Page 13 of Parker

“Nope. Needs to stay here. My boss’ll kill me if it’s missing.”

“C’mon, man. I can’t carry all six of these at once.”

“You can make a few trips,” he suggests, turning to help the next person in line.

Luckily, the ballroom isn’t far from the BSC, but by the time I have all six boxes at my table, it’s after nine o’clock and waves of early birds are walking up and down the aisles, taking business cards from booths looking far more professional than mine. Not to mention, my dress shirt is soaked with sweat, and I need to piss. I hoof it to a corner of the massive convention center to visit the nearest restroom, and I swear, it’s after nine-thirty by the time I run back toward my table. Looking for a bare table and six sad boxes, I pass my table the first time down my aisle, because it turns out someone has started setting it up for me.

All of my boxes have been lined up behind the table and opened, a black tablecloth covers the table, a banner has been lashed to the front of the table and another set up in back. My brochure rack has been put together and stocked with information about Morgan E-Bikes, and our business cards have been fanned out invitingly.

I look around at the tables near me, finally spying Parker Stewart’s booth across the aisle and four down to the right. I raise my eyebrows at her, and she nods at me, offering a tiny smile. I’m so shocked, I gape at her for a second before she looks away to greet someone stepping up to her table.

Well, I’ll be damned.

She must have seen me struggling at my first convention and decided to give me a hand.

Something about this totally undeserved and unexpected act of kindness floods my stressed-out being with endorphins. I can feel my lips turning up as I plug in a laptop that will run a promotional video of our customers cycling in and around Skagway. My feet feel lighter as I add a sign-up sheet beside the pamphlets and a basket to hold raffle tickets for a giveaway. Ican’t remember the last time Parker went out of her way to do something nice for me, but it fills my stomach with a happy buzz and feels amazing.

“Hey, neighbor.”

I look up to see a woman at the booth across the aisle waving at me. I’d guess she’s in her early-30s but in good fucking shape. Tall. Thin. Reddish-blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles. She stands up and walks across the aisle, offering me her hand, and giving me a full-length view of her assets. She’s wearing cowboy boots, a plaid flannel shirt tied in a knot under her breasts, and Daisy Dukes showcasing her long legs and work-of-art ass.

“Hey, neighbor,” I say, taking her hand and pumping it slowly.

“You’re from Skagway?” she asks, flicking a glance at my banner.

“Yep. We do e-bike rentals and bike tours. Mostly for cruisers.” A standing banner behind her table reads:Catch us in Ketchikan!“Wild guess, but are you from Ketchikan?”

“Oooo! You’re quick,” she says, grinning at me. She puts her hands in her back pockets, which puts her ample chest on fantastic display. “We get cruisers, too.”

“Ketchikan’s our main competition.”

“With good reason,” she says, ambling back behind her table. She grins at me. “Ketchikan’s the bomb. Skagway’s overrated.”

“Had to hide behind your table before sharing that opinion, huh?”

“I’m not scared of you Skagwegians,” she says, winking at me.

An older man, wearing a polo shirt that reads,Lee’s Travel, Santa Fe, NM, stops at her table, and I watch her turn on the charm.

“This your booth?”

I turn around to find a pair of ladies standing in front of my table.

“Yes, ma’am!” I say, hustling into position. “Morgan E-Bikes out of Skagway. I’m Quinn Morgan.”

They each shake my hand, then take a brochure and business card, explaining that they sell cruises out of somewhere in Delaware.

“Well, we’re happy to meet your clients at the dock or give them directions to our shop, which is just up Broadway.”

“Bike tours are popular,” says one of the ladies. “Are your prices competitive?”

“Better’n the excursions offered by the cruise ships.”

“Good to know. I’ll be in touch,” says one of the women, following her associate to the next table.

“By the way,” says the strawberry-blonde across the aisle, “I’m Skylar.”

“Quinn.”

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