighten, then spasm repeatedly before relaxing, releasing a milky stream of semen that spurts from my cock onto the shower wall.

Resting my head against the tile, I catch my breath before opening my eyes and finishing my shower.

Don’t waste time.

I won’t. As soon as I see her downstairs, I’m asking her out.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the convention center, beelining down our shared aisle to her table, and both terrified and relieved when I see her there, already setting up. I stop in front of her, hands on my hips.

“Hi.”

When she looks up, her eyes widen. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips. My balls, which were just emptied, fill and tighten. You’d need a chainsaw to cut the sexual tension between us, and it gives me hope.

“Hi. G-Good morning.”

“I want to take you out on a date,” I tell her without preamble.

She blinks at me. “A date?”

“Yeah. A real one.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

She stares at me for a second, then nods.

“Pick me up at six.”

Yes! “See you then.”

***

As it turns out, anticipating the first real date with the love of your life isn’t a terrible way to spend eight hours. When the convention doors close at four o’clock, I’ve had enough downtime between sessions and visitors to plan a pretty awesome date, too.

I’ll pick her up at six with flowers, and at six-ten, I’ve arranged for a limo to be waiting for us downstairs. The limo will take us to the Legacy Club at Circa, where I arranged a private table for us with views of Las Vegas and our own firepit. After champagne there, the limo will take us to NoMad Library, a cool restaurant with leather booths, dim lighting and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Since reading is the Stewart family’s favorite winter pastime, the aesthetic is perfect for Parker. She’ll love it. And finally, after we’ve been watered and fed, the limo will drive us back to the Aria, where I will be a perfect gentleman and walk her to her room, hoping—every step of the way—that she’ll invite me to come inside.

We’ll see what happens.

I head up to my room and shower again, this time without jerking off, and iron my last remaining pair of khaki pants that I’m supposed to wear for the final two days of the convention. But I’m more concerned with looking nice for Parker tonight, so I arrange to have an already-worn pair dry cleaned by tomorrow for a ridiculously expensive twenty-five dollars.

I trim my beard and shave the rest of my face the way she likes it, skip the aftershave she hates, in fact, I throw the whole bottle away—I haven’t used it once since I got to Vegas anyway—and by five-forty-five, I’m ready to roll.

First, I go downstairs to the lobby florist and pick up a pre-arranged bouquet of pink roses. I don’t actually know what her favorite color is, but she used to like bubblegum ice cream from the Krazy Kone when we were little, and the flowers are approximately the same color.

Remembering her room number from having the turtle charm delivered there, I knock on her door precisely at six, and she opens it a second later. I barely get a glimpse of her as I enter the suite but hear her call out from the bedroom or bathroom area to the left.

“Give me two more minutes, okay?”

“Sure,” I say, as a hair dryer roars to life.

Parker’s room is a considerable upgrade from mine. On a higher floor, her view’s a lot better, but she’s also got a lot more space. Where I just have a nice-sized hotel room, she’s also got a living room with a seating area, business desk and wet bar, and a door that leads back to her bedroom and bathroom. The perks of coming to Vegas more often, I assume, standing at the windows to take in the view.

“I’m ready.”

I turn around to find Parker Stewart standing by the sofa, and my jaw drops.

She’s wearing a short black dress with a black shawl draped over her elbows. Her long legs end in black heeled shoes, and her hair is down. She only wears it down for special occasions, so my heart swells when I note this detail . Around her neck is a silver chain with a tiny silver snowflake, and in her ears are small diamond studs.

I’ve never—not at any of her siblings’ weddings or at the many parties we’ve attended together over the years—seen her looking more beautiful, and the fact that she dressed this way for me almost brings me to my knees before her.

“You’re gorgeous,” I hear myself whisper.

She smiles at me. “Thanks. You look nice, too.”

“Thanks. My dad said to bring this jacket in case I was invited to a business meeting. I thought he was nuts, but I’m glad he insisted.”

“I half expected you to wear jeans and boots, and I hoped I wasn’t overdressing.” She shrugs. “But you did say a ‘real’ date, so I assumed fancy.”

“You assumed right.”

We’re still standing across the room from each other. She gestures to the roses. “Are those for me?” “Yeah.”

“They’re beautiful,” she says. “I love pink.”

“Same color as bubblegum ice cream.”

“My favorite! You remember that?”

I remember everything , I think, but I don’t want to overwhelm her, so I just nod.

She crosses to the wet bar and opens an overhead cabinet, extracting a vase and filling it with water. “I couldn’t imagine I’d need this when I saw it, but now I’m glad it’s here. Like your blazer.”

She places the vase on the coffee table, then takes the flowers from me, unwraps them from cellophane and gently drops them in the water. When she looks up at me, her blue eyes sparkle.

“Thanks again, Quinn. They’re perfect.”

You’re perfect. I stare at her for a second, desperate to pull her into my arms and kiss the soft skin on the side of her throat. My heart races. Slow down. Slow down. I clear my throat. “I arranged for a limo to pick us up. You ready?”

“Wow! Yes! I’m ready.”

***

The view from the Legacy Bar was not overhyped.

I’ve reserved a firepit area for us, which includes four quarter-circle, cream-colored, leather sofas pushed together to make a ring around the fire. I assume three people would fit on each sofa, but we have them all, giving rise to a small conundrum as we arrive.

Parker precedes me to the circle and takes a seat on the sofa closest to the glass that looks out over the strip.

Do I sit beside her? That feels a little pushy.

Across from her? The view would be great, but it feels a little far away.

I’m so nervous trying to figure this out, my hands get cold, so for now, I stay standing, warming them over the open flame.

“You ordered champagne, sir?”

Fuck. I don’t even know if Parker likes champagne. We’ve never raised a glass together, and when I run into her around Skagway, she’s usually drinking beer.

Parker, who’s been looking at the view, catches my eyes over her shoulder.

“Champagne? Yum!”

“That’s right. Thanks.”

“Are you going to sit?” asks Parker, patting the seat next to her, but on a separate sofa. There’s a few inches of space between the seats, which feels perfect.

I take a seat. The way we’re sitting, our knees are aligned and just about touching between the sofas, but we’re looking at the view, not at each other.

“I can’t decide if I like it or not,” I tell her, watching the bright lights flicker.

“There’s something special about lights at night. But all things being equal,” she says, “I prefer the stars. Like, lying in the bed of a pickup truck, or on a blanket toward the end of April when we still get a dark, inky sky. They twinkle and shine, some brighter than the others and some burning out. I can get lost in them.”

I turn away from the strip, staring at her profile, which is a far better view.

“I know what you mean.”

“Or the moon. A full one. Especially if it’s red or blue. Or corn kernel yellow. Nights like that, it’s almost like you can touch it.”

“What about the northern lights?” I ask her.

She turns to me now, away from the glass, and I realize that our lips are not even a foot away from each other, and I’m hungry for a taste of them.

“I love the northern lights.” She tilts her head to the side. “When it’s a rainbow of color on the horizon? That’s my favorite.”

I’m overwhelmed by her. By being here beside her. I don’t vet the words I say next. They tumble from my lips without permission. “Is it okay that I love you?”

Her eyebrows raise, but she surprises me with a tiny smile. “You can’t help how you feel.”

I lean a little closer to her, my knees touching hers.

“I want to kiss you so badly,” I murmur, one hand reaching up to cradle the side of her face.

“Then kiss me, Quinn,” she whispers, leaning forward to press her lips to mine.

It’s an explosion in my brain, in my heart, in my body, all of which die for a split second before being reborn in the sweet tenderness of Parker’s kiss. One of my hands caresses her cheek while the other reaches for her waist, sliding her to the edge of her seat and spreading my knees, so her legs can scissor with mine. She winds her arms around my neck, clasping her hands and drawing me closer until her breasts touch my chest, and her heart flutters wildly against mine.

Her lips are soft and sweet, and her mouth tastes of mint when my tongue slides against hers. She moans softly into my mouth, and I swallow the sound, threading my fingers into her hair as I demand more, and our kiss deepens.

My heart thunders, and my body buzzes. I taste her and smell her and want to memorize every touch, every sound, every soft whimper and adjustment of her fingers. I’ve never felt such intense love in all my life. It’s bigger than this lounge, than this hotel, than this crazy city and the night sky above it. It’s bigger than the myriad stars in that sky, none of which we can see because the lights down below hide the ones in the heavens. It’s bigger than Alaska. It’s bigger than the United States, continental and non-contiguous. It’s bigger than anything I know or have ever felt, and it’s been a long ten years feeling it all alone.

I slide my lips along her jawline and down the column of her throat.

“I love you,” I whisper near her ear. “I’ve loved you for so long, Parker Stewart.”

I feel her gulp beneath my lips and force myself to draw away.

Too much. Slow down.

Her fingers unlock from behind my neck, and she lets them fall.

But we’re running out of time.

I remove my hand from her face but leave the one on her hip. I’m grateful when she doesn’t push it away.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I got carried away.”

She puts two fingers under my chin and tips it up, forcing me to look at her.

“These feelings are old for you,” she says, “but new for me. You have to let me catch up.”

“None of this is old,” I tell her, my voice low and earnest. “All of it is new.”

“Except your feelings.”

“Except my feelings,” I whisper. She slides her fingers to my cheek, cupping the black bristles of my beard against her palm. Her gentle touch gives me the courage to ask, “Do you hate me anymore?”

“Quinn. Come on.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “Does it feel like I hate you?”

“No.”

“I don’t hate you,” she says, brushing her lips against mine before leaning back to look into my eyes. “But to be honest, I’m very confused. When you asked me out for tonight, I said yes because…well, saying no didn’t occur to me. Everything’s been new since we got to Vegas. Everything’s been different. I like this you. I’ve really liked spending time with you here.”

“What about when we get home?” I ask, fighting back a frown.

She shrugs, sliding her hand from my face back to her lap. “I don’t know. I have no idea what happens when we get home. I’m just trying to keep up with what’s happening now.”

“Fair enough,” I tell her, though it bothers me terribly that my feelings are pitched so high. If she rejects them, the fall could be fatal.

The waiter arrives with our champagne, an ice bucket and two flutes. He pops the cork and pours one for each of us, then discreetly backs away.

“Do you want to make a toast?” Parker asks me, holding up her glass.

“Toasts are about wishes,” I tell her, watching the champagne bubbles rise to the top of my glass before popping. I look up at her, at her beautiful face by firelight, my green eyes seizing her blue. “And I feel like mine’s finally got a shot at coming true.”

“To wishes,” she whispers, giving me a small, pleased smile.

We clink our flutes together and drink.