I blink.
“So, no, Zoe – it’s not a pity thing. You’re better with computers than anyone on the East Coast. If you worked here, you’d be doing me a favor. Not the other way around.” His voice goes soft. “Why do you think Gallagher here is so eager to add you to the FBI ranks? The government doesn’t have half your skill – nor do they have the same employee benefits I can offer, for the record.”
Conor glares at Nate. “We have dental.”
Nate grins wider. “We have actual salaries.” His eyes cut to me. “Six figures, to start. Think about it.”
I swallow hard, all laughter replaced by shock, and force myself to nod. “I will definitely think about it.”
“Good.” Nate turns to Conor. “So, let’s talk logistics. I imagine you have an idea how you want this to go down.”
The agent nods. “Give me a few days. I’ll set things in motion on my end, then touch base. We don’t want to spook Lancaster or have him send more cronies to attack Zoe.” He looks at me with those piercing blue eyes and I see the hint of something almost warm in their depths, if only for a sliver of an instant. “Nice meeting you, Clover. You ever change your mind about that job, want to make an actual difference in the world… you give me a call.”
“I’d be more inclined to consider it if you’d stop calling me Clover in the official FBI database.”
His lips twitch. “You don’t like the nickname?”
“Something slightly more badass would be preferable.”
“Sorry.” Conor shrugs. “Too late to change it now. You’re already branded.”
“Don’t worry, darling.” Parker wraps an arm around my waist. “I’ll call you all the badass nicknames you want.” He pauses. “So long as the nickname you want to be called is snookums, of course.”
I elbow him in the side. “Ignore him,” I tell Conor a little desperately.
“Snookums?” Conor smirks. “Definitely badass.”
I glare up at Parker. “See what you did? You’re ruining my street cred.”
He leans down and kisses me. “Uh huh.”
“I’m serious, playboy.”
“I can see that, darling.”
I plant my hands on my hips and glare at every man in the room, my gaze sweeping from Parker to Conor to Nate to Luca to Owen to Theo. Infuriatingly, they’re all grinning at me.
“I hate you all,” I inform them, turning and stomping for the doors. “And I will not be accepting any job offers if it means my bad-assery is called into question on a regular basis.”
The sound of muffled laughter chases me all the way to the doors.
* * *
Parker’s in an annoyingly good mood all the way back to my loft. He gropes me playfully in the elevator, whispering scandalous things in my ear to make me laugh the entire ride up to my floor.
His joking, happy mood disintegrates as soon the doors slide open and we see the disaster site that used to be my apartment.
My laptop is cracked in two, lying in pieces on the cold concrete floor. Someone’s smashed every one of my computer monitors with what looks like a baseball bat — there’s no way they can be salvaged. My coffee table has been flipped on its side, scattering documents everywhere. Even from my spot by the door, I can see the hard copies from the Lancaster investigation are missing. The folders I painstakingly organized with printed copies of all the evidence I’ve spent weeks gathering are gone.
My bed is in tatters, gutted with some kind of sharp blade, as are my sofa cushions. Most disturbingly, though, are the photographs taped my my refrigerator.
Whoever is trailing me has been busy. There are pictures from the day I visited the Lynn factory, from my walk home in the snow, from my lunch with the girls at Crumble. There are even stills from the surveillance tape at Lancaster Consolidated, the night I dressed as Cindy the cater-waiter.
I suppose it was only a matter of time, before they put that together.
Each photo was taken from a careful distance, but it’s clear they’re the work of a professional. Especially given the photoshopping treatment they’ve received: every frame contains the bright red crosshairs of a sniper rifle over my profile.
As threats go, it’s not a subtle one.
Keep this up and we’ll kill you.
Parker shoves me behind him as his eyes move around the space, searching for intruders.
“They’re long gone,” I say quietly.
“Fuck,” he curses lowly, running a hand through his hair. “At least you weren’t here when they did this. If you’d been here…” His eyes move to the monitors, destroyed with brute force by someone with a significant amount of strength. “I don’t even want to think about that.”
I step up to his side and lace my fingers with his. “Don’t think about it.”
His furious hazel eyes lock on the photographs of me taped to the fridge and I see whatever sense of calm he was hanging onto slip from his grasp like a handful of sand.
“I’m going to fucking kill them.”
“Parker.” I squeeze his hand. “They wouldn’t be going through all this trouble to scare us if we hadn’t rattled them. Don’t you see? In a sick, weird, twisted way… this is a good thing. It means we’re getting close to nailing them.”
My words seem to soothe him — fractionally. His jaw unclenches a bit as he surveys the damage, but he still looks about ready to blow a gasket.
“There’s no way they got in through the elevator without a key.” He looks at me. “Who else has access? Your landlord? An ex? A previous tenant?”
I shake my head. “No. Luca has one, I have one. That’s it. Whoever did this must’ve climbed the fire escape.”
Parker strides to the opposite side of the loft, tugging me after him. Sure enough, when we reach the windows by the fire escape we find two of the panes are bashed in. The flimsy brass lock is snapped like plastic.
I suck in a breath.
Abruptly, Parker drops my hand and paces away, leaving me by the window. I don’t follow him. My eyes are stuck on that broken lock, and I can’t seem to look away. All at once, my careful sense of calm evaporates as reality sets in.
Someone was in my home. In my private space.
Sure, the loft leaves much to be desired. But it's always been mine. And now, someone's invaded that space. Taken my sanctuary and dirtied it, violated it, until I no longer feel secure in the only place I've ever been able to call home.
That fucking sucks, if I’m being honest.
I look around for Parker, assuming he’s on the phone with Nate, and instead find him by my dresser, indiscriminately jamming clothes into a bag.
“What are you doing?” I screech, watching as three of my sweaters and a faded pair of jeans are shoved inside the duffle.
“I’m fucking packing,” he snaps, never pausing. “Someone was in your home. Someone destroyed everything you’ve built here. Your work. Your life.” His voice is a growl. “You're not spending another night in this place until this shit is handled.”
“But—”
“In fact, even after it’s handled you’re not coming back here," he mutters. “If you never spend another night in this place again it'll be too soon, the way I see it.”
“No one asked how you see it!” I exclaim, walking toward him and trying to pull the bag from his grip. He just lifts his arm so I can't reach and, damn it, I'm too proud to jump like a kid playing keep-away.
“Parker—”
“Hush.”
“Don't tell me to hush, playboy!” I hiss. "Just where exactly do you expect me to stay? This is my home. We don't all own property on three different private islands."
“You're staying with me,” he says succinctly.
I scoff. “I am not staying with you.”
He drops the bag to the bed and turns chilly hazel eyes to mine. “Remember last night, when I fucked you until you couldn't move and you fell asleep in my arms? That moment — you became mine. I protect what's mine, darling. I protect it
with every breath. Bottom line, I care about you... And I don't really give a shit whether you want me to or not.”
I suck in a breath. “I'll stay with Luca.”
His eyes narrow. “Like hell you will. That man has no concept of boundaries when it comes to you.”
“He's my friend!”
“And I'm your—”
“My what?" I cut him off. “What exactly are you to me, Parker West? Boyfriend? Bossy asshole? Annoying man-child who refuses to listen to reason?”
“You need a word or a definition for what I am to you, that's your problem. I'm not your fill-in-the-blank bullshit label. I'm just yours. And you're mine." He leans down and presses a hard, angry kiss against my lips. "That means you don't get to run off to some other guy's arms or bed."
"You're being outrageous!"
"This is me being reasonable, darling. You'd better fucking get used to it, because I'm not going anywhere." With that, he slings the packed duffle over one shoulder, grabs my hand, and hits a button on his phone to make a call, all while tugging me across the loft in long-legged strides. We’re not even at the elevator when his voice cracks over the line.
"Nate? It's me. Change of plans…”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in the cabin of Folly, trying to keep myself from bursting into tears. My outrage at Parker’s bossy behavior has been replaced by a much more alarming emotion. I swallow once, twice, three times trying to dislodge the lump in my throat as I stare at the set of light blue foul weather gear in a woman’s petite size small sitting on the table. Beside the suit, there’s a set of tiny rubber boots that look about my size.
God dammit. Do not fucking cry, Zoe Bloom. Get your shit together.
“What?” Parker asks, catching sight of my expression as he climbs down into the cabin after me. “Do you not like the color? I can get that same gear in pink or red or white if you like that better. Just don’t pick anything dark — the whole point is to wear something bright so I can see you if you fall overboard.”
I pull a deep breath in through my nose and manage to get a hold of myself.
“I like the color,” I murmur, staring at Parker.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
His expression is wary. “The look on your face says otherwise.”
Steadying my shoulders, I walk to him and slide my arms around his waist. “I promise, nothing’s wrong. In fact… it’s alarmingly close to perfect.”
“Oh, dear god, no! The horror!” He grins. “We can’t have that! Don’t worry – twenty minutes ago you wanted to kill me. I’m sure I’ll do something to fuck things up or piss you off again soon.”
I stretch up onto my tiptoes and kiss him softly. “Undoubtedly,” I whisper against his lips, enjoying the sensation of his smiling lips curved against mine.
“Come on.” He squeezes me tight one last time, then pushes me away. “Put them on. We have to cast off soon or the sun will set, and it’s no fun sailing in the dark. Plus, we’ll miss our reservation.”
“Reservation?”
He nods.
“When in the world did you have time to make reservations?”
His eyes narrow. “You know, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were surprised by my ability to provide for my woman.”
“Your woman?” I roll my eyes. “What is this, an episode of Outlander? Because the only person allowed to refer to me as his woman is Jamie Fraser and you, my friend, are not wearing a kilt.”
“I understood literally none of what you just said.”
I grin, turn away, and grab my gear off the table. “Oh, never mind.”
“See?” he calls, just before I close the bathroom door. “We’re already fighting again! What’d I tell you?”
I laugh as I strip down to my skin and pull on the sailor suit.
It fits perfectly.
* * *
“Take the wheel.”
“What?”
“I have to put the sails up.” Parker’s voice is patient. “Take the wheel.”
“Last time you put it in that auto-pilot mode. Why can’t you do that again?”
“That was last time. You were new. Now, you’re a seasoned sailor. Take the wheel.”
“I don’t know how to steer this thing!”
“Zoe. Just hold it steady in one direction. It’s basically like driving a car, just… in an ocean. With no lanes or speed limits.”
“That’s really comforting, considering I never got a fucking driver’s license.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Huh. Well… luckily, you’re a quick learner. Just head for that green buoy in the distance.”
Before I can object again, he lets go of the wheel and scurries up onto the top deck.
“Parker!” I yell, watching the wheel start to spin off course.
He doesn’t respond — he’s busy putting up the sails.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. With no other choice, I grab the wheel and attempt to straighten our course.
Head straight into the wind, Parker advised me before throwing me to the fucking wolves. Once the sails are up, I’ll come turn off the engines.
I grit my teeth and try not to panic. A few nail-biting minutes pass before he returns.
“See?” His smile is a mile wide and his hair is adorably mussed from the wind. “You did great. I knew you would.”
“I didn’t sink us at the bottom of the Atlantic. That’s not exactly the same as doing great.”
He just shakes his head as he walks around behind me and grabs the wheel, so his chest is pressed up against my back and his arms cage me in.
“Where are we going?” I whisper as he makes an adjustment to our course, reading the compass mounted on the wheel.
His mouth scrapes my earlobe, the faint stubble of his beard ticklish against the sensitive skin there.
“Second star to the right and straight on till morning.”
I smile and lean back against him, allowing the heat of his body and the gentle sway of the boat as she cuts through the waves to calm me. Thoughts of wrecked apartments and corrupt billionaires and evil henchmen and job offers fade away until it’s just me and Parker, sailing away from the world. Leaving it all behind.
It’s the best thing I’ve experienced in a long, long time.
We chase the sunset for just over an hour, then turn east and head straight out to sea. It’s funny — a week ago, in this same situation with Parker West, I would’ve been freaking out. Asking a million questions about our destination, demanding to know his motives, wondering why on earth he would possibly want to spend time with a girl like me.
Now, all I feel is an unflappable sense of calm.
Because I trust him, I realize in a flash. He won’t hurt me.
I’m totally safe with him.
I’m… home.
And, for me, a girl who never had a home…
That means everything.
The sun has almost set by the time the lighthouse comes into view. The sole structure on a tiny outcropping of rock in the middle of the sound, the pillar of granite looks ancient and weather-beaten, its stones caked with salt and brine from the ever-constant waves that crash with the tides. Every few seconds, a bright beacon flashes in the night from the top of the tower, the beam moving rhythmically across the darkening water to warn incoming ships of the small island and guide them into the harbor.
There are no other buildings on the island. Just a narrow dock, which Parker maneuvers the sailboat toward with expertise, cutting the motors at exactly the right moment so we glide to a smooth stop along the pier.
“This can’t be where we’re going,” I murmur, eyeing the towering stone lighthouse with wide eyes. It’s a lonely gray sentinel, guarding the city from afar.
Parker grins. “Help me with the lines, will you, lazy bones? I told you — we’ve got a reservation.”
“At a lighthouse,” I
say flatly.
“Yep. Unless you plan on swimming back.” He tosses me the stern line and scrambles toward the bow. “Tie us off, darling. Don’t want the Swan drifting out to sea in the middle of the night.”
“But…” I stare at the rope in my hands. “You can’t mean… We can’t be staying here! Parker?”
He doesn’t answer; he’s busy securing the front of the boat to a cleat along the pier.
Cursing under my breath, I hop over the rail onto the narrow wooden dock and try my best to replicate the knot Parker demonstrated last week. I’ve barely coiled the ropes when he appears by my side.
“Perfect,” he announces, reaching down to snug the knot. “You’re a natural.”
I meet his eyes, feeling wary. “Are we really staying here?”
His gaze is warm; his cheeks are red with cold.
“Safest place I could think of, on short notice.”
“But how?” I shake my head. “How did you possibly make this happen?”
He grabs my hand and tugs me to my feet. “They were going to knock this place down, about a year ago. Let it crumble into the ocean. Lighthouses are mostly automated nowadays — they don’t need light keepers, anymore.” He shrugs. “I didn’t want to see it fall into disrepair, dependent on some shitty state park budget to keep it up and running. So I bought it.”
My mouth gapes. “You bought a lighthouse.”
He glances over at me. “Did I mention my family has a lot of money?”
I blink. “I knew it was a lot. I just didn’t realize it was buy-a-lighthouse-with-your-trust-fund kind of money.”
“If it makes you feel better, this purchase put a rather large dent in my trust fund.” His hand tightens on mine. “Will you still come sailing with me if I’m poor?”
“You’ll never be poor,” I inform him dryly. “WestTech is valued at over two billion dollars.”
His eyes hold mine. “That wasn’t my question.”
One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) Page 23
