One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) (2 page)

Cowards.

I’d stared at the boy with blood on his knuckles — watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest, saw the hatred for the whole damn world burning bright in his eyes —and knew our days as careful strangers had come to an end.

Instead, he became my family.

It took time. I’d been burned in the past; so had he. On the streets, it’s every man for himself, so friends aren’t exactly easy to make. They’re even harder to keep. Being part of Luca’s life wasn’t —
isn’t
— easy. Tethering two wolves together on a single chain is always going to result in some scratches.

Somehow, we managed. Somehow, we stayed close. Somehow —
together
— we stayed alive, even when the odds were stacked so far out of our favor, I thought we’d wind up dead before we made it to twenty. So, when we sorted out our lives, when I taught myself how to code on the free computers at the Boson Public Library and he started fighting for money instead of survival… there was no way I could say no to anything he wanted.

Even when, what he wanted most of all, was to save the damn world from itself.

We share not a drop of blood, but he’s my brother. We’re a team. So, no matter how much shit I talk, no matter how many times he calls in the middle of the night asking for impossible favors, no matter how many international laws he asks me to break… I’ll say yes. I’ll find a way.

That’s what family does.

A
week later
, I’m seriously regretting that familial loyalty.

I tug hard on the hem of the boxy, white button-down dwarfing my frame and fight the urge to scratch at my scalp. It’s all I can do not to toss the wig in the closest trash bin and hope no one notices the cater waiter with the pin straight black bob is suddenly sporting a thick blonde mane of waves halfway down her back.

Yeah
. That’d be a great way to blow my cover.

With a deep sigh, I eye the tray of disgusting-looking finger foods resting on the stainless steel prep table. For the life of me, I’ll never understand why rich people insist on eating this crap.

Foie gras?

Dude. You’re eating duck liver.
Liver
. Aka the avian bile secretion center.

Escargot?

Why yes, that’s a fucking
snail
in your mouth. A glorified slug with a shell.

Caviar?

Two words: Fish. Eggs.

I rest my case.

I’m not sure exactly which “delicacy” is on my newest tray — it looks like a slab of lukewarm tofu with some kind of shaved tartar on top. In short, it’s about as appetizing as a turd on a communion wafer.

Amuse-bouche
my ass.

“Cindy!” The sharp bark assaults my ears. “Cindy, are you listening?”

My eyes swing to Miriam, the catering coordinator for the event, and I find she’s glaring at me with unveiled hostility.

“Sorry,” I mutter, belatedly remembering that
I’m
Cindy — for tonight anyway. Cindy Smith. That’s the name I gave when I filled out the application for this job last week. As far as Miriam knows, I’m a fresh-faced post-grad new to the city, in need of a job and in possession of several fabulous — fictional — references that easily scored me the position.

“Did you hear me?” she snaps, a
tsk
noise escaping her tight-pressed lips. Her severe frown lines wage war against the Botox straining to keep her face two decades younger than the rest of her body. She clutches her clipboard tighter against her prim black blazer and narrows her eyes at me. “Cindy, I know you’re new, but I expect basic competence. If you ever expect to work another event with me, get your head out of the clouds and your ass out there before the tray gets cold. I’m not paying you to stand around daydreaming. Move it!”

I, in fact, am not planning to
ever
work another event for The Catered Affair for the rest of eternity so long as I can help it, but Miriam doesn’t need to know that. Biting back the withering retort poised on my lips, I nod, swipe the tray off the prep table and hoist it into the air with a mocking flourish.

I’m almost to the doors that lead from the kitchen to the function room when they swing inward. Mara, one of the other girls working the event, bustles through in the same ugly uniform I was forced into — black slacks, androgynous button down and a truly terrible mini-vest that makes Hilary Clinton’s famed pantsuits look downright sexy by comparison. There’s an empty tray in her hands and a haggard look on her face.

“Vultures,” she mutters. “Picked my tray clean in under five minutes.” Her clear green eyes focus on my face as she scoots out of my path and holds the door open for me. “Word of advice?”

My eyebrows lift as I step into the hallway.

“Watch out for the guy in the gray pinstripe suit. He’s handsy if you get too close.”

“Fabulous,” I mutter as the door swings closed at my back. Steadying my shoulders, I shake the wig out of my eyes and prepare to face a room full of seventy of Boston’s most affluent businessmen and their arm-candy trophy wives. By the end of the night, one of them is going to wish he’d never crossed my path, considering what I’ve got in store for him. And I’m not just talking about the tofu tartar.

“
H
oney glazed edamame
?” I offer bleakly, tray extended to the cluster of men by the bar. They don’t even glance at me as they grab the appetizers and pop them in their mouths.

I fight a shudder as I watch the slimy green seeds go down the hatch.

I’m on my fourth and blessedly final circulation of the 40
^th
floor ballroom where Lancaster Consolidated is hosting their annual pre-Christmas party. Once the cocktail hour is over, we get a twenty-minute break while the attendees find their seats in the adjacent parlor, before the dinner service starts. That’s my window: twenty minutes. I hope it’s enough.

It has to be enough.

It’s the only window I’ll ever get.

My eyes slide to the corner of the room where Robert Lancaster, CEO of Lancaster Consolidated and host of this exclusive soiree, is holding court. He’s surrounded on all sides by brown-nosing associates hoping to get in good with Boston’s premiere import-export kingpin.

Middle-aged and somewhat pudgy with thinning brown hair and a truly unfortunate hodgepodge of features, he’s not exactly Johnny Depp. And yet he’s quite popular with the ladies, if his string of high profile ex-wives and ex-mistresses — many of whose “acting” and “singing” careers he’s bankrolled — are anything to go by.

I watch him laugh and snag a canapé off Mara’s tray, shoving it into his mouth with gusto. Those hovering around watch avidly as he chews open-mouthed, waiting in suspense for his next words. To the casual observer, he’s the epitome of a success: a beloved businessman basking in the glory of his financial empire.

I know better.

My eyes cut to the slim silver watch cuffing my wrist. Half past six. Dinner is scheduled to start at seven
sharp
, a point Miriam has belabored multiple times since I arrived. If my plan’s going to work, I need to empty this tray ASAP and get a move on.

I head for the far side of the room with a smile pasted on my lips, unloading several glazed edamame balls on unsuspecting guests as I go. I’m circling toward the kitchen doors — and freedom — when a beefy hand lands on my ass.

“What do you have there, sweetheart?”

My spine snaps straight and my teeth clench. It takes every ounce of control I possess not to go claws-out alleycat mode as I slowly turn my head to face the man on my left.

Shoddy hair plugs. Dull brown eyes.
Gray pinstripe suit.

God dammit, Mara wasn’t joking. I’m tempted to make a scene and spit in his face, but the unwanted attention that will bring won’t do me any favors. All it’ll do is ensure I walk out of here without the intel I need.

He doesn’t move his hand, even when I meet his eyes.
Pig
.

“Well?” he prompts, a challenge in his tone. His fingers flex ever so slightly and I try not to flinch. “What are they?”

“Honey glazed edamame balls,” I grit out through my teeth. “Would you like one?”

His eyes scan my body and a chill slithers up my spine.

“I’m interested in whatever you’re serving, honey.”

I take a subtle step back as I offer the tray, trying to escape his grip. His hand drops away but he moves with me and, before I know it, I’m backed up against the wall between the bar and the exit doors. I’m just over five feet tall — the fugly black flats on my feet aren’t doing me any favors — so while his girth is nearly wide enough to surpass his diminutive height, I still feel dwarfed by his presence. I hold the tray between us like a shield.

He takes a step closer. “What’s a girl like you doing working at an event like this, sweetheart? You’re much too pretty to be a waitress.”

I swallow and try not to lose my shit. I’ve eaten men like him for breakfast. If I weren’t determined to stay below the radar, he’d currently be on the ground cradling his family jewels.

“Dinner service is scheduled to start in just a few moments, sir.” My voice is colder than ice. “If you’d like a final appetizer before—”

“You must be an actress.” He cuts me off as his eyes scan me again from top to toe, like I’m wearing lingerie instead of one of the set costumes from the show
Party Down
. He leans a little closer. “Or a model, though you’re a tiny little thing, aren’t you? Too short for runways.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the tray. Screw it. He takes one more step toward me and he’ll find one of these lukewarm edamame balls shoved so far down his throat, he won’t be able to eat solid foods for a week.

“Sir, if you’d like an edamame ball—”

His mouth twitches into a lewd half-smile. “Ah, don’t be like that.” He presses so close, I can feel his breath against my face — sour and smelling strongly of bourbon. “Come on, sweetheart, give me a smile—”

Before he can get the words out, a body slams into his with the force of a linebacker performing a tackle. My back presses tight to the wall and my eyes widen as I watch the blur of pinstripe jostle sideways and stumble off balance. I’m almost positive the creep is about to be sent sprawling on his ass but, at the last moment, a large hand clamps onto his shoulder and steadies him with what seems like very little effort.

“Whoa, there, Sanders.” An amused male voice rumbles from my left. “Watch your step.”

My eyes dart to the man who’s just interrupted Pinstripe’s lechery, and I feel the air constrict in my lungs as I take in his features.

It’s an undeniably attractive face….

And, worse, one I recognize.

Parker West.

W
e’ve never met
in person, of course, but I’d know him anywhere. His picture appears several times a month in the society pages, always with some bimbo or another hanging on his arm like Spanish moss — decorative, but ultimately lacking in substance and purpose. Funnily enough, Parker doesn’t seem to mind that his wafer-thin dates’ weights are higher than their IQ points.

He’s a notorious womanizer. Which should bother me.

I
know
it should bother me.

But…

Damn
.

A bolt of electricity shoots straight between my legs as I take him in. He’s sex and sin in a tanned, muscular package, and that’s just the start of it.

He towers over me — at least six two, maybe taller. Again —
damn
. I’ve always had a thing for tall boys. His nose is straight, aristocratic, the type of feature that speaks to a long line of good genes. His light brown hair is sun-streaked with gold, as if he spends more time outside than in, and slightly tousled, as though running a comb through it for a formal dinner party was simply too much effort. I instantly want to slide my fingers into the thick waves, to messy it further.

Oh, boy.

His whole look — from his tailored Hugo Boss suit to his crisp black tie to his messy-on-purpose hair to his half-hooded bedroom eyes — works on an elemental level. Judging by the way he carries himself, he’s fully aware of it, too.

Zoe, you hate pretty boys
, I remind myself.
Remember?

For some reason, it’s hard to hold onto that thought as I look directly into his hazel-gold eyes, which are currently fixed on my face with an alarming amount of curiosity in their depths. He’s staring at me like I’m a question he wants very much to answer.

I gulp.

His eyes crinkle.

Thankfully, the pinstripe groper — Sanders — chooses this moment to interrupt our little staring contest.

“Mr. West.” He’s breathing heavily and his face is getting red. “Watch where you’re going, son, you almost plowed me over.”

Parker’s eyes lose a little of their heat as they slide away from me to focus on Pudgy Pinstripe.

“Yes, I’ll have to be more careful,” he says in a dangerously soft voice. “Just as I’m sure you’ll be more careful about where you place your hands when selecting appetizers in the future. Isn’t that your wife, over by the bar? I’d hate for her to hear about your…” His pause is lethal. “…
appetite
… for certain dishes.”

The threat hangs there in the air for a moment and Sanders’ face turns red as a tomato before he grumbles an excuse about needing the bathroom and storms away, no doubt to grope one of the other cater-waiters.

And then there were two.

I dare a glance at Parker and find he’s staring at me again.

“What?” I ask sharply, gripping my tray tighter. “Are you waiting for a party in your honor? A cookie? A parade of some sort, complete with clowns and miniature horses?”

His grin widens. “I was hoping for a thank you. But, now that you mention it, I
am
a fan of miniature horses.” His brow furrows. “I don’t like clowns, though. Bad experience at my fifth birthday party. Never quite recovered.”

“How tragic,” I say dryly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I won’t, actually,” he says immediately, sidestepping to block me when I move to leave.

I crane my neck to glare up at him. “Won’t what?

“Won’t excuse you.”

“It’s an expression,” I say incredulously. “Said while trying to be polite. It doesn’t actually require the other person’s permission.”

“Then why say it at all?”

I scowl at him. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Standing here being charming and irresistible?”

“No. Playing dumb — or, rather,
dumber than you look
which is a feat in itself, so
bravo!
— to keep me here talking to you.”

His lips twitch. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re sassy?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re annoying?”

“And that voice of yours.” He leans in a fraction and I catch a waft of his aftershave. I feel my thighs press together of their own accord. “So husky. You should be a late-night radio host announcer. Or an audiobook narrator. Hell, you call up Apple and offer to voice the new Siri, I guarantee I’ll never lose my iPhone again.”

“You’re sexually harassing me.”

“Me? Harassing you?” He has the nerve to wink while acting outraged. “If I wanted to do that, I’d have suggested you become a sex line operator.”

“So, to be clear, you saved me from sexual harassment only to sexually harass me yourself?” I lift my brows. “That’s really what’s happening here?”

“I’m not sexually harassing you,” he insists. “In fact, you’re sexually harassing me.”

“How’s that, exactly?”

“You just looked at my crotch.”

Completely baffled by his accusation, I involuntarily drop my gaze to said nether region —
oh, boy, someone’s a leftie
— and find my cheeks are suddenly on fire. “I most certainly did
not
look at your crotch!” I hiss, trying to get the uncharacteristic blush under control.

“You’re looking at it right now,” he points out.

“Only because you said—” I screech in frustration and tear my eyes away. “Ugh! You’re more than annoying. You’re a manipulative, self-entitled chauvinist.”

“Would it shock you to know that’s not the worst thing I’ve been called on a first date?” His eyes get warm. “We’re doing pretty well, by comparison.”

“D-date?” I splutter, staring at him like his head is about to explode. “I’m working. You’re bothering me. This is
not
a date. This is the exact opposite of a date.”

He adopts a thoughtful look as he glances around the room. “Ambient lighting. Dark corner. Intimate conversation. Discrete examination of my anatomy.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Sounds like a date to me.”

“I pity the women forced to actually go out with you.”

“Darling, I don’t have to force them,” he says, flashing a grin that makes me believe him. “Are you sure we haven’t met before? You seem familiar.”

We haven’t met — not exactly.
And he couldn’t possibly remember…

Last spring, I helped his sister Phoebe out of a rather sticky situation. I called her phone once, to warn her of trouble… and her brother happened to be in the room at the time. But neither of them knows my name. He just heard my voice. And that was
months
ago.

“No,” I say, shaking my head firmly. “We’ve definitely never met.”

“Huh.” His eyes scan my features curiously. “Strange. I feel like I know you.”

“Well, you don’t. Now, if you’ll let me by…”

“I’m Parker, by the way.” He grins again. “And you are?”

“Not interested,” I return, wishing it were true as my heart pounds too fast inside my chest.

Because I’m angry
, I tell myself.
Outraged. Incensed.

That’s the only explanation for the tightness in my stomach. The dizziness in my head. The sweatiness of my palms.

…The heat between my legs.

Damn
.

“Listen, buddy,” I snap, intensifying my glare for good measure. “If you’re not going to take an edamame ball, you really have to let me by. I have work to do.”

And, I remember alarmingly, a very narrow window of time to get my intel which, thanks to this little interlude, is now even shorter.

His eyes drop to my tray and his face screws up in a grimace. “Honestly, are those even edible?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. Now, move out of my way or I will
make you
move.”

His eyes light up in anticipation, like a puppy offered a treat. “Promise?”

My only response is another withering glare.

“Fine, fine.” He chuckles as he holds up his hands in surrender. “My ego has been bruised enough.”

I step past him and this time he doesn’t stop me. As I walk away, though, he calls out loud enough to draw the gazes of several surrounding party-goers.

“So, that’s a no on the thank-you parade, then?”

I don’t look back, but I can feel his eyes on me the whole way to the doors. I pretend not to notice the smile tugging at my lips and the swirl of unwanted butterflies in my stomach as I slip into the kitchens and out of sight.

“
T
wenty minutes
, people, then you need to be back here and ready to serve the main course.” Miriam sounds like the green-scaled dinosaur lady from
Monster’s Inc.
and, actually, bears a slight resemblance to her if you look close enough. “If you’re going to smoke, you’ll have to take the elevator up to the roof.” She glances at the clock. “Time starts now.”

The group of twelve cater-waiters disperses faster than high schoolers at a cop-busted kegger.

Mara looks at me, a box of cigarettes clasped tight in her hand. “You coming?”

I shake my head. “Don’t smoke.”

“I’m quitting. Just… not tonight.” A sheepish grin lights up her whole face. “See you in a few.”

I wait until everyone’s cleared out, then hustle through the side door and beeline for the small women’s bathroom at the end of the hall. The event is almost entirely male businessmen, so it’s blessedly deserted — marking, perhaps, the only time in my life I’ve ever been thankful for that pesky glass ceiling the female CEOs smacked into when hoping for an invitation to this shindig. The handful of women actually in attendance are all using the fancy ballroom bathrooms, not trekking down the hall in their Manolos to this one. I should be totally under the radar, here.

Flipping the deadbolt behind me, I pull open the cabinets beneath the sink, push aside several bottles of cleaning products, and slide out the black backpack I stashed inside earlier. In less than a minute, I’ve shimmied out of the god-awful uniform and into a tight-fitting black ball gown with whisper-thin straps, a lace bodice, and a flared hem which falls just far enough to conceal my flats. Without letting myself consider the ramifications of this monumentally stupid plan, I shove the uniform into the backpack along with the itchy black wig, zip it closed, and stash it out of sight in the cabinet.

I hate wasting a few precious moments on my hair, but it can’t be helped. There’s a
lot
of it, and after being stuffed beneath the wig for two hours, it’s flat and frizzy. I run my fingers under the tap for a moment, then work them the through the blonde mane to give it a little life. Scraping the pile into an up-do, I fasten it with a pretty tortoiseshell clip barely wide enough to contain the riot of waves. One swipe of lipstick is all I bother with for makeup. Staring at the blonde, blue eyed girl in the mirror, I pinch my cheeks for added color and examine my disguise. Not perfect, but good enough.

It has to be — there’s no more time to waste.

I duck out of the bathroom a moment later looking entirely different from the pale, dark-haired waiter who entered. From a distance, no one will recognize me. And if I’m caught, chances are a security guard will be much more lenient with a pretty party guest than a rogue member of the wait staff. It’s a hell of a lot easier to flirt your way out of a jam dressed in BCBG couture than a unisex button-down.

Moving on silent feet down the dimly lit hall, I scan door numbers as I pass.

4017

4020

4023

Copy room, storage room, conference room. All useless to me.

I keep going, growing more nervous the farther from the reception I get. Minutes tick by on my watch, taunting me like a child’s hide-and-go-seek countdown.

Thirteen.

Twelve.

Eleven.

I finally spot what I’m looking for at the end of the hall. My pace increases as I hurry to it.

Ready or not, here I come
.

I don’t turn on the light as I crack open the door and step into the dark office. Moonlight shines through the wall of glass on my left, bright enough to illuminate the shape of a cubicle and —
finally!
— a computer console. My fingers tap impatiently against the shiny wood desk as I wait for it to power on.

Ten minutes.

When the home screen loads, I’m confronted with a password-protected login. I plunk myself into the leather swivel chair and punch in a quick series of commands to toggle the computer’s terminal window. Green code text flows across the console as I type a few keystrokes to bypass the security system. For anyone who knows even the smallest amount of code, it’s shockingly easy to access a “private” computer account.

Thanks for that, Microsoft. It makes my job a hell of a lot easier.

Once I’m in, I reach into my bra and fish out the flash drive that’s been digging into my ribcage all night. It’s still warm from my body as I pop it into the USB port and wait for the sluggish system to recognize the hardware. A glance at my watch makes my pulse skyrocket.

Seven minutes.

It takes only seconds for the virus I built to worm into the Lancaster Consolidated network, but that’s only phase one of my plan.

Infect.

Retrieve.

Escape.

I don’t have time to weed through mountains of computer data to find the financial files I need, so I copy the entire hard drive. The lightning-fast 512 GB storage stick cost more than my monthly rent payment, but at times like this it really comes in handy. Any self-respecting hacker needs one.

Well, that, and an endless supply of candy and caffeine.

My fingers tap nervous rhythms against the shitty particleboard as I wait. This office clearly doesn’t belong to one of the executives. A lower-level manager, perhaps, or an accountant. That’s fine, though — every computer in this building is on the same network, like Christmas lights on a string. Crack one fuse, you’ve cracked them all.

Easy.

So long as you don’t get caught, that is.

If I end up in jail for this shit, I will personally
kill
Luca.

The file transfer takes a long time. Too long.

My gaze flips back and forth between the data percentage bar, inching closer to completion at a glacial place, and the face of my watch, where minutes dwindle from five to four to three. By the time the computer pings to signify the transfer is complete, I have less than two minutes to get back to the bathroom, whip off this dress, and change into my catering uniform.