Page 62 of Parker

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Quinn

Do I want more?

Of course I do. I’m a fucking guy.

But am I also grateful for where we are, and am I mindful about not fucking up how far we’ve come?

Hell, yes.

If she wants to pump the brakes and have dinner, that’s a-okay with me.

She hops off my lap, runs into her bedroom and comes back with her phone. “I can pull up all the menus from here. What’re you in the mood for?”

You. Clothes optional.

“Um…I’m good with whatever you want,” I say, taking a throw pillow from the corner of the sofa to cover my erection.

Holding her phone under her chin, she takes two mostly full wineglasses from the mini bar counter and hands one to me before sitting down in an adjacent chair. She puts her feet up on the coffee table holding the roses I gave her last night, and I notice her toenails are the same color as the flowers.

“We had Mexican recently…and steak,” she says, scrolling through her phone. “How about Italian?”

“Seriously, Park,” I say. “I’ll eat anything.”

“Pizza and wings?”

Pizza and wings?

Let me be clear, for a man, sex comes first. Always. But food comes second. And in a man’s head—any man’s head—thereare few word combinations that hit as hot as these when he’s hungry.

“I think I just fell in love with you all over again,” I tell her.

She shakes her head at me like I’m crazy. “Wild guess, but I’m thinking you’d prefer a beer over that lovely Chardonnay?”

I stare at her for a second, at this goddess of a woman whom I’ve known for as long as I can remember. “Fuck, yes.”

She plucks the glass from my hand, adds its contents to her own with a little splash, then heads to the fridge below the wet bar. When she turns around, she’s approaching me with a Heineken. Stopping in front of me, she licks her lips and asks, “Need a glass?”

Holy shit, she’s sexy.

“B-Bottle’s just fine,” I mumble once I find my voice.

She cracks open the cap with a bottle-opener in her other hand, then runs her tongue slowly around the tight rim of the bottle before offering it to me.

“Fuuuuck,” I murmur, staring up at her, wide-eyed.

“Buffalo wings and meat-lovers pizza?” she asks in a low, sultry voice, before putting her index finger in her mouth and sucking on it.

My cock twitches beneath the pillow. I’m serious. And yes, it’s embarrassing, but I’ve never really seen this side of Parker, and it’s making me crazy. “Cut it out.”

She cackles with glee before falling into the chair beside me. “I’ll order. You choose a movie.”

I take a giant, bracing gulp of my beer while she taps on her phone, ordering us a dream dinner. What do I want to watch? If I could watch any movie with Parker Stewart, what would I choose?

When I was eleven and first realized I was madly in love with her, I would’ve chosenThe Hunger Games: Catching Fire,as soon as it came out. I remember seeing a book from that seriespeeking out of her book bag and wishing she liked me enough that we could watch the movie together.

A few years later, I would’ve chosenMiss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, another book that became dogeared long before she started watching the movie on the TV in the lodge every chance she got.

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