Page 12 of Parker

“Absolutely.”

“That’s how it felt,” I say, my lips twitching as the words leave my mouth. “It felt likeIhave the right to put Quinn in his place, but those girls…”

“Didn’t.”

“Yeah.”

“But Quinn’snotin our family,” points out Reeve. “He’s not our brother. He’s not even our friend.”

But heisin our circle, I think, biting back the words before I say them aloud.

“I know,” I say.

“So…”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say. “Maybe it’s because we’re both from the same small town in Alaska, and these bitches were in Vegas, all glammed up and being mean, and…I don’t know, Reeve. I can’t explain it. I just know I didn’t like it.”

“Did you say something to them?”

I grin at the ceiling as I remember how Quinn told Dog-Mommy she was acting like a “bitch,” right before pointing out the dog shit on the floor.

“Didn’t have to. Quinn had it covered.”

“Of course he did. Ugh! He’s so annoying.”

Except he wasn’t annoying. He was clever. He was funny.

Maybe, I think,if his teasing isn’t focused on you, it’s possible to be more objective about him.I haven’t had much of a chance to be objective about Quinn, since his wit is generally at my expense. No.Alwaysat my expense. I lift my chin, remindingmyself that I’ve been at the center of Quinn’s dartboard my whole life, and he doesn’t deserve my empathy or admiration.

“Yes,” I agree with her. “He is. Totally annoying.”

We talk for another twenty minutes about the books on Reeve’s TBR list and everything she wants me to bring back from Vegas.

Quinn doesn’t come up again.

***

Quinn

It would have been great to know that most convention vendors set up their tables and booths the night before. Because here I am at 8:42 a.m., with eighteen minutes until the doors open, still trying to track down the boxes my dad had shipped to Vegas.

“Sorry, sir,” says a young guy in the Business Services Center. “I just checked again. We don’t have anything here for Ken Morton.”

“Quinn Morgan!” I say for the third time. “My name is Quinn Morgan, and the boxes would’ve been shipped from Skagway, Alaska.”

“And where’s that at?”

“Alaska,” I growl between clenched teeth.

He gives me a look, then heads back to a giant pile of brown cardboard boxes stacked behind him. I check my watch. I’ve got fifteen minutes to get my boxes, haul them over to the ballroom and set up my table before the first wave of attendees arrive. Shit and damn it. There’s no way I’ll be ready in time.

“Hey! I found ’em!”

“Great!” I say.

He wheels six large boxes over to me.

“Can I borrow this dolly? I’ll bring it right back.”

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