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Chapter 9
T
WO YEARS AGO, the thought of sleeping with Thing One had never crossed Parker’s mind.
Really.
Since the day she’d met him, Thing One had bugged her. Intellectually, she knew that it wasn’t his fault that Harry had sent him to the hospital the day Nicky was born. Just doing what the boss said, following orders, covering for Harry’s complete and utter lack of interest. Whatever the case, roughly five hours after she’d given birth, a stranger had been standing in her hospital room. Not her father.
She knew that Harry had viewed her decision to A) have Nicky and B) not marry Ethan as a personal slap in the face, but Parker had honestly thought that once he saw his first—possibly only—grandchild, he’d thaw. He’d never viewed her books as much of an accomplishment—well, she couldn’t fault him on that. But a baby, come on. Surely he’d be thrilled to meet his grandchild.
But no. He’d sent a stranger. The fact that the lawyer had thought to buy a stuffed animal only reinforced the fact that Harry had sent nothing but legal documents. No flowers—apparently one didn’t reward one’s wayward daughter for having a bastard child—and nothing for her beautiful, perfect, miraculous baby other than Nicky’s cut of the family trust. Thing One’s presence announced—shouted—the fact that her child wasn’t important enough for Harry to leave work…Harry, who once stopped a meeting with the head of Goldman Sachs because his nine-year-old daughter had come to his office to tell him she won the school spelling bee.
And then Thing One had kept on showing up, sent by Harry or accompanying Harry, and while Parker knew that it was at her father’s behest, it still drove her crazy. Obviously, Harry couldn’t bear to be around her, even with Nicky there. Thing One was at Nicky’s baptism, his first birthday, his second birthday. If Harry summoned the rest of the family to a party, which he did once a year—the better to rub their noses in his superior wealth—Thing One would be there, too.
That first day in the hospital, she’d almost felt sorry for him—he was so awkward and uncomfortable. But then he tried to cover for Harry, lying about how her father was so sorry he couldn’t come—as if Harry had ever apologized for anything. It made it worse, knowing that a stranger knew how low she was on her father’s list of priorities. And then, Thing One turned rather glib, a Harry Junior, almost, and that line, Parker, always lovely to see you, was so sarcastic. She knew she was nothing but another duty given to him by Harry.
Before long, Harry was calling Thing One “son” and inviting him to those pretentious wine-tasting dinners with his cronies or taking him out on Granddad’s wooden sailboat. Mostly, though, Parker was more irritated with herself than with Harry. He hadn’t sought out her company for years; why would he now? Her father had missed her graduation from Miss Porter’s, though he did make it to her graduation from Harvard and spent the time schmoozing senators and Kennedys. He never came to her book signings. Even when she signed at Barnes & Noble in New York City and there was a line out the door, he didn’t show up.
On the occasions that Harry did interact with her son, Parker had to admit, he wasn’t bad. He’d ask Nicky questions about what he wanted to be when he grew up—standard awkward adult fare—as compared with Gianni Mirabelli, who’d get down on his arthritic knees and pretend to be a horse or teach her son how to make the perfect meatball. But once, Parker came upon Harry and Nicky in the study, coloring, and a warm, hopeful feeling had rushed through her so fast, though what exactly she hoped for wasn’t clear.
A month later, she invited her father to come to Nicky’s graduation from swimming class; her boy had won the Eel Award for fastest swimmer. Wonder of wonders, Harry’s assistant called back to say yes, Mr. Welles would come, and Parker really thought maybe a new era was about to start, now that Nicky was old enough to warrant her father’s interest.
Harry didn’t show. But there was Thing One, expensive suit, calfskin briefcase, as if Nicky wouldn’t notice the difference.
Sleeping with Thing One? Please. It never even crossed her mind.
Until her cousin Esme’s wedding.
Harry had two older sisters, Louise and Vivian. They, in turn, had three daughters, Esme, Juliet and Regan. When Parker was young, the four cousins would play together during the summers at Grayhurst, unaware of the tension between the adults.
But then her parents divorced, and Althea took Parker to Colorado, only to send her back East for boarding school in Connecticut. During term breaks, Parker would sometimes stay with one of her aunts, who lived on the same street in giant homes that weren’t big enough for them, and listen to them complain about her father.
Harry was a legend on Wall Street. The Welles fortune, founded first on shipping, then on mills, had dwindled significantly in the 1960s as manufacturing went overseas. By the time Harry was a teenager, there was a little money, but they were hardly the Kennedys or the Hiltons. Enough for membership in the country club and college for Harry and his sisters, a very modest trust fund to get each one started as adults.
Then Harry decided to swing for the bleachers. He took his trust fund, asked his sisters if they wanted in—they declined; Harry was just out of Wharton and what did he know? Harry sold his car, schmoozed every client his father had, hit up every friend for a loan and stepped up to bat. He took every cent he’d managed to get his hands on and bought up stock from a little company that dealt with a technology no one had ever heard of.
Turned out Apple Computer did okay. Harry was featured on the cover of Forbes magazine, a baseball bat over one shoulder, a cocky grin on his handsome face and the headline Play Big or Go Home. Welles Financial, founded by Parker’s great-grandfather, went from a stodgy, trustworthy investment firm to an enormous force on Wall Street, and Harry became filthy rich.
His sisters had their modest inheritances; beyond that, if they wanted more—and they did—they had to come to Harry and present their request, be it jobs for their husbands or the money for an addition to keep up with the Joneses. Harry might or might not grant said request; his sisters hadn’t trusted him back in the beginning, and he made them pay, and they hated him for it. Didn’t stop them from asking, though.
And so Parker was an outsider, too, by association. Her cousins became an impenetrable clique, her aunts joined forces to disapprove of her, and Parker found herself thinking of them as the Coven. When she had to come to stay, Juliet, Regan and Esme made sure she was left out of the conversation, took potshots at Althea and her marriages, mocked Parker’s hair, clothes, shoes. Her aunts weren’t much better. Once, she overheard them discussing Althea’s latest divorce from Parker’s second stepfather, who was a lovely man; Parker had been devastated when he’d left. “Who’d want Althea and a sulky teenager?” Louise asked, laughing.
“Sulky’s the least of her problems,” Vivian said. “Juliet thinks she might be doing drugs.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Louise answered. “She’ll probably end up overdosing in a nightclub bathroom somewhere.” There was a pause and the clink of ice as Louise took a sip of her Long Island iced tea.
Parker became even more of a freak by getting pregnant out of wedlock—and staying pregnant—and choosing to be a single mom. The books put her over the edge.
Family gatherings…eesh. Parker once described them to Ethan as Flowers in the Attic meets Jaws. Generally, she avoided them like a robust case of Ebola, but once a year or so, she had to make an appearance, and Esme’s wedding was one such affair.
Parker was a bridesmaid, pretty much because Harry was paying for the wedding, an obscene affair at the Rosecliff mansion in Newport. Esme and Aunt Vivian had wheedled and whined to Harry for weeks before he finally played Santa and said of course he’d pay for his niece’s wedding. Apparently, Esme had been yearning to get married at Rosecliff since her conception, and she’d gleefully spent Harry’s money hand over fist: flowers and hairstylists, a twenty-thousand-dollar dress, yada yada yada.
None of that made Parker welcome. She’d spent the rehearsal dinner largely being ignored and pretending not to mind. She hadn’t been invited to help Esme get ready the morning of the wedding, either. Nicky was with Ethan, so Parker had gone to Rosecliff alone. She figured she’d do her bridesmaid duties, endure the reception, then leave as soon as she could.
“Thanks, Chuck,” she said to the driver of the car service her father kept on retainer. “I’ll be maybe three hours, okay? I’ll text you when I’m ready to go.”
“You bet, Miss Welles,” he said.
“Sure you don’t want to be my date?” she said, tipping him a twenty.
“Very. No offense.”
She laughed. “I hear you, pal. See you later.” Heart sinking a little, she got out of the car. “I am a wonderful mother,” she said as she approached the mansion. “I am a very successful author.” Preach it, sister! the Holy Rollers chorused. “And no one can make you feel inferior if you’ve had enough to drink. Or something.”
Without your consent! the angels corrected in their tiny, scolding voices.
Inside was the Coven—Esme, the bride, and Juliet and Regan as co–maids of honor—huddled together in a preceremony clump. Her aunts made disapproving noises about Parker’s timing, though she’d arrived ten minutes before they’d told her to.
“You look exhausted,” Aunt Vivian said, frowning. “Are you sick?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Parker said. “Esme, you look beautiful.”
“Thanks. Um…so do you?” the bride said, staring at Parker as if she had a third arm.
Parker smiled determinedly, took her bouquet and walked down the aisle, her eyes searching for her father. One thing they had in common—they hated family events. She didn’t see him, but then again, there were four hundred wedding guests.
In the receiving line, Juliet took her shots. “Parker, did you bring your husband? Wait, are you married? I always forget.” As if they hadn’t seen each other the night before.
“Nope. Not married.”
“And how old is your son again? It is a boy, right?”
“Nicky’s three.”
“Are you seeing anyone these days? It must be hard, because who wants a single mom?”
Finally, the reception began in earnest. Parker glanced around for a safe haven, hoping to see a friendly face somewhere. One of her uncles—Louise’s husband—had always been nice, but the last time she’d seen him, he’d hugged her a little too long, his hand a little too low on her back.
Still no Harry. He wouldn’t miss a family wedding—or the chance to remind people who paid for it—and last she knew, he was coming. For a second, she indulged in the fantasy that she and her father were close. That they’d sit together today, that he’d dance with her and tell her she was the prettiest girl in the room. He’d come to Grayhurst after the wedding and play Candy Land with Nicky, read him books until her son fell asleep. Then she and her dad would watch something manly on TV, because Harry loved war movies. Saving Private Ryan. She’d make popcorn.
Right.
She should’ve brought a date. Ethan would’ve come, and Lucy would’ve loved to have babysat. She could’ve hired an escort, like in that movie she’d fallen asleep on a few weeks ago. But needing armor and actually admitting you needed armor were different things.
A drink, however, was definitely in order.
“Hello,” she said to the bartender, smiling. “I would like a very strong martini with three olives and a smidge of brine.”
“Belvedere okay?” he asked.
“How about Stoli Elit? Got any of that?” she said. It was her father’s favorite.
“You have good taste,” he said.
“Got that right, buddy,” she answered, grinning. She gave him a fifty as a tip, knowing half her relatives would fail to tip him at all. Rich people. Sucky tippers.
The martini went down as it should, icy cold and so smooth she barely noticed.
“Parker! What are you doing, just standing there?” It was dear Cousin Regan, dragging her fiancé behind her.
“I’m taking it all in,” Parker said.
“You haven’t met Rob, my fiancé, have you?” Regan asked.
“We met last night,” Parker said, nodding at him, the poor guy. “Hello again.”
“So, like, our wedding?” Regan said. “I’m thinking Manhattan? Like…the Pierre? Right, Rob?”
Parker nodded, feigning interest. This would be Regan’s third engagement, and if it followed suit, it should be over in, oh, about an hour. Regan enjoyed upstaging other people’s weddings.
“And how are your little books doing?” her cousin asked, nudging Rob with her elbow.
“They’re doing great. The last one came out at number five on the Times list,” Parker said.
“Rob, Parker writes those strange little books about the angels,” Regan said in mock explanation. “They’re very…um…precious?”
“So glad you like them,” Parker said. “Excuse me for one second.” No point in hanging around Regan, who’d recently posted a vicious review of The Holy Rollers and the Blind Little Bunny on Amazon. She’d forgotten to use a screen name, however. Or maybe she hadn’t.
Regan’s whisper, loud enough to ensure she was heard, followed Parker. “Those books? They, like, make you want to hurl. And her mother? On her fourth rich old man. Seriously.”
The thing was, Regan couldn’t say anything about her books that Parker didn’t already think herself. The books were a joke, it was true. That they were bringing Save the Children some serious money didn’t matter to the Coven.
As for Althea, well, it was also true.
“How about another one of these?” she said to the nice bartender.
She sidled through the crowd, saying hello here and there, making her way out of the throng. She had to stay; if she left, it would be an admission of defeat. But hey. She could have a quiet moment. The thing about having a three-year-old…the only time he didn’t talk was when he was asleep, and the questions these days! Why, Mommy? Why? Why? Why not? Why? She smiled. Maybe she’d give Ethan a call, see how their wunderkind was doing. So much for not wanting to talk to anyone. A friendly, nice person…she would love to talk to a friendly, nice person. But these mean people? They sucked.
Seemed as if the martinis were having the desired effect. That bartender knew what he was doing, yes, sir.
She wandered into the foyer—well, a foyer, because this place was huge. It was less crowded here, and oh, perfect. A small, secret staircase leading up to the second floor.
Parker went up, not spilling a drop of martini because hey! She was a Miss Porter’s grad, thank you very much! Stellar education and social graces. Also, the drink was nearly gone.
At the top of the staircase was a long hallway blocked by a velvet rope. Parker sat down a few steps from the top. From here, she could see not only the foyer, but the guests going in and out of the ballroom. Esme, despite being Bridezilla, was beautiful in her crystal-beaded dress, and certainly, as settings went, it didn’t get better than Rosecliff, if you liked ostentatious excess, which the Welles family certainly did. Everyone was dressed to kill, and laughter and squeals floated up.
Oh, bugger. A dark-haired man had spied her staircase and was heading up. Parker looked into her purse, planning to make that phone call and avoid conversation. But the man stopped.
“Parker. Always lovely to see you.”
She winced and looked up. “Thing One. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Is my father here?” she asked, hating that he would know and she didn’t.
“I’m afraid he can’t make it.”
For God’s sake. Her father was blowing off his own niece’s wedding. The Coven would have a fit. Parker was used to it—Thing One: Emissary—but Harry usually put in an appearance with the extended family, the better to lord his power.
“Anything you need, Parker?”
“No thank you.”
“Not even this?” He handed her an icy glass and sat next to her. “I asked the bartender what you were drinking.”
“And to think I never liked you,” she said with a small smile. He raised an eyebrow. “Thanks, Thing One.”
He had a drink, as well, and sat down next to her. Like every man there, he was wearing a tux, which was…good. Not many men looked worse in a tuxedo, and Thing One was no exception. He was quite attractive. Not to her, of course. But he looked…good.
Wicked good.
She took a sip of her drink.
“Having a nice time?” he asked, giving her a sidelong glance.
“Oh, absolutely. You?”
“You bet.” This was their first one-on-one conversation since…since Nicky was born, come to think of it. “So how have you been, Parker?” he asked.
She smiled as she sipped the martini. “Do you care, Thing One?”
“Of course. I’m paid to care.” He grinned at her, and Parker had to laugh.
“At least you’re honest. If there is such a thing as an honest lawyer, that is.” He had a nice smile. Hell.
“I get the idea that you’re somehow persona non grata around here,” he said. “Why is that?”
“No clue.”
“Probably because you’re prettier than anyone else.”
Parker rolled her eyes. “Save the ass kissing for my father, dear boy.”
He shook his head and looked into his drink, the smile playing around his mouth. “Beautiful women. So cruel.”
“Smarmy men. So common.”
“Now you’re just reinforcing my point.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, slender box tied with a silky black ribbon. “Happy birthday from your dad.”
Oh, hell. Bugger and damn. She swallowed carefully, not looking at Thing One.
Because yes, it was her birthday. No one had mentioned that fact when Esme’s wedding date had been set, and Parker hadn’t wanted to bring it up. She wasn’t sure that her aunts knew when her birthday was.
She wasn’t sure her father knew when her birthday was.
Parker took the package from Thing One’s hand and untied the ribbon.
Inside the box was a fountain pen made of some glossy blue stone. It was heavy and beautiful, and there were two cartridges of peacock-green ink. She could use it for signings. The kids would love the ink color, and her signature would look like calligraphy, coming out of the brass nib.
It was perfect. “My father did not pick this out,” she said, not looking at him.
At least he didn’t deny it. She turned her head to look at him. His eyes were brown. She’d never noticed that before. There was a warm, tugging sensation down in Lady Land. Thing One had nice brown eyes. He’d brought her a present and a martini. And had she mentioned the tux?
“What’s your name, Thing One?” It was James. She knew that. She just didn’t want him to know she knew it.
“James.”
“James what?”
“James Francis Xavier Cahill.” He smiled as he spoke, and she felt the tug harder this time, her stomach tightening, knees tingling.
“Thank you for the beautiful pen, James Francis Xavier Cahill.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
That was a good smile, vodka goggles or not. A great smile. That was a smile involving his whole face. Yep. With vodka goggles—quite possibly without, she’d never really let herself dwell—Thing One was smokin’ hot. Really thick, dark brown hair. It would be hard to check for deer ticks in hair like that. Okay, that was the mother part of her speaking…also maybe the vodka part. Let’s shift gears, shall we? Parker asked herself. No need to waste a perfectly satisfactory ogle thinking about ticks. Hair that would look excellent if it were all tousled and rumpled. There. Much better. His eyes were, shoot, she couldn’t think of the word for them, but they were smiley. Smiley eyes with very nice crinkles around them. One of his incisors was a little bit crooked, and for some reason, that made his smile even better.
“How old are you, James Francis Xavier Cahill?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Five years younger than she was. She could’ve babysat for him. She wouldn’t have minded babysitting him, now that she thought about it…when he was around eighteen, let’s say, and she was twenty-three. Weren’t there porno movies about that kind of thing?
He seemed to read her dirty mind, because he smiled again, just a little. Then his eyes dropped to her mouth. Heck yeah! So he was having kissing thoughts, too. And from the looks of it, his mouth would be excellent for kissing, full and generous.
Kind. That was the word she was looking for. He had kind eyes.
He reached out, slowly, and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, and without further thought, Parker leaned in and kissed him.
She was right. His lips were smooth and warm and it was so, so nice, simply having her lips against someone else’s, someone not her child—crikey, it had been a very long time. And James let her kiss him, the gentle pressure of his mouth just enough to let her know he didn’t mind. A lovely kiss. Perfect. Made Lady Land feel kind of wriggly and warm, and oh, hey, look at this, she was frenching him, and that wriggly feeling leaped and twirled and surged.
He didn’t mind at all, apparently, because the next minute, he was kissing her back. She could taste whiskey on him, and oh, God, he was good at this, kissing was so underrated, there should be kissing apps for phones or something. Her fingers slid through his thick, wavy hair, and his arms slipped around her and pulled her closer. The heat and the gentle scrape of his five-o’clock shadow, and oh, man, that mouth against hers…this guy would graduate top of his kissing class, no doubt.
Her heart was thudding, lust thick and hot in her veins, drowning out rational thought. Parker ran her hands down his neck, his shoulders thick with muscle—nice, Thing One!—then slid her hands under his tuxedo jacket and felt the heat of his skin under the thin cotton of his shirt.
From down below came the sound of someone laughing.
“Know what?” she said, tearing her mouth off his and standing unsteadily. “Come with me.” She grabbed his hand and practically dragged him up the rest of the stairs, shoved aside the velvet rope and towed James down the hallway, opened the third door on the right, and bingo. A bedroom, thank you very much.
James pushed her against the wall and kissed her again, and it was so welcome, so wonderful, being kissed like that, as if the building could burn down around them and it would be more important to keep kissing, hard and hot and fierce. His hands slid down her sides, to her ass, pulling her against him, and damn if her legs weren’t already shaking.
His mouth had moved to her neck, his dark hair brushing her cheek, and Parker felt such a wave of…longing and tenderness and gratitude and a melting sweetness. He wanted her. There was no doubt about that, and she turned her head and kissed his jaw, just under his ear, making him groan a little.
Then he straightened up and looked at her, leaning his forehead against hers. “You really want this to happen?” he asked, and his voice wasn’t quite steady, and that sealed the deal.
“Yes,” she said. Then she pulled him close and pulled his shirt from out of his pants and slid her hands up his hot skin.
He unzipped her dress and didn’t ask any more questions.
No, sir. No indeedy.
* * *
AS PARKER WOKE UP—holy halos, she’d fallen asleep with a near stranger—her first thought, aside from “Parker, you slut,” was “Dear Lord, don’t let me be pregnant.” Yes, they’d used a condom. And she was on the Pill, not that she’d needed it for contraception; her gynecologist recommended it as prevention for ovarian cancer. Whatever. Chances were, she wasn’t preggers.
Next thought was “Please don’t let him wake up.”
James Francis Xavier Cahill was beautiful. His cheeks were flushed, giving him a boyish look, and one arm was up over his head. How had she not noticed how delicious he was before this day? He looked like a fallen angel. He looked beautiful. He looked…eesh…young.
If she could get out of here without talking to him, that would be fantastic, because what the heck do you say after you, the somewhat inebriated older woman, drag a man, the hot young stud, into a bedroom, basically tear off his clothes and shag him silly? She barely let him speak. May as well have commanded him to do her.
Not that he seemed to mind.
Her dress, his shirt, her shoes, his tie, were all strewn around the room. So classy. Parker grabbed her panties and dress and slunk into the bathroom attached to the bedroom—excellent for trysts, these mansions—and looked at her reflection. Her mascara was smudged, her lips pink and bee-stung, her cheeks pink. Eyes were dreamy.
We’re so disappointed, said the Holy Rollers.
We’re not, said Lady Land. Thank you! That was rather spectacular, yes?
Yes.
Nevertheless, this was a huge mistake! Thing One? For God’s sake! What was she thinking? She was thinking Stoli Elit, that’s what she was thinking. Stoli Elit, a bad case of poor little rich girl and James Cahill’s smile. Bad, bad combo. So bad. So naughty. Dirty, even.
The thought of what they’d done…what he’d done to her…and the noises it evoked…the feelings that had practically— Okay! Stop! Let’s get moving here, shall we? Before the Coven finds us?
She dressed and ran a wet facecloth under her eyes, dampened her fingers and slicked her hair back into its twist once more. There. She looked normal—for a woman who’d spent the past hour against the wall, on the bed and yes, on the floor. With her father’s attorney.
Oh, this was bad.
She’d slip out of the room and call her driver and get out of Dodge. James could wake up and do whatever he wanted, but a face-to-face encounter? Bad idea.
She opened the door and jumped. There he was, right in the doorway.
“Sneaking out?” he said.
“Oh, no, no,” she stammered. “Nope. No. Just…freshening. Freshening up, that is.”
He had his pants on, and his shirt, though it was unbuttoned. Oh, Mommy.
“Are you going back to the reception, or making a run for the border?” he asked, giving her a quick once-over.
Border. “The reception. Esme’s my cousin. I’m a bridesmaid.”
“And will you acknowledge me down there?”
The question caught her off guard. Parker found she was pinching her pinkie. Hard. “Um, of course.”
“Really?”
There was something a little…dubious in his eyes. “Yes, James.”
He grinned, and once again, it hit her, the force of that incredible smile. “Is there any chance you’ll sit with me during dinner? Because as much as I love the Welles family…”
“They’re piranhas,” she said.
“They’re piranhas,” he agreed. “So?”
Wow. When she’d imagined the reception, she’d pictured a few painful hours with the Coven; James of the beautiful smile was much, much more appealing. “Sure. I’d love to.” Her ears felt hot. This was almost like a date.
“Great.” He was looking at her mouth again, and Parker felt her knees wobble. “Any chance I can drive you home?”
“There’s always a chance,” she murmured.
“I’ll take it,” he said. God, he was darling! How had she missed this? “Want me to go out first? So your evil cousins don’t bust you?”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
Five minutes later, James was once again impeccably dressed. He stood in front of her, looked at her for a long minute. “See you down there,” he said, and there it was again, that smile.
“Okay.” She bit her lip, then, on impulse, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
His smile grew. Then he winked at her and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Parker sank down on the bed and let out a long breath.
So. Okay, it wasn’t as if this was her first time, obviously, not with a three-year-old son. But the whole earth-moving experience…she hadn’t had a whole lot of that. Sex had always been nice. Very nice. Fun. And sure, it had been a while. She hadn’t had a—oh, hell, a lover, though her mind cringed away from the word—since Ethan.
That had been four years ago.
Holy halos.
So maybe it was just a long abstinence with only the pulsating showerhead for company on nights she couldn’t sleep, but holy heck, sex with James Francis Xavier Cahill had been unbelievable. Heck yeah!
Parker realized she was smiling. Apparently, the best sex of a woman’s life did that to her. James the Cutie-Pie, Purveyor of Said Experience, did that to her, and the thought of that smile, that slightly crooked tooth, the way his eyes looked so happy when he smiled…her knees were feeling wriggly again.
She sighed. Dreamily, for heaven’s sake.
But for one second, she let herself feel dreamy. Moony. Dopey. Meltish. It was kind of wonderful.
Guess she’d misjudged Thing One. Strike that. James. James was nice. Wasn’t he? He was hot, sure, but he also seemed kind of… And he’d made sure she’d… Maybe they’d…well. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself.
“Okay, team,” she said aloud. “Time to rejoin the masses.”
She took another look at herself, hoped that while she definitely had a certain glow, no one would be able to tell she’d been done—the inhabitants of Lady Land gave a hot squeeze—and left the bedroom. There were the stairs—hello, stairs, thank you so much—and she started down.
And there, in the foyer, was her father, laughing with James.
Parker stopped, squeezing her pinkie hard. Harder, even, till the tip was numb. For some reason, her heart was sinking, and fast.
“Harry,” she said, her voice pleasant. “Didn’t think you were going to make it.”
“Parker,” he said. “Hello.”
James glanced at her with a little smile, then murmured something to her father, and for one horrible second, she thought he was telling Harry that they’d done the deed, and Harry would clap James on the back and congratulate him or something.
“Happy birthday, by the way,” Harry said.
Oh. Maybe that was worse, having James need to tell her father when she was born.
“Thank you.” She lifted an eyebrow, something she’d mastered at age seven after watching her father stare a minion into tears.
“James, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Harry said. “Parker, we’ll see you in there.”
“Okay,” she said, watching as Harry put his arm around James. The two men walked away, but James looked back. Held up his hand and mouthed, Five minutes.
The thing was, she knew how long five minutes could last.
“Parker, where have you been?” It was Aunt Vivian, and she was pissed. “Dinner is being served! Would you please come in here? It’s Esme’s special day. Would it kill you to remember that? Honestly.”
And so she ended up with the Coven, after all. The only person at the table with an empty chair next to her.
Five minutes became ten. Ten became twenty. Salad was served. “Isn’t Uncle Harry ever going to come over?” Esme whined. He was halfway across the room, glad-handing someone and roaring with laughter.
“Look at that lawyer of his,” Juliet said. “He’s such a social climber. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried sleeping with you, Parker.” The cousins burst into laughter, and Parker, who hadn’t cried for a long, long time, felt suddenly terrified that she was about to burst into tears.
“Would you please pass the butter, Regan?” she asked.
“Do you really think you need it?” Aunt Louise said, and Parker was actually grateful for the change in subject.
The five minutes had stretched into thirty-three.
She was an idiot.
Don’t say that, Parker, the Holy Rollers chimed. We think you’re really smart!
Not smart enough, apparently, to realize that she’d skipped happily into yet another cliché, even worse than Wedding Guest Picks Up Guy or Poor Little Rich Girl Feels So Alone. No, this one was worse. Juliet was absolutely right. This one was Guy Sleeps with Boss’s Daughter as Part of Plan to Move Up Corporate Ladder.
Idiot.
She spent forty-seven minutes at dinner, hoping her expression was pleasant, glancing over occasionally as her father worked the crowd.
Thing One stayed obediently at his side.
Then she texted her driver, went home, took a very hot shower and practically scrubbed off her skin with the loofah.
She got a text a little while later. You still around? Can’t seem to find you.
It was now one hundred and twenty-six minutes after the five he’d said. Well. Better to learn this now. She opted not to respond. Sat there and watched Dexter instead.
He called an hour later and left a message. “Hey, Parker, it’s James. Would you mind calling me? I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Talk to you later.”
Oh, yes, there’d been a misunderstanding. One hundred and twenty-six of them.
The next day, when Ethan dropped Nicky home, she asked him to stay for dinner before he had to head for the airport. No skipping the armor this time, because if Parker was right, Thing One was going to put in an appearance.
Ethan and Nicky were playing T-ball on the back lawn when James showed up. Parker watched through the window as he came up the long walk, flowers in hand. He ran a hand through his hair before ringing the doorbell.
She opened the door.
“Parker,” James said. “Always lovely to see you.” He paused. “Everything okay here?”
“Everything’s fine, Thing One. What brings you by?”
“Well, you disappeared before I could find you yesterday.” He held out the bouquet. Roses, irises, gerbera daisies and, smack in the middle, a package of Alka-Seltzer.
Damn. She’d been feeling a little polluted all day long.
“Listen, James,” she said, shooting for cool but not icy. Icy would imply that she was hurt. “I’m very sorry that I overindulged yesterday and, ah, jumped you. It won’t happen again.”
“Parker—”
“It won’t happen again. I’m actually embarrassed, and I apologize for my behavior.”
“You—”
“Unfortunately, we’re about to eat dinner. So. I guess I’ll see you the next time Harry tells you to come by.”
Thing One’s smile was gone. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t get to—”
“It’s fine. I understand. You have certain duties. It was a business event for you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do I get to say anything here?” he asked.
“I’d rather you got in your car and left, to be completely honest.”
“Because if I did get to say something,” he went on, “I’d say I’d like to see you again, take you to dinner, get to know you better.”
She could picture it. He’d woo her or whatever, smile his crinkly smile, make her fall for him, then, as soon as humanly possible, ask Harry if he’d give his blessing, which Harry would certainly give. Finally, a son. He and James would play golf together on the weekends and be masters of the universe during the week, because sure, James would get promoted—you don’t bag the boss’s daughter and not move up to Senior Vice President, after all. James would be an official prince in Harry’s kingdom, wouldn’t have to work so hard to impress her father, not as the son-in-law, no, sir. All James would have to do would be to shag her once in a while, father a kid or two, and he could kick back and relax, his future assured.
“What do you say?” he asked when she remained silent.
Much to her surprise, Parker felt the sting of tears in the back of her eyes. “No, thank you, James.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged and looked past him. “I’m your boss’s daughter.”
“Yes, I remember.”
She snapped her gaze back to him. “So, if you think you’re going to get closer to him by screwing me, you’re wrong.”
His eyebrows rose. “That’s not what I was thinking.”
“No, of course not.”
“If you recall, you kissed me first.”
“Yes, I recall, James. I also recall three very strong and delicious martinis, okay? I wish it hadn’t happened, and I’m promising you, it won’t happen again.”
James opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, Nicky came careening into the foyer. “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Can I have some Goldfish? The eating kind?” Then he noticed James in the doorway, the flowers still in his hand. “Hewwo,” he said, not having mastered the L sound just yet.
Parker didn’t answer, just put her hand on Nicky’s head.
James dragged his gaze off her and looked at her son. “Hi, Nick.”
“You remember Grandpa Harry’s lawyer, right?” Parker said. Because that’s all you’re ever going to be in this house, pal.
Ethan joined the little crowd. “Hey, how you doing, James?” he said. The men shook hands. Ethan looked at the flowers, still in Thing One’s hand, then at Parker’s face. “Nicky, let’s go throw rocks in the water, okay, buddy?”
Parker cleared her throat. “No, that’s okay, Ethan. He was just leaving. Drive safely, James.”
“Dwive safewy, James,” Nicky echoed.
James looked at her another second or two. “Okay. Enjoy your night.”
There was a lump in Parker’s throat as she closed the door. She was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Nicky, can you go get me a grape?” Ethan asked.
“Sure, Daddy!” Nicky said, racing off to the kitchen.
Parker looked at Ethan, forced a smile.
“Flowers, huh?” he said, leaning in the doorway.
“Yep. You know. Kissing up to the boss’s daughter. So is salmon okay? I thought I’d grill it, make a salad. Or we could have what the chef left on Friday. Just need to heat it up.”
“You want to talk?”
“About what?”
“About the fact that James brought you flowers and you pretty much set the dogs on him?”
“I don’t have dogs.”
“Come on, Parker.”
“There’s really nothing to talk about.”
“You sure?”
“Heck yeah.”
Ethan gave her a long look but said nothing more.
She spent the next week on edge, waiting for something that never came. James never called her. Never emailed, texted or dropped by. He followed instructions, in other words; proof that she was right—he wasn’t going to get anywhere by being with her. If he really wanted something different—not that he actually did, but if—he would’ve surely tried again.
But he didn’t. She saw him a few months later, when, instructed by Harry, he dropped by with some mutual-fund papers she needed to sign.
He never mentioned anything about their hookup.
And even though it was what she’d asked for, it was oddly disappointing.
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Somebody To Love
Kristan Higgins
Somebody To Love - Kristan Higgins
https://isach.info/story.php?story=somebody_to_love__kristan_higgins