One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) (17 page)

“You taste like peanut butter,” he murmurs as he pulls away. I watch his eyes dilate as his hands slide around my waist beneath the bottom hem of his sweater. “This is mine.”

“It
was
,” I correct. “I’m confiscating it.”

“Looks better on you, anyway.” His gaze flickers down to my mouth. “I like you in my clothes. Almost as much as I like you out of them…”

A pulse of heat shoots between my legs. “I have to work.”

“Uh huh.” His hands slide higher, up my ribcage. The sensual scrape of his calluses against my skin makes my teeth sink into my bottom lip.

“Parker,” I protest weakly.

It’s the wrong thing to say, if I was hoping to deter him. Hearing me breathe his name only seems to make him more desperate for me. And apparently I’m equally desperate, because when he guides me to the floor and pulls the sweater up over my head, there’s not an ounce of hesitation in my mind as I wrap my arms around his back to bring him closer. All thoughts of conspiracy theories and corruption disappear from my head as he makes slow, sweet love to me beneath my desk.

“
W
hat are you doing tomorrow
?” Parker calls from the next aisle over.

Waking up this morning to discover there was absolutely no food in my refrigerator besides some expired milk and what, at one point in the distant past, we think may’ve been a banana, he dragged me down the street to the small convenience store where I occasionally stock up on groceries.

And by
groceries
I mean chocolate peanut butter cups and Diet Coke.

Breakfast of champions.

But of course, Parker is some kind of crunchy granola health-nut who likes to start his day eating cereal that looks like it was made for rabbits while drinking organic pomegranate juice out of an eight-dollar plastic bottle. Needless to say, he doesn’t exactly approve of my highly-nutritious eating habits.

“Tomorrow?” I call back, staring absentmindedly at the small selection of flowers behind the glass doors in the corner.

No more grocery store roses for me.

“Yes, tomorrow.” Parker rounds a corner with one of those little plastic carriers in his hands. It’s filled to the brim with things I will never eat.

“What is all that?” I ask, staring at the groceries.

“Ho boy. We’re going to have to start from scratch with this one, aren’t we?” He shakes his head, like a kindergarten teacher with one of his students. “This green stuff is called
lettuce
. And the other stuff, right here, is called
broccoli
. Can you say
bro-cco-li
?”

I shoot him a death glare. “Shut up. You know what I meant.”

“Did I?” He grins.

“Why are you getting all that food?”

“To
eat
.” His head tilts. “Why? What do you usually do with your food? Do you have some weird fetish I should know about, where you strip naked and cover yourself with—

“Seriously, don’t finish that sentence.”

His lips clamp shut to hold in a laugh. “Fine.”

My arms cross over my chest. “I’ll never eat all that.”

“Maybe it’s for me. Not all of us subsist on caffeine and chocolate alone.”

“You planning on bringing it back to your place?” I ask.

“No, but I am planning to spend a lot of time at
your
place, now that we’ll be having sex every night.”

“You’re delusional.” I snort. “And you also need a carriage. The handles on that thing are about to snap.”

He scoffs. “Men don’t push carriages. It’s against the laws of nature.”

“So you’d rather walk around giving yourself carpal tunnel from carrying all that?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Aww, snookums, what have I told you about being so sweet to me in public?” He makes eye contact with the woman shopping for applesauce ten feet down the aisle and winks suggestively at her. “You should hear her in the bedroom.” He gestures at me. “Total drill sergeant, this one.”

The woman glances at me with wide eyes, then turns her back and quickly walks away. She doesn’t even take her applesauce.

“I hate you,” I hiss, fighting off a blush as I whirl to face Parker — who, I might add, is grinning like he’s just won the lottery.

“Come on.” He laughs. “Grab your peanut butter cups. I’ll meet you up front.”

There’s really nothing to do but roll my eyes as he pivots on one heel and strides to the front of the store, somehow looking handsome and put together after very little sleep, while wearing his raunchy holiday sweater from yesterday. I follow at a slower pace, stopping to grab a six-pack of diet soda and a jumbo bag of Reese’s on my way. When I reach the front, I make sure to get into a different checkout line so Parker can’t pull any macho crap by attempting to pay for my groceries.

There’s an old lady in front of me, struggling with the credit card reader. The conveyer-belt is practically empty, except for some cans of soup, a box of crackers, and a few rolls of toilet paper.

“Ma’am, as I told you, starting last week we only accept cash or chip-enabled credit cards.” The cashier crosses her arms over her chest impatiently. “You can’t use that card here.”

“Chip-enabled?” the white-haired woman asks. “I don’t know what that is.”

The cashier sighs. “Call your card company. They’ll send you one.”

“But I need these groceries today. Even if they send a new card, it’ll take at least a week to get here.” The woman’s voice trembles a bit. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Come back with cash.”

“All— all right.” The woman is visibly distressed. “I suppose I’ll have to do that.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I have a line.” The cashier looks pointedly at me and the three other people waiting. “So, I’m going to need you to—”

“Here,” I say without thinking, reaching into my wallet and pulling out a twenty. “How much are her groceries? I’ll pay for them.”

“It’s $17.50,” the cashier tells me.

“Perfect.” I pull out another twenty. “Just throw it all in with mine, I’ll pay for it together.”

“Oh, no,” the elderly woman protests quietly, grabbing my arm. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“It’s already done.” I pass over the money and smile at her.

“Thank you,” she whispers, clearly embarrassed. “I usually have cash with me, but I was in a hurry this morning and—”

“Don’t worry about it.” I shrug and toss my stuff in a clear plastic bag. “The new chip technology is a big pain in the ass, if you ask me. But if you call the number on the back of your card, they’ll send you an updated one.”

She smiles and takes her bag from the cashier. “I’ll do that when I get home. Can I at least pay you back?”

I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

Her hands curl around the bag handles. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Then don’t.” I smile at her as she nods, turns, and walks out of the store.

I’m still smiling as I shove my change into my purse. When I go to grab my bag, I find Parker’s already got it looped around his arm alongside his own groceries. He’s waiting right at the end of the checkout line, watching me carefully.

“What?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Why are you giving me that look, playboy?”

“No reason,” he murmurs, suppressing whatever emotion I just saw in his eyes. “Come on, Zoe. Let’s make like a tree.”

“And leaf?” I snort and hold open the door for him — his arms are full of groceries. “I didn’t realize you were in fourth grade.”

“What do you have against a good pun?”

“Besides the fact that they’re the lowest form of humor?”

“Baby, I’m the pun master. I’ve got puns for days.”

“How nice for you.”

We walk in silence for a half block. That’s as long as he can contain himself.

“You know, sometimes when I get naked in the bathroom, the shower gets
turned on
.”

I sigh. “Stop.”

“I couldn’t remember how to use a boomerang, but don’t worry, it
came back to me
.”

“You’re getting less attractive by the second.”

“My grade in Marine Biology was below
C
level.”

“That, I can believe. You’re not the brightest bulb.”

“Two peanuts were walking in a rough area. One was
a salted
.”

“That’s it! I’m never sleeping with you again.”

“Fine. I’m done.” His voice is strangled, like he’s trying desperately to hold in a laugh.

Glancing over, I see his lips are clamped together to hide his smile.

“Oh, just say it,” I grumble. “I’m worried your brain will explode if you hold it in any longer.”

He laughs. “Never trust atoms. They
make up everything
.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re hot. Otherwise, you’d have no redeeming qualities.”

“If I wasn’t weighted down by so many groceries right now, I’d probably kiss you.”

“If you weren’t such a pain in the ass, I’d definitely let you.”

“Just for that, I’m not making you a kale smoothie when we get to your place.”

“Considering I don’t have a blender, you’re not making
anyone
a kale smoothie.”

“God, it’s like dating a heathen.”

“Except, we aren’t dating.”

He shakes his head in faux disgust. “Diet of pure sugar, no working heat, doors that don’t lock… I know how Jane felt when she met Tarzan. Except, obviously, I look much more dashing in a petticoat than Jane.”

I raise my brows. “Not even going to touch that one.”

“You said you love kids’ movies. Figured you’d appreciate the reference.”

We’re almost back at my building. “Yeah, well, Tarzan was never my favorite. I was all about
Beauty and the Beast
.”

“Let me guess.” His brows waggle. “You wanted a beast to call your own?”

“Um, no.” I punch in the code to the outer door and follow him inside. “I wanted the cool-as-shit castle with the talking furniture, huge library, and enchanted closets. Obviously.”

“Ah.” He grins at me as we wait for the elevator to return, clanging and groaning as it descends down the shaft. “Phoebe loved that one, too. She made me watch it a thousand times with her when she was seven. And then they made the damn Christmas-themed sequel, which wasn’t nearly as good.”

I bite my lip to keep in a laugh.

Playboy billionaire Parker West is discussing Disney movies with me.

It takes a moment for that to sink in.

Parker sighs. “The snow, all the decorations on the damn castle… I think that’s why she’s so obsessed with Christmas, to be honest. I place one hundred percent of the blame on Disney.”

I slide up the wooden lift gate and wait for the heavy metal doors to edge open. “Good to know.”

“Speaking of Christmas, you never answered my question.”

“Hmm?” I follow him into the elevator and slide my key into the panel. The car jolts into motion.

“Earlier, in the store, I asked what you’re doing tomorrow.”

I stare hard at the illuminated buttons on the panel. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes.” He pauses. “Christmas Eve. Prequel to the most widely-celebrated holiday in our nation. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“Ah.” I swallow and keep my eyes averted. When the doors slide open, I step into the loft and practically run to the kitchen. “So, yeah, you can put those anywhere. I suppose I’ll have to make room in my fridge for your healthy crap — that moldy banana is taking up
so
much space—”

“Zoe.”

Damn
. He’s using his quiet voice. That gentle, cajoling one that makes me shiver and sigh at the same time.

I look over at him. He’s dropped the grocery bags on the counter and is staring at me with questions swimming in his eyes.

“You want to tell me about it, or you wanna keep pretending it’s not an issue until it breaks you down?” He steps toward me, eyes wide with trust. “Your call, darling. But you should know, whenever that happens — you falling apart — whether it’s right now or tomorrow or next week or next year… if you’ll let me, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces.”

And just like that, for the first time in years, staring at this man who never pushes or pries, this man who’s just
there
for me even when I don’t deserve it… maybe especially when I don’t deserve it… I feel the damn floodgates crack wide open and tears spill down my cheeks in a relentless torrent of bottled-up despair.

O
nce I start crying
, I can't seem to stop.

I weep and weep and weep until my throat is burning and my lungs are aching, until there isn't a single ounce of moisture left behind my stinging eyes. I weep for all the years I never allowed myself to, for all the days when I didn't have the luxury of falling apart. Because you can’t cry when you’re sleeping on a cot in a church basement surrounded by strangers. You can’t let it show how much it hurts when your foster mother turns a blind eye to her husband’s wandering hands. You can’t be meek or weak when there’s a whole world of wolves out there, circling in the darkness, picking off the sheep one by one.

You do the only thing you can do: You become a wolf, too.

A wild thing.

It’s better to have battle scars and sharp edges than wind up dinner on a predator’s table.

But in this moment, I don’t want to have claws or teeth. I don’t want to lash out.

Inexplicably, I want strong arms around me.

I want lips on my hair, murmuring reassurances.

I want someone else to hold back the shadows that circle close, just for a few minutes, so I can finally, finally,
finally
drop my guard.

Parker doesn't say a word. He just holds me together when everything is spiraling into pieces, just like he promised he would. He lends me the strength I need to allow myself to be weak.

His shirt is wet when I finally fall silent, my ragged sobs settling into something resembling proper breath.

"Guess you picked now," he murmurs against my hair.

"I'm sorry," I hiccup. "I'm not usually this girl who gets all weepy and needs a guy to hold her and—” I hiccup again. “—to tell her it's all going to be okay."

"I know, Zoe." His arms tighten a bit.

"It's just this time of year, you know? The lights and the ornaments and the decorations and all the people out on the streets smiling and singing and acting like they actually enjoy each other's company. It's exhausting! I'm just…
exhausted
. I try to avoid it, to keep to myself, but this year..." I breathe deeply. "I'm sorry."

"Shhh." He pets my hair in long strokes. “Stop apologizing. You never have to apologize to me.”

I pull back to look up into his face. There's no pity in his gaze – nothing but compassion and sympathy and maybe a bit of worry.

"Thank you," I whisper.

“I didn't do anything, darling.”

"You were here." I shrug. "That's everything."

He pauses and I can tell there's something on his mind, something he wants to say but can't quite put into words.

"Say it," I whisper.

"You might feel better... If you talked about it."

I swallow. "I..."

“I don’t mean right now," he says gently. “I don’t even mean with me. But you should talk to someone, Zoe. You can't keep all this emotion locked up forever. It'll kill you. There are people out there, qualified people with fancy degrees, whose sole purpose is to help with shit like this. Believe me, I'd know – after everything that happened with my mom’s death, my father’s total inability to be a parent, I've got the therapy bills to prove it."

My brows lift. "You?"

"I know.” His smile is wry. “Parker West, the cavalier adventurer, in therapy. Who'd have guessed?" He shrugs. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you need help, reaching out and taking it from someone who's offering. There's no shame in admitting you can't do it all yourself."

Where did he come from?

How did I find him?

Seven billion people on this earth… and somehow I find the exact one I need.

"I think..." I trail off. It takes a minute, but I somehow muster my courage. "I think...
You're
the person I want to talk to about it. Not some stranger on a couch in a stuffy office who'll shrink me for $400 over the course of an hour. I'd rather talk to someone who..."

Cares about me.

Understands me.

Accepts me.

I don't finish the rest of the sentence; neither does he. But his eyes fill with something warm and his voice is barely audible when he rumbles, "All right, Zoe,” with so much emotion it nearly makes me cry again.

I take him by the hand and lead him to my desk. Opening the bottom drawer, I pull out the frame I keep hidden in the depths, where I don't have to look at it because it hurts too much. I barely glance at the image behind the glass as I pass it to Parker.

I don't need to — it's been burned into my memory for years. I can see it with my eyes closed, every perfect detail.

A little blonde girl in her ballerina costume, clutching a bouquet of red roses. Her proud parents, one on each side, their smiles so wide you'd think their daughter had just nailed her audition for Juilliard, rather than completed a rather halting rendition of
The Nutcracker
.

"These are..." Parker trails off. His finger hovers just over the glass surface.

"My parents." I nod. "And me. I was five."

He looks up at me as I pass him the other document from the drawer. It's a weathered sheet of newspaper, the front headline faded after nearly twenty years but still legible.

HOLIDAY DOUBLE-HOMICIDE: COUPLE SLAIN ON CHRISTMAS EVE

I watch his eyes move over the words, see the way his face sets into grim lines of grief as he reaches the smaller caption below the picture of bloody snow and rose petals outside the opera house. I memorized it long ago.

Rebecca and Luther Bloom, killed outside a recital hall on Christmas Eve by a suspect still-at-large. Their daughter Zoe Bloom, age 5, who witnessed the gruesome attack, remains in stable condition at Boston Children's Hospital, where she is expected to make a full recovery
.

"Oh, Zoe." Parker looks up at me, ghosts swirling in his eyes, and I feel my heart clench like a fist inside my chest. There's nothing he can say. I know that — it's why I've never bothered discussing this with anyone. Even Luca knows only the smallest of details.

But, I'm stunned to discover, I don't
need
him to say anything. It's enough to have him reach over and twine his fingers with mine, his warm grip saying everything he can't find words for.

I feel my eyes fill with tears again, but I manage to keep them at bay this time. He only asks one question.

"Did they catch the scumbag who did this?"

I shake my head. "No. But... I've been trying to figure out what happened since I was old enough to turn on a computer."

His eyes flash. “That’s why you do this. The hacking, the coding skills…”

I nod.

“So...” His hand fists in frustration. "The police have no leads? Nothing?"

"It's a cold case," I say, feeling hollowed out from my crying jag. "Back then, when it happened, there was an entire department trying to solve it. But as years went by with no suspects, no clues, no new evidence..."

"They stopped looking." His face contorts into a scowl. "That's bullshit. I don't care how long it takes, the BPD should be all over this."

"It's complicated."

"What do you mean?"

"The FBI was involved somehow. I don't know what prompted them to look into my parents' deaths, but last year I hacked into their database as a last-ditch effort to find a possible lead and…”

"You found something?"

"Maybe." I shrug. “There’s a file that comes up, when you type my father’s name into the government system. It’s almost entirely redacted, so it’s been pretty useless to me.”

Parker’s eyebrows lift. “That’s weird.”

“That’s what I thought.” I swallow. “Why would my father’s name and details of his murder be in an FBI file, unless there's more to his death than some random act of violence? Some crazed, Christmas-hating murderer on a senseless rampage?" My voice breaks. "I've spent so long wondering, so many years questioning why they were taken from me. And not having answers…”

Parker's silent for a minute. When he speaks, his voice is a vow.

"I'll help you. We’ll find out. I promise you, Zoe. This is the last Christmas you’ll spend wondering what happened to your parents.”

“How can you promise something like that?” I whisper brokenly.

“My best friend is the best private investigator in the city.” His eyes are somber. “Plus, my sister’s abduction last spring and my father’s testimony served Boston’s biggest mob boss to the FBI on a silver platter. They owe the family a favor, trust me.”

Something dangerous swirls to life inside me. It feels an awful lot like hope.

His eyes hold mine. “You aren’t alone anymore, Zoe.”

There’s a lump in my throat too big to talk around, so I don’t even try. I just reach for him and, when I do, he’s there to hold me close.

L
ater that afternoon
, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the Porsche with my arms crossed over my chest, staring straight ahead and wondering why I ever agreed to this.

“Are you sure I have to go?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, darling,” Parker says. “But I’d say there’s a seventy-five percent chance if you stall any longer out here with me, Phoebe’s gonna burst through those doors and drag you inside with her bare bands.”

Damn
. Figured as much.

“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing the door handle. “I’ll go. But I won’t like it.”

“Hey.” His voice is soft; when I glance back at him, I see his eyes are, too. “Forgetting something, aren’t you?”

My brows lift. “What?”

He leans across the center console and kisses me — a no-nonsense, domineering possession of my lips. His hand slides into my hair at the nape, his tongue sweeps into my mouth, and by the time he’s done, I’m panting.

“Oh,” I reply breathlessly. “That.”

“Yeah,
that
.” He grins at me. “Now go, before I decide you should blow off this whole
lunch with the girls
thing, and take you back to my boat to make you my sex slave.”

I tilt my head. “Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad…”

His eyes darken. “Don’t tempt me.”

I laugh, push open the door, and hop out. Bending down, I blow him a kiss before I slam the door.

“See you later, sailor.”

The grin on his face is hot enough to leave scorch marks. “Count on it, darling.”

The Porsche tires squeal as he rockets away from the curb, barrels down the road, and turns out of sight… leaving me alone on a sidewalk, chewing my lip and staring up at the cheery pink awning of my favorite bakery. Never has a cupcake shop looked so ominous.

Though, admittedly, that has more to do with the fact that there’s a group of women inside waiting to pick my brain for details of my sex life, and less to do with their top-notch pastries.

Phoebe called shortly after my meltdown, insisting I come to lunch with her and “the girls” — a group I must assume includes Gemma, Shelby, Chrissy, and Lila. Resistance seemed futile, especially when Parker suggested he’d use the time to meet with Nate and discuss my parents’ case.

I heave a deep, martyred sigh and force myself to walk inside, thinking it’s probably a bad sign I’d be happier talking with the guys about a grisly crime than deconstructing my somewhat baffling relationship status with these girls.

“Zoe!” Phoebe yells as soon as I walk through the door, hopping to her feet — which are, of course, clad in fabulous stilettos. “We’re over here!”

She waves like a lunatic, as if there’s a remote chance I haven’t seen their group occupying the large table in the corner. Unlikely, considering the rest of the cafe is pretty much empty.

I wave awkwardly and walk toward them.

“Hi, Zoe!” Gemma says, grinning at me as she scoots over to make room in the booth. “Come sit.”

“What do you want?” Phoebe asks as I settle in. “Latte? Coffee? Cronut?”

“I’m fine.” I try to smile. “Really, not that hungry.”

Phoebe thinks about that for two seconds. “I’m getting you a chocolate cupcake. They’re out of this world.”

“But—” Before I can get the protest past my lips she’s already gone, striding to the counter across the room with the determination of a soldier heading off to war.

“My advice? Don’t fight it,” Lila says, smirking at me. “When it comes to the West family, it’s easier just to cave. Trust me.”

“I’m starting to learn that,” I murmur. Glancing at the women clustered around the table, I try not to panic. “Anyway… thanks for inviting me to your girl date, or whatever this is.”

“Happy to have you,” Gemma says.

“Totally,” Chrissy agrees. “We could use another sane person around here.”

“You had sex!” Shelby announces, narrowing her pretty brown eyes at me.

My mouth drops open.

“Shelby!” Chrissy scolds.

“What? She’s practically
glowing
. It’s obvious she had an encounter with
el peen de Parker
.”

“Was that supposed to be Spanish?” Lila’s nose wrinkles. “Because that’s not the word for penis. Just for the record.”

“That’s rude!” Chrissy elbows her friend. “You can’t just go around telling people they have sex-glow.”

“Not the point.” Shelby looks undaunted, smiling over at me like we’re long lost pals instead of virtual strangers. “You totally had sex with Parker.”

“Can we please keep in mind that this is my
brother
we’re talking about?” Gemma grimaces. “Seriously… there’s an ick factor.”

“Sorry!” Shelby throws up her hands, not sounding sorry in the least. “Screw me for being excited that
someone
around here is getting… well… screwed. I’m just happy to hear Zoe is getting some. Any more sex-less women in a single place, stray cats are going to start following us around.”

“Uh huh, I’m going to stop you right there.” Lila’s perfectly-plucked eyebrows rise in graceful twin arcs. “I have many problems in my life; celibacy is not one of them.”

“To be honest, I get more than I can handle.” Gemma’s smile is wistful. “Chase makes sure of it.”

“I also get it on the regular,” Chrissy adds. “Well, if you consider
on the regular
the rare five-minute intervals that occasionally pop up when both kids are miraculously sleeping, Mark and I are both home, and one of us isn’t covered in some kind of baby spittle.”