Page 49 of Parker

“It’s super cute,” she says. “Thank you.”

A waitress arrives with menus and takes our drink order—a strawberry margarita for Parker and a regular one for me. We glance at the menus for a few minutes, choosing our entrees, and then sipping our drinks when they arrive.

“You know what I keep thinking?” asks Parker.

“What?”

“How much Sawyer would freak out if he saw us right now.”

I laugh at that. “Yep. He sure would.”

“Can you imagine? He’s staying at this hotel, strolling by, minding his own business, and when he looks left, there’s his best friend and his sister having dinner togetherwithouttrying to kill each other.”

“He would faint.”

She giggles. “He would!”

“Hey,” I say, taking my phone out of my back pocket and leaning closer to her. “I have an idea. Let’s take a selfie and send it to him.”

“Yes! With no explanation!”

She shifts closer to me, until our shoulders are touching, then holds up her hot pink drink in a ‘Cheers’ gesture. I hold the camera as far away as I can and take a photo. When I show it to her, she places her hand on my arm.

“No, no, wait! We can do better! Let’sreallymess with him!” Her chair scrapes against the concrete patio as she scoots it closer to mine. She takes a big gulp of her cocktail, then surprises me by laying her head on my shoulder.

“What do you wantmeto do?” I mumble, resisting the urge to rest my head on hers.

I can smell her perfume or shampoo or whatever it is, and it makes my heart pound with longing. Historically, Parker and I haven’t touched each other much, and yet I hugged her tonightin the aquarium, and now, at dinner, she’s got her head on my shoulder. Not gonna lie. I love it. I want more of it. I could get addicted to touching her if she’d let me.

“Umm…I don’t know. Maybe, um—tell me if this is weird—but maybe, like, put your arm around my shoulder? So it looks like we’re on a date? It’ll blow his mind.”

She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I reach out, placing my arm around her shoulder and drawing her close. Her head nestles into the curve of my neck, her hair tickling the skin of my throat. It’s intimate and warm, and feels the way “hope” sounds.

“Is this good?” I murmur. My lipsmightgraze the top of her head, but I’d deny it under interrogation.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice soft and breathy.

She inhales, and I feel it against my side, the inflation of her lungs, the gentle press of her body into mine. My lips fall to her hair again—I can’t resist—a rest a moment on her head.

“Quinn.”

I lean up. “Yeah?”

“Aren’t you gonna…take the picture?”

The reason we’re posing like this in the first place. My fingers clench around my phone. “Yeah. Sure.”

I hold my arm straight out, staring at the camera, at the reflected image of Parker Stewart’s head on my shoulder, my arm around her, my face—Jesus, my face—which reveals everything I’ve always felt for her, everything I feel today, everything I’ll feel tomorrow, everything I’ll feel for her on the day I die.

I watch her face on the little screen, at the way she stares at us. Her eyes widen, and her lips part in surprise. And that’s when I hit the bright white circle, recording the image of us forever.

As I lower my camera hand, she sits up so fast, she bumps her forehead into my chin, then scrapes her chair, with a high-pitched wail, back across the concrete. Picking up her drink, she brings the glass to her lips and upends it, chugging the rest of her strawberry margarita. When she puts the glass back down on the table, she turns her wide eyes to me.

I’m sitting about a foot away from her, rubbing my chin because the rest of her may be soft, but her forehead is as hard as everyone else’s.

“Are you—” She gulps as her eyes nail mine. “Quinn, are you in love with me?”

It’s my turn to pick up my margarita and chug it. Which I do. But the minute my glass makes contact with the table, I look up at her and nod.

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