One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3)

by Julie Johnson

  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.

  * * *

  “Here.” 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 upg
rade.”

  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.

  “Put some clothes on,” I squeak, tilting my head back and staring at the ceiling as I try to banish all thoughts of taught, tan skin.

  He laughs and it sounds like sin. “Why? Is this bothering you?”

  “No,” I snap. “I just don’t want to catch chlamydia.”

  “Ouch! That wasn’t nice, snookums. Even for you.”

  “Maybe I’m not a nice person,” I tell the ceiling.

  He thinks about my words for a minute. “Nah, I can’t buy that.”

  “You can buy whatever you want, with a trust fund like yours.” I swallow when I hear him walking closer. “So long as you put some freaking clothes on.”

  “Hmmm… Been researching me, huh?”

  Damn. The trust fund slip-up gave me away.

  I squirm a little. “No.”

  “I bet you Facebook-stalked the shit out of me.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “I bet you saved a picture of me as your desktop background.” His voice is smug. And close. Like he’s standing less than a foot away.

  Look at the ceiling. Don’t look at him.

  “You’re delusional.”

  “I bet you think you know everything there is to know about me, don’t you, hacker girl?” His voice drops to a husky whisper. “I bet you think you’ve got me all figured out, like everything else in your orderly little life.”

  Ugh!

  I know he’s baiting me, but I can’t take it anymore — I have to glare at him.

  As soon as my eyes land on his body, I wish I’d resisted the urge.

  His chest is at eye-level — and, fuck me, it’s even better up close. I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat and tell myself it would be very, very wrong to sleep with him.

  Even though it would be the best sex of your life… a voice whispers from the back of my mind. Even though there’s a very large, comfortable-looking bed just a handful of feet away… Even though you’re insanely attracted to him… at least, when he’s not speaking…

  Zoe! Focus.

  Shaking myself back into sanity, I look up at his face so I’ll stop drooling over his body. It’s not much of an improvement — his gorgeous eyes are locked on mine, burning with heat and humor. I feel my stomach flip as desire threads through me.

  Shit. I really need to steer this conversation into safer waters.

  I clear my throat. “Judging from the very brief amount of time I spent stalking you on the internet—”

  He chuckles lowly. Damn, that’s a sexy sound.

  “—I would have to concur that there’s really nothing interesting to know about you, Parker West.” I pause and lean toward him. “Except, perhaps, your middle name.”

  His grin disappears.

  Gotcha.

  My nose wrinkles. “Gilbert? What were your parents thinking?”

  “It’s a family name,” he says defensively.

  “Gilbert? Gil-bert.” I repeat, dragging out the syllables.

  “I take it back,” he mutters, his expression dark. “You’re not a nice person.”

  I laugh, victorious, and turn away. “Put some clothes on, playboy.”

  Remarkably, he doesn’t say anything as I slip into the nearby bathroom. I make sure to lock the door behind me as I reach for the zipper of my skirt and prepare to pull the sailor suit on over my underwear.

  Somehow, I have a feeling I’ll be safer inside a rubber rain jacket and boots than in my flimsy blazer and bare feet.

  As I step into the ridiculously large pants, tightening the elastic suspenders as much as possible, I don’t let myself think about why I’ve agreed to spend the day with this man I barely know. I don’t let myself dwell on the lingering attraction in my bloodstream. And I don’t let myself answer my phone, which is buzzing for the third time in an hour, because I know Luca will just try to talk me out of going.

  For once, I’m not going to think; I’m going to live.

  For one, single afternoon, I’m going to leap before I look.

  For a fleeting, fragmented instant of my regimented life… I’m going to be free.

  * * *

  I’m flying.

  Head thrown back, arms outstretched, torso leaning into the wind.

  The boat slices through the waves like a knife through butter, living up to her name — a swan. Majestic, graceful, powerful.

  Parker’s at the wheel at the back of the boat. Or, at the stern, as he calls it. I’m as far from him as I can get, pressed up at the front — sorry, the bow — like Jack in Titanic.

  “I’m king of the world!” I yell into the wind, the words snatched away as soon as they pass my lips. Mist from a wave sprays up and coats my face, frigid and salty. That doesn’t stop me from grinning like an idiot. I’ve never felt anything like this before — this rush of pure adrenaline. Even when I finish a particularly difficult hack or a tricky piece of code… it can’t compare to this.

  When Parker first pulled out of the harbor, switched off the motor, and put up the sails, I was nervous. But as soon as we were out of the main channel, flanked by open water and an outcropping of rocky islands, passing hundred year-old lighthouses and flocks of white shorebirds… as soon as I felt the wind on my face and the rush of speed in my veins…

  The fear disappeared entirely.

&nbs
p; I glance back and, craning my neck, can just make out the grin on his face.

  It’s obvious he loves this. Everything about it.

  The speed, the salt, the icy water.

  And I kind of love that he’s sharing it with me.

  I replay his words back on the docks, when he asked what I do for fun, and realize he was right. I don’t have any hobbies. Not real ones, anyway. I don’t do anything just for fun — just for me.

  It’s a pathetic state of affairs that someone like you doesn’t have a single moment of her day reserved for pure, unadulterated joy.

  He’s right. About all of it.

  Not that I’ll ever admit that to his face. The man is arrogant enough already.

  After a while, I make my way back to the cockpit where he’s standing, two large hands wrapped around the wheel and a grin on his face.

  “Admit it,” he yells when I’m within earshot. I can barely hear him over the roar of the wind. “This is pretty fucking great.”

  I can’t help smiling as I scream back at him. “It’s okay!”

  His eyes narrow. “Just okay?”

  I shrug playfully. “I thought it’d be faster!”

  He takes my words as a challenge. With one hand on the wheel, he turns the boat so the wind blasts straight across our side, filling the sails to capacity. The boat responds instantly — picking up speed in a burst, heeling over until I think for sure we’ll flip and sink to the bottom of the Atlantic.

  A squeak of surprise flies from my mouth and I grip the rail to keep upright.

  “Hold on, darling,” Parker calls, eyes flashing as we fly over the waves like a rocket. “I’m about to take you for the ride of your life.”

  * * *

  It’s dark by the time we pull back into the harbor — well past sunset. Parker docks the boat with expert precision under the low lights of the marina, and I do my best to help with coiling lines and tying us off to the slip, even though I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. He doesn’t mock my efforts — he just smiles and shows me how to make a proper figure-eight knot around a cleat.

  We don’t say much of anything as we make our way down into the cabin, but I can’t wipe the dopey grin off my face. I haven’t had such a fun afternoon in… god, I can’t even remember. Even after I’ve collapsed, legs aching, onto the plush white couch, internally I’m still riding the waves of adrenaline that crash through my system.