Page 31 of Parker

“Fine!” she huffs, marching back to my room. Following her inside the open door, I kick the white gift bag inside, then slam the door shut behind me. Standing against the wall of my room, with one hand still clutching my towel, I jab a finger at her.

“Stay here. I’m putting pants on.”

“Thank God,” she mutters.

I beeline back to the bathroom, grabbing a pair of sweatpants I’d laid out on my bed.

What the fuck just happened? She hated the turtle charm so much that she had to come here and—literally—throw it in my face?I’m baffled. Of all the reactions I thought the little gift might elicit, fury wasn’t on the list.

When I step back into my room, she’s still standing just inside the door, arms crossed over her chest and fuming.

I stand a good few feet away, just in case she plans to throw a punch.

“What…the…fuck, Parker?”

“I don’t need fucking—fuckinggiftsfrom you, Quinn!”

“Jesus!” I yell. “I was trying to be nice!”

“Don’tbe nice!” she cries, her cheeks red with anger. “It’s too late!”

“Too late? For what?”

“You can’t treat me like shit my whole life and then say sorry and send me jewelry, Quinn!”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

“Wait.” I hold up my hands. “Hear me out. Hear me out.”

She huffs at me. “Fine. What?”

“It wasn’t agift. It was just a gesture. I just—god, I just wanted to let you know that I was listening. I heard you. I was sorry. Iamsorry.” I sigh. “I’m-sorry-here’s-a-turtle.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Do you always buy jewelry for the women you apologize to?”

“Believe it or not, Parker…” I gesture between us. “Thisisn’t an everyday occurrence for me.” I scratch my head and narrow my eyes at her. “Why are you so triggered by a gift, anyway? I thought youlikedturtles.”

“I do!” she yells, uncrossing her arms and fisting her fingers by her sides. Her eyes dart away from me, like she’s thinking about something. When she looks back at me, there’s a new emotion on her face.Sheepishness? Embarrassment?I don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty sure it lives in that general emotional neighborhood. “Which is why I don’t want one fromyou.”

“Okay. Okay,” I say, stepping forward to sit on the corner of my bed. “But you could have just stopped by my table tomorrow and given it back.” I look up at her. “What’s this all about? This big show of coming to my room and throwing things at me?”

She leans against the wall behind her, tightening and releasing her jaw several times before looking up at me again. Her eyebrows are knitted. She bites her bottom lip before letting it go.

“Spit it out, Park.”

“I don’t want you to like me,” she says, her voice low and gritty, but her words clear.

Okay.

“Why not?”

She shrugs like a petulant four-year-old. “I just don’t.”

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