One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) (8 page)

At least, that’s the reason I give myself for staying close to him as we make our way down the docks. There are only a handful of boats in the harbor this time of year — it’s too cold, even at the heated marina slips, for most to remain in the water. We eventually come to a stop at the end of the row, where a massive sailboat is docked. Its hull is starkly white in contrast to the lapping gray waves. It must be at least sixty feet long.

I eye the vessel warily. “Please tell me we’re not going deep sea fishing.”

He laughs. “You can’t go deep sea fishing on a sailboat.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I murmur. “I’ve never been on one.”

“A sailboat?”

“Any boat.”

I don’t do boats. I don’t know how to swim. Hell, I’ve only been to the beach a handful of times in my entire life, and frankly I would’ve rather eaten a bucketful of sand than actually enter those shark-infested waters.

Um, hello? They filmed
Jaws
in Martha’s Vineyard for a reason.

Still — my aversion to water sports is a rarity, in a place like this. Boston is surrounded on three sides by water. If you grow up here, there’s a good chance you’ll spend your summers tanning at a beachfront cottage on the Cape, sailing between the harbor islands, zipping around on jet skis, tubing or waterskiing off the back of a motorboat.

Assuming, of course, you have parents who are alive to do those things with you…

I feel Parker studying me, but I keep my eyes trained forward. I don’t want to see the curiosity — or worse, the pity — in his stare.

“Well,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “Let’s do something about that.”

I swallow hard, determined not to broadcast the idea of getting onboard that thing scares the shit out of me. I’ve always been in favor of keeping both feet planted firmly on the ground.

But… The more time I spend with him, the more I’m getting the feeling Parker lives in total contradiction to that belief. His is a changeable, mercurial existence — flying on wind currents, skimming over waves. He, down to a molecular level, challenges everything about the person I’ve worked to become and the values I’ve tried to instill.

I’m careful. Cautious. Methodical.

He’s bold. Brash. Free.

It’s anathema.

It’s addicting.

“Spend one afternoon with me,” he whispers. For once, his voice is totally stripped of that wisecracking sarcasm he’s constantly using.

I look up at him, straight into his eyes, and feel my heart thudding too loud inside my veins. I don’t want to ask the question — I don’t want to reveal any insecurity to him — but I can’t seem to stop the words from tumbling out.

“Why are you so intent on spending time with me?”

“I like you,” he says softly, hazel eyes roaming my face like a detective searching a crime scene for clues. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“You don’t know me,” I counter.

He thinks about that for a minute. “Thing is, that’s not really an excuse. Because no one ever really knows anybody. Some people spend their whole lives with someone, only to find out after they’re gone that everything they
thought
they knew was total bullshit.”

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. I’m stunned to find… I actually agree with him.

His hand tightens on mine. “I’ve traveled a lot. Been all over the world. Seen places of immense poverty and immense wealth. For a long time, I wanted to see
everything
, just so I could say I’d done it. Climbed Kilimanjaro, walked among the moai statues at Easter Island, dived on an underwater volcano in Indonesia, seen the dragons on Komodo. But at a certain point, you realize you’ll never see it all before you die—” He pauses. “—or before some petite, pretty-as-hell hacker frames you for murder and sends you to prison with a cellmate named Nacho.”

“Diablo,” I correct, laughing.

He shrugs. “My point is, you can’t see it all. You have to pick and choose. Prioritize the places you want to visit, the way you want to spend your limited days on this earth. Life’s too damn short to waste it with people who don’t make you happy, in places that don’t excite you, doing things that don’t challenge you.” He looks at me — really looks — and I get the oddest sense that he actually
sees
me. This person who, by all accounts, is nothing more than a partying playboy, a tabloid prince, a paparazzi favorite… somehow understands me.

Me
.

Zoe Bloom, who’s never been anywhere outside the Greater Boston Area, never even
heard
of half the places he rattled off with such familiarity.

“Zoe,” he says lowly, snapping my attention back to him. “You travel that much, you get pretty good at sorting out the things you’ll enjoy exploring from the places that’ll leave your soul empty.” His hand gives mine a quick squeeze. “Only took one look at you to know which category you’d fall into.”

I suck in a sharp breath.

Only took one look…

“So,” he says, before I have time to recover.

“So?” I echo, ignoring the racing of my heart.

“Spend the day with me. Let me take you on an adventure. Let me show you what fun looks like.”

I take a breath.

Here it is. The tipping point.

I’ve been putting him off all day, telling myself I don’t like him, don’t want to spend any more time with him than I have to, that lingering in his presence is due to the flash drive, nothing else. Certainly not because I might actually
like
him.

That would be crazy. Right?

His expression is easy-going as he waits for my answer, but his eyes never lose that intent edge as they stare into mine. There’s something simmering at the back of his irises that I can’t quite define — I don’t know him well enough.

But I want to
, a voice in my mind stuns me by replying.
I want to know this man — want to see what lies beneath that facade of trust-fund entitlement and joking nonchalance.

“Okay, Parker,” I whisper. His eyes flare when I say his name — his real name, not
playboy
or
man-child
. “One day. One adventure. You’d better make it count.”

“Darling… Something to know about me?” He leans closer. “I
always
make it count.”

W
e walk
along the side of the boat until we reach a narrow wooden gangway extending over the water. One end rests on the dock before us; the other sits on the rail of the sailboat. It looks far too thin to hold Parker’s body weight, but he doesn’t even blink as he strides out onto the ramp like he’s done it a million times before. He probably
has
done it a million times before.

He pulls me along behind him and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from yelling,
Wait just a goddamned minute! We don’t all live like you, jumping into things without ever glancing at the ground.

He must feel my hand go tense in his, because his grip loosens to release it. He stops in the middle of the gangway and glances back at me.

“You okay?”

My eyes dart down to the thin piece of wood suspending him over the water. There is no fucking way I’m walking on that thing in heels. “Peachy.”

His eyes narrow. “Oh really?”

“Yep.” I swallow. “I just don’t want to plummet into the harbor, seeing as it looks about as warm as the White Witch from the Narnia movies and I’d rather not freeze to death.”

“Narnia?” His mouth twitches. “Really?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Yes, really. Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I just wouldn’t have pegged you as a kids’ movie fan. I kind of figured you only watched documentaries. Black and white silent films. Foreign flicks with subtitles. Shit like that.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” My voice lowers. “And for the record, Narnia is
not
just a kids’ movie.”

“Whoa.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Happy to be proven wrong. Let’s have a movie night, you can educate me on all things Narnian.”

“We’re not having a movie night.”

“Why not?”

“We’ve been through this.
Multiple
times. I’m not going out with you.”

“Technically, I was suggesting we stay in.”

“Still not happening.”

“Uh huh.” His tone is amused. As though he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

Idiot.

I strive for composure. “Listen. You really need to wrap your mind around this…” I make sure to emphasize every word, so he can’t possibly misinterpret my meaning. “After today, we’re never going to see each other again.”

He thinks about that for a nanosecond. “You’re very persnickety.”

“This is me being
nice
,” I inform him. “If you give me my flash drive back, you won’t have to experience my truly disagreeable side.”

“But, Zoe… I
like
your disagreeable side.”

I look skyward and ask the heavens, “Why me? What did I do to deserve this?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

My gaze returns to Parker. “I hate you,” I say tiredly.

“Well, can you hate me from onboard?” He bounces a bit and the whole gangplank shakes like a tambourine. “You’re shivering. It’s warmer inside.”

My eyes widen. “Don’t bounce like that, you’ll snap the wood.”

“That’s what she said.”

I glare.

He grins. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He bounces again and the board jumps beneath his feet. “Come on. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Would you stop that?!” I exclaim, watching the plank rattle precariously. Another good bounce and he’ll be in the water.

“Why?” he asks, bouncing again. The board slips closer to the edge of the rail. “You worried about me?”

“No.” I swallow. My eyes are locked on his tread-less leather shoes — sliding again and again — and I feel my stomach clench. “You’re going to fall into the fucking harbor and I am
not
jumping in after you, man-child.”

“Aw.” He laughs. “You’re worried about my welfare. It’s cute.”

I make an incredulous sound. “Only you would interpret that statement as
cute
.”

“How much longer are you going to delay getting on the boat?”

“At the very least until you stop bouncing like a six-year-old in an inflatable castle.”

He stops, but his boyish grin never wavers. “There — I’ve stopped. Now, come on, scaredy cat. You won’t fall in. I’ve got you.”

My chin jerks up. “I’m not scared.”

I’m not scared of anything
.

“Prove it,” he says, that challenging look back in his eye.

I grit my teeth and reach down to pull off my heels, one by one. Without saying a word, I shove them into the space between us and wait for Parker to take them.

His mouth opens, a question poised on his lips.

“Shut up,” I cut him off, still holding out the shoes. “And take the damn heels before I change my mind.”

He’s silent as his large hands close around the slingback straps and even manages not to say anything as I grudgingly pass over my laptop bag. He can’t quite hide the way his lips twitch, though, as he watches me jumping from foot to foot on the freezing dock, trying to stay warm.

“Not a word,” I mutter in a threatening tone.

His eyes glitter with amusement but he remains silent.

Forcing a deep breath into my lungs, I make myself take a step onto the gangway. And then another. And another.

I’m watching my feet, entirely focused on not toppling into the water, so I don’t notice Parker hasn’t moved from the middle of the board. I bump straight into his chest, the jolt of my body against his throwing me off balance. For a split second, I actually think I
am
going to fall into that icy water and drown.

“Whoa,” he whispers, his hands coming up to steady my shoulders. I can feel the warmth of his strong palms radiating through my thin blazer. My pulse is pounding like a kick-drum as we stand suspended over the water, eyes locked. Invading each other’s space. Breathing each other in.

“There. That wasn’t too hard, was it?” he asks in a soft, serious tone.

I pause and, equally serious, whisper, “That’s what she said.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “I could kiss you, for that,” he says when he’s done chuckling.

“You’d better not,” I warn. “Or I’ll push you in the harbor and leave you to freeze. And I’ve heard hypothermia isn’t exactly a bucket of laughs.”

“You happen to know the cure for hypothermia?” he asks, grinning.

“I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

“Best way to warm up — climb inside a sleeping bag naked with the nearest available human.” His eyes crinkle. “That would be you, darling.”

“I think I’d rather let you freeze. I’ve heard your appendages turn black and fall off.” My eyes narrow. “Fingers. Toes. Your pen—”

“AH!” He cuts me off with a grimace. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Muttering something under his breath about me being evil, he turns and walks onto the sailboat. I keep my eyes on his shoulder blades as I follow him onboard, and with the warmth of his presence radiating through my chest, I don’t spare a single bit of attention to the icy water beneath my feet.

“
H
ere
.” Parker shoves a ball of fabric at me almost as soon as we step down into the cabin — it looks vaguely like the suit the Gorton’s fish stick man wears, but it’s white instead of bright yellow. I stare at it like a venomous animal.

“What is that?”

“Just put it on.” He moves closer and bends until we’re eye to eye. “It’ll be huge on you, but at least it’ll keep you warm.”

“Warm for what?” I ask suspiciously.

“I seem to remember you agreeing to stick around for at least one spontaneous adventure. That does not include asking a thousand questions.”

“I didn’t agree. You browbeat me until I caved in.”

“Semantics.” He grins. “Just put it on.”

“It’s about two degrees out. You don’t really expect me to go sailing with you, right? People don’t sail in the winter.”

“How would you know?”

“Parker.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

My eyes bug out. “Windburn. Frostbite. Drowning. Exposure… Need I go on?”

“Live a little.”

“I
am
living. It’s the imminent death-at-sea that I’m worried about.”

He grins as he places a set of rubber boots in front of me. “These will be way too big on your tiny little feet, but they’re all I have. I’ll have to get a smaller pair for next time.”

“Next time? What do you mean,
next time
?”

He stares at my bare feet and for the first moment in my life, I find myself wishing I was one of those girls who keeps her toes perfectly pedicured at all times. Against the hardwood, they look pale and, I must admit, very small.

“Though, I don’t know if they make these in kids sizes,” he murmurs to himself.

“My feet are not tiny! They’re a size six. That’s a perfectly normal size.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s busy moving through the cabin — which, now that I’ve taken the time to look around, I must admit is really fucking amazing for a boat.

Actually — not even
for a boat
. It’s just plain amazing.

The stairs leading down here are so steep they’re practically a ladder — it reminds me of climbing into a treehouse or a fort of some kind – but that’s to be expected, I suppose. The space is about the same length as my loft but a lot narrower, maybe fourteen or fifteen feet at its widest point.

I thought the inside might feel claustrophobic, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s all warm wood and white cushions. Natural light pours in everywhere, despite the cloudy day — skylight hatches cover the ceiling, round portals dot the walls.

From what I can see, there’s a full master suite at the front, a small bathroom to either side, and a decent sized kitchen complete with a compact refrigerator and a stove top. On the right, there’s a table that seats six and a desk covered with navigational equipment. The left is dominated by a low-slung white couch with a plasma TV mounted on the wall across from it. Turning to glance behind me, I see there are at least two more bedrooms in the rear of the boat.

It may float, but it’s nicer than most apartments I’ve been inside.

And, to my surprise, it looks
lived
in
. There’s an open camera bag sitting on a shelf — from here, I can see several different lenses and a giant Nikon sticking out the top. There’s a dirty coffee mug in the sink. A bread on the counter. A sweater draped over the back of one chair. A well-worn pair of Sperry’s sitting by the bedroom door.

“Do you live here?” I ask, recalling that I couldn’t find an address for him during my cyber-stalking. A sailboat wouldn’t be listed in the Registry of Deeds or the RMV database… and I hadn’t thought to check any boating registries.

“Yes.” His reply is muffled — he’s leaning into the closet, searching for something.

“Every night?” I pester.

“Yes.”

“All year?”

“No more questions. You’re stalling,” Parker calls, pulling another water-resistant suit from the closet. It looks bigger than the one in my hands, and it’s red instead of white. “Put on your foulies.”

“Foulies?” I ask.

“Foul-weather gear,” he responds, bending to undo the laces of his leather shoes.

Ignoring his command, I lean against the table and glance around the boat again. “I didn’t know a boat could look like this.”

“She’s not just a
boat
.” He scoffs, clearly offended. “She’s a Swan 60.”

“She?” I ask, amused.

“
Folly
.” I hear one of his shoes drop to the floor.

“You named your boat
Folly
? Isn’t that asking for trouble?”

There’s another thud as the second shoe drops. “I didn’t name her — the guy who sold her to me was an idiot, and I haven’t had time to rechristen her with something better. I’ve only had her a few months. I was crashing at my friend Nate’s place for a while, when I first moved here. My last boat was too small to stay on long-term, so I had to upgrade.”

Nate
. He must mean Nathaniel Knox, the best private security specialist in the city… and his sister Phoebe’s boyfriend. Our paths have never crossed directly, but I know Luca has done some work with Knox in the past – hired him for surveillance work when we needed help on a few tricky cases, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t call them friends, but they certainly know each other.

“Needed my own space,” Parker adds. “Nate’s a great guy, but his place has about as much color as a monastery.”

“And you decided a boat was better than a reasonable one-bedroom because…?”

He chuckles. “Darling, what about me screams
reasonable
?”

“Point taken,” I mutter, studying the navigational equipment at the desk and wondering how hard it would be to hack his GPS software.

Maybe I can send him sailing straight into the Bermuda Triangle… Then I’ll never have to deal with him again.

“Plus, I don’t know how long I’ll be sticking around. I only came to Boston to help with the family business. Once WestTech is stable enough, I’ll hire a new CEO and sail off into the sunset. Literally.”

A pang of something unfamiliar jolts through me when he mentions leaving. I steadfastly ignore it.

“Anyway, to answer your original question,” he continues. “All boats and cars are women. Why do you think men love them so much?”

I look back at him, a comment about patriarchal stereotypes poised on my lips, and feel my mouth go completely dry. He’s stripped off his suit jacket and his tie, leaving him in a tight-fitting white button down. His bicep muscles strain against the fabric each time his deft fingers move to undo the buttons at his wrists.

He grins as he reaches for his belt buckle. “Should I put on some mood music? Usually when I do a strip-tease, I like a background beat…”

“Ah!” I turn away swiftly. The sound of pants hitting the floor makes heat rise to my cheeks. “Why are you stripping?”

“Well, I’m not going to wear a two-thousand-dollar suit sailing.”

“You seriously think we’re going sailing? In
December
?” I’m so incredulous, I forget that he’s practically naked and spin my head back around… only to find my eyes glued to the finest bare chest I’ve ever seen in my life.

Holy. Fuck.

A thin smattering of blond hair — just the right amount — covers his chest and trails down his abs into the elastic waistline of his tight, black boxer briefs. His skin is somehow bronze from the sun, even though it’s the middle of winter. And his muscles — dear god, those muscles. I don’t know whether to focus on his thighs or his abs or the corded veins in his forearms. I don’t even dare a glance at the bulge in his boxers.