Page 43 of Parker

I’m about to laugh in his face and demand,Since when?but then I remember his heartfelt apology and my acceptance of it.It’s going to take me a little while to get used to this new peace between us.

“I can handle myself,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says. “I know you can. Just think of me as backup. If you ever need a little backup, just call me, and I’ll be there.”

My brothers taught me how to defend myself, and I’m darn good at it. I don’t need Quinn Morgan fighting my battles for me…though…if the offer is sincere, which it appears to be, I guess it’s not a bad thing.

“Okay. Thanks.”

As for Rick Jones, he’s a twerpy little fucker who got what was coming to him.

For the record, he was handsy from the moment we sat down at lunch, pulling out my chair but ruining the chivalry of the gesture by running his fingers up my back as I sat down.

I ordered a burger, and at one point, I got a little mayonnaise on my lip. I didn’t necessarily need,or want!for him to reach across the table and wipe it off with the pad of his thumb. He could’ve just told me it was there, and I would’ve wiped it off. Touching my face without permission felt way too intimate and made me uncomfortable.

But the straw that broke this camel’s back? As we left the restaurant, we were each given a small paper cone with a cloud of cotton candy on top. Nice. Cute. Anyway, a bit of candy fuzz floated down to my chest, landing on my breast. Before I could brush it away, Rick Jones took the liberty of leaning down to eat it off my shirt, his slimy pink tongue snaking out to lick at it. When he straightened up, grinning at me like he was the cutest thing God ever made, I drew back my free hand, fisted it, and smashed it into his eye.

“Don’teverdo that again!” I cried, dropping my cotton candy on the floor and hightailing it back to the convention center alone.

I probably should have said something when he touched my back or left the table when he touched my face so boldly. But licking food off my breast? Nope. Just…no. I’d had enough.

The elevator doors open to the lobby, and since we were the last ones on, we’re also the first off, walking across the marble floor to the revolving doors. We step outside, into the cool evening air of Las Vegas and slide into the back seat of a waiting taxi.

“Mandalay Bay,” says Quinn.

“Aquarium entrance,” I add.

The taxi pulls away from the hotel.

Unlike Rick Jones, who would have had his hand somewhere on my person by this point in the ride, Quinn maintains a respectful distance from me, staying on his side of the back seat and looking out the window.

The lights of Vegas shine brightly as we head south down the strip, passing the MGM Grand, the Hard Rock Café, the roller coaster, and Statue of Liberty outside of the New York, New York hotel, and the turreted red and blue towers of Excalibur.

“I’ve never been to New York,” Quinn murmurs. “Or seen a real castle.”

“Me neither.”

“But you’ve been to other places,” he says, still staring at the spectacle out his window. “I’ve never been anywhere…besides Alaska.”

“I haven’t traveledthatmuch. A few times to Vegas, once to Germany, once to Florida, and once to Memphis, Tennessee,” I tell him as we pass the pyramid and sphinx at the Luxor.

“Germany?” he asks, turning to face me. “They got castles there, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But I didn’t see any. I was in Frankfurt for a travel show. Business only.”

“When was that?”

“Last spring.”

“Huh. I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?”

“I pay attention,” he says, but then adds softly, his tone endlessly gentle, “to you.”

My breath catches. My cheeks flush.

His words surprise me, but maybe what surprises me more is my reaction to them. I’m touched by them. I find them endearing. I didn’t realize he kept track of where I went and what I did. I wonder where it fits into the context of our shared past, when he was always coming up with new and awful ways to tease me.

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