Page 26 of Parker

Parker

Knock, knock, knock.

I hop up from the couch where I’m watching TV and drinking a glass of wine.

“That was quick,” I say aloud as I cross the room to open the door.

After my Uber dropped me off at the hotel, I took a long, hot shower and opted for pajamas and room service instead of getting redressed and going downstairs to one of the many hotel restaurants.

When I open the door, however, there’s no linen-covered rolling cart with my dinner displayed artfully on top. Instead, a bellman stands before me with a tiny white shopping bag dangling from his index finger.

“I thought you were room service,” I tell him. Glancing at the bag, then back at him, a cock my head to the side. “I think you have the wrong room.”

“Are you Miss Parker Stewart?”

I blink at him. “Yes.”

As his finger advances closer to my face, the little bag swings merrily from it. “Then I have the right room.”

I take the bag and check the name on the envelope sticking out. Sure enough, there’s my name in bold block letters. I’m about to ask the bellhop where this came from and who sent it, but by the time I look up again, he’s gone.

Closing the door and stepping backward into my room, I regard the posh little bag that readsTerrenein lavender script.

“Where did you come from?”

When it doesn’t answer, I open the card instead. Someone’s written a little riddle on the stiff white cardstock and signed it “Q.”

Q?For who?For Quinn?

I drop the card and stare suspiciously at the lovely little bag, an unpleasant, but familiar, feeling unfurling in my stomach. I wonder if it holds something sinister or disgusting, like a squished insect or…or…or a dead rodent wrapped in pretty tissue paper. Just another prank to make Parker scream.

Taking a deep breath, I read the card again, remembering the way he looked at me when he said he was sorry. Did he mean it? Is it possible that thereisn’tsomething horrible inside the bag, after all? That maybe, despite a shared history full of practical jokes and epic teasing at my expense, Quinn is really trying to apologize to me?

Bracing myself for the worst and hoping I’m not being played for a fool, I reach into the bag, gingerly maneuvering around tissue paper to find a small box. When I pull it free, I take a moment to admire the ornately tied bow before opening it. When I do, my breath catches.

There, on a little cloud of white fluff, sits a pink and silver turtle.

I like turtles. Sea turtles, especially.

I feel a smile bloom across my face as I touch the turtle’s pink back with the tip of my finger.

“A peace offering,” I whisper. “From Quinn Morgan, of all people.”

Gulping with emotion, I take the charm and hold it up to the light, watching as the crystals on the turtle’s back sparkle. It’s—at once—the most charming and thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.

But when I hear myself giggle, I wonder if I’m losing it. And there’s only one person in the world whom I trust when I need a stern, but gentle, reality check.

Call Harper.

Dropping the charm back into its box, I run into the bedroom, grab my phone and tell Siri to call my older sister. Perched on the couch in pajamas, staring at the charm, my entire being is abuzz when she answers.

“Park?”

“Harp!”

“What’s wrong? What’s going on? Are you sick? Are you okay? What’s happening?”

“No, no, no. I’m okay.” It occurs to me—in a flash of cringey self-awareness—that I didn’t note the time change, and I’ve called during the “forbidden” hours at Casa Raven. My beloved older sister is a mom, and we all try to leave her in peace during my niece’s daily bath and bedtime routine. “I’ll call later! Sorry!”

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