Page 18 of Parker

Harper hates your guts, I want to snarl.You’re just as toxic as I remember.

I trudge back to my table feeling extremely annoyed.

“We’re the Joneses.”I mimic Skylar under my breath, mumbling in her high-pitched, whiny voice. “Skagway’s small potatoes.”

Point of fact, Skagway is not “small potatoes” in the Alaskan travel business. The visitor season generates over $160 million in taxable income for our tiny town of twelve hundred year-round residents. With $5.6 billion total annual tourism dollars generated by the state of Alaska, Skagway—all by itself—holds a healthy chunk at almost three percent.

“If it isn’t one of the Stewarts of Skagway!”

I look up to find one of Paw-Paw’s old acquaintances from Haines, Buck Westin of Westin’s Wild West Adventures, standing at my table.

“Hey, Mr. Westin,” I say politely, groaning inside.

“M’name’s Buck! Please! How many times I got to tell you gals?Mr. Westinwas my pappy. Makes me feel old even to hear it!”

I grin at him, but honestly, Mr. Westin’s always been a little handsy and a lot pushy, and calling him by a more formal name is partially by design, in the hopes that he’ll observe ourvastage difference and leave me alone.

“Now,” he says, licking his lips, “which one are you?”

“Which one—”

“—of Gary’s daughters?”

“Parker, sir.”

“No!” he bites back. “I toldja already. No ‘Mr.’ and no ‘sir!’ Just Buck, got it?”

“Got it.”

He adjusts his belt buckle, flattens his palm on my table and leans closer, the smell of chewing tobacco and whiskey making my stomach flip over.

“You’re a real pretty gal, Parker. Whatcha doin’ for dinner tonight?”

“Oh. Um…I’m…”

“You’re joining me at the steakhouse! That’s what! How’s that sound? A nice juicy steak with yours truly?”

Not good, I think.I don’t want to go out to dinner with someone my grandfather’s age!

“Oh, that’s real kind, sir, but—”

“But nothin’,” he says, his voice taking on an edge. “Now, I told ya—”

“Hey, there, Mr. Westin! Good to see you!”

Without either of us noticing, Quinn has snuck up behind Mr. Westin and towers over his left shoulder. Winking at me real quick, Quinn sidesteps to his left so he can face us both.

“Who’zat?” asks Mr. Westin, squinting up at Quinn. “Is that Skip Morgan’s kid?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How you doing, boy? How’s your pop?”

“Real good, sir.”

“Well, nice to see you. Thanks for sayin’ hey. Have a good convention,” says Mr. Westin, turning back to me. “Now, about dinner—”

“Hey, Mr. Westin, I overheard you asking Parker out for dinner,” Quinn says, “but I can’t let you do that, sir.”

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