One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3)

by Julie Johnson

  “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.

  * * *

  “Twenty 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 d
on’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.

  Ejecting the thumb drive, I shove it back into my bra and power off the computer as fast as possible. I’m already reaching for my hair clip as I rush out of the office and hurry down the hallway, hoping like hell Miriam doesn’t have a shit-fit when I’m a few seconds late, or beat me to death with that stick she’s got shoved up her ass.

  Doubtful.

  I’m nearly back at the bathroom, so close to escape I can practically taste it, when a loud male voice rings out and stops me in my tracks.

  “Hey! You! What are you doing out here? This area is off limits to attendees.”

  Fuck.

  3

  The Savior

  I pivot slowly to face the two security guards striding toward me, their matching gray suits ill-fitting, their faces set in identical expressions of displeasure. I don’t know where Lancaster drummed these guys up, but they could be Schwarzenegger stand-ins on the Terminator set. Their muscles have muscles; their necks seem to have disappeared entirely.

  “Are you boys talking to me?” I ask, doing my best bimbo impression. My voice is so high and bubbly, I’m sure the dolphins at Boston Aquarium are on high alert. I force my dark blue eyes wide, channeling I’m-just-an-innocent-piece-of-arm-candy vibes.

  I see the slight shift of their expressions as they take me in. Their gaits slow from angry strides to strolls as they come to a stop a few feet from me.

  “Miss, this area is off-limits,” the one on the right says, eyeing me skeptically.

  “Oh.” I make a pouty face. A sultry shake of my head sends tendrils of hair spilling over my bare shoulders in a gold curtain. I arch my back slightly, shamelessly using my B-cups to their best advantage as a humph sound escapes my pursed mouth. “Well, no one told me that. The party is just so boring, I thought I’d stretch my legs.” I contort my face into mask of alarm and make my voice so breathy, Marilyn Monroe would be impressed. “I’m not… I’m not in trouble, am I?”

  If only I had a stick of gum to chew, the Barbie illusion would be complete.

  The men glance at each other and I see them silently dismiss me as a viable threat. Which is a good thing because, seriously, I have about twenty seconds before Miriam notices my absence and sounds the alarm.

  “No, miss, you’re not in trouble.” The guard on the left, who’s maybe ten years younger than his counterpart, smiles briefly at me. “Just make sure to stay in the ballroom for the rest of the night. We’re not supposed to allow anyone back here.”

  “Oh, thank you, boys!” I exclaim, winking at them. “I promise I’ll be a good girl from now on.” My tone turns suggestive. “Well… I’ll try to be good.”

  If I’m not mistaken, a blush creeps up the older guard’s neck. The younger one is outright grinning at me.

  Gotcha.

  I tilt my head and bite my lip demurely. “You know, it’s rare to meet honest-to-gosh gentlemen, nowadays. Thank you.”

  “No problem, miss.”

  “Y’all have a good night, now!”

  “You too, miss,” the younger guard says. “Enjoy the party.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” I say on a laugh, turning to go. It’s hard to keep myself from taking off at a run, but I know they’re still watching.

  So, I’ll be a few minutes late. Miriam will rant. At least I won’t be cuffed in the back of a squad car.

  Leaving the men behind, I’m flooded with so much relief I don’t notice the third guard coming around the corner until I’ve nearly bumped noses with her.

  Yes, her.

  Damn. Somehow, I doubt my bimbo routine will be equally effective on a woman.

  “What’s happening here?” she snaps in a no-nonsense voice at the male guards behind me. “Who is this and why is she back here?”

  The men move to my either side — a Schwarzenegger sandwich.

  “Well, uh,” the younger guard hedges, glancing guiltily from me to the woman who is clearly his superior. “This young lady is with the party in the ballroom.”

  “And?” she barks again in that condescending tone.

  Superior or no, she should rethink her management strategies…. and possibly her pantsuit. It really emphasizes her cankles.

  “We were just about to escort her back,” the older guard chimes in.

  “Yes,” I start. “I was—”

  “Quiet!” she growls, dismissing me instantly. Her focus shifts back to her men. “Mr. Lancaster said no one was allowed back here. No exceptions. Anyone caught wandering was to be brought to his attention immediately.”

  “We know that, ma’am, but—”

  “No exceptions,” she repeats, eyes narrowing. “Have you even confirmed she’s a guest?”

  My mouth goes dry. I focus on the feeling of the USB in my bra and wonder if they’ll strip search me here or down at the police station…

  Don’t panic, I tell myself. What’s the worst that can happen?

  Oh, you know. Just a felony charge for trespassing and corporate espionage. Twenty years in federal prison. No big deal.

  “You,” she spits at the younger guard. “Go get Mr. Lancaster and Mr. Linus, the Head of Security.” Her gaze swivels to pin the older guard in place. “If you think you can manage it, stay with her and make sure she doesn’t move until we get—”

  “Oh, there you are, snookums!” a familiar voice interrupts her tirade. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  My wide eyes fly past the female guard and catch sight of Parker West, who’s striding down the hallway toward us with a determined look on his face. His gaze is locked on me as he pushes through the group and slides an arm around my shoulders, hauling me into his side with such familiarity, anyone watching would undoubtedly think we were something more than just friends.

  “Where have you been?” Parker asks, peering down into my face. A warning squeeze of his fingers on the flesh of my upper arm tells me my vacant expression is blowing the whole act. The message in his eyes is clear: I’d better start playing along, pronto.

  I don’t know why he’s helping me; right now, I don’t care.

  I need him and he knows it.

  “Here I am,” I say in bimbo-voice, turning into his chest and winding one arm between his shirt and his suit jacket. I can feel the muscled flesh beneath the fabric and instantly wonder what it would be like to run my hands down the bare planes of his back. My fingertips. My lips…

  Zoe, focus! This is so not the time for sexual fantasies.

  I try to banish the thought, but it’s difficult to focus on anything with the heat of his skin still radiating against my palm.

  “I missed you, snookums,” Parker says, giving me another warning squeeze.

  “I was on my way back, honey bear, I promise!” I bubble. His eyebrow twitches at the endearment. “These nice guard
s were just going to escort me.”

  Okay, so, honey bear might’ve been a little much. Whatever.

  “Well, so long as you’re back with me now, it doesn’t matter.” Parker steps forward, bringing me with him. “We must be getting back. Thank you all for looking out for my snookums, here.”

  If he calls me snookums one more time I’m going to murder him.

  “Mr. West, sir, that’s not exactly the case—” The female guard cuts in, trying to regain control of the situation. “She can’t just leave, we have some questions—”

  “Oh, my little love bug here is always going off to powder her nose and getting lost,” he confides to the guards, who all look baffled and uncomfortable.

  Pet names and PDA have that general effect, it seems.

  Parker grins as he leads us down the hall, guards at our heels. “Terrible sense of direction, this one. Without me, she wouldn’t be able to find the front door of our condo.”

  I grit my teeth in what I hope appears as a smile. “Thankfully, I have you to guide me, honey bee.”

  “Mr. West, to be clear… you’re saying this woman is with you?” The female guard is frowning mightily as she trails behind us. “Because—”

  “Of course she’s with me,” Parker says, coming to an abrupt stop. He pulls me closer until I’m practically fused to his side, my every curve plastered against the hard contours of his chest. I must admit, it’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling. “She wanted to stay home and watch The Real Housewives marathon but I simply couldn’t bear to be parted from my snookums for an entire night.”

  That’s it. He’s a dead man.

  “But sir—”

  Parker’s demeanor shifts from playful to powerful so fast, it’s like a switch has been flipped inside him. He straightens to full height, his muscles go tense, and his voice adopts a thread of steel that was absent before.

  “If you have a problem with my date, you’ll have a problem with me,” he says lowly. “WestTech is one of Mr. Lancaster’s most lucrative business partners, as I’m sure you’re aware. But if we’re going to be treated with suspicion and disrespect, maybe you should go get your boss.” He pauses and stares into the female guard’s eyes. “I have some of my own grievances I could air about his staff and their shortcomings.”