Page 33 of Untouchable

Harp laughs appreciatively.

“What, ah, what do you do, though?” Parker asks.

Harp snorts. "I'm a writer, actually."

He's responding to questions without thinking. Real, human responses. It's been a long time since he's trusted someone enough to just go with the momentum of a conversation.

Hell, it's been a long time since I've been a part of a conversation with any momentum to speak of, he realizes.

“Whoa, really?” Parker says. “Like, books and stuff?”

“Yeah—but more boring than whatever you're thinking," Harp says. "I write manuals, plus manuals on how to write manuals. And yes it's exactly as redundant as it sounds."

“Damn,” Parker says with a crooked smile. “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me you were secretly a romance novelist or something.”

* * *

Holy fuck,Parker thinks. Where did that come from? Am I flirting with him? Oh god, I am. Fuck, Parker, don’t—don’t make this weird.

Harp raises an eyebrow. "Not to be blue, but you'd be surprised at the amount of lubing and thrusting that happens in some of these manuals."

Parker’s eyes widen. Hearing Harp talking about lubing and thrusting makes his stomach flip and his mind go to inappropriate places.

“Wait, really?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Harp frowns and raises a hand. "That was a joke. Well. There is a lot of lubing and thrusting but apparently that's a thing that happens with aircraft parts."

“Oh. Oh.” Parker feels like a little bit of a dumbass. Before he can get too far into the gutter, he changes the conversation. “So, um, how’d you get into that? The manuals, I mean, not the lubing and thrusting.”

Oops.

Parker is rewarded with a laugh from Harp, a loud, deep rumble that makes Parker smile. He’s not a funny person, and it feels good to make someone as quick-witted as Harp laugh.

God, Parker,he thinks. Rein it in. You might as well just lean over and plant a kiss on him.

Someone sharper than Parker probably could have kept the banter up, but all he can do, apparently, is badger Harp with questions about himself. He wants to impress Harp, he’s realizing, which is a tough thing to do when you’re not that impressive to begin with.

"Oh, I think this is us," Harp says, nodding to the overburdened server now sidling up to the table.

“Quinoa salad?" they ask. Parker raises his hand and they set the plate in front of him.

"The rest is me," Harp says quickly. The server sets down the other three plates they’re balancing, placing two styrofoam cups neatly at the edge of the table before slipping away.

"This is yours," Harp says gruffly, setting one of the cups next to Parker's salad. "You're two percent body fat and winter is approaching. It worries me."

Parker peeks inside the lid to see a chocolate milkshake. He looks from the milkshake up to Harp, then back to the milkshake, then back to Harp, and for a moment his brain short circuits at the unexpected sweetness of the gesture.

He bought me a milkshake. Harp’s head is bent over his food as he digs in, and he doesn’t see the goofy grin that’s spreading across Parker’s face. It shouldn’t matter this much, but Parker feels like he just got invited to prom.

He shakes himself internally again.

Don’t read into it,he tells himself. First of all, he’s your client. Second, he’s probably not even into guys. Third, he’s your client. Fourth, even if he was into guys, why would he want you? And, fifth, have I mentioned he’s your client?!

“Hey, wait a minute,” Parker says with a frown. “I invited you here to pay you back for the brisket—and now—that’s not fair.”

He can barely get through the sentence though before he starts to grin.

“Thanks,” he says. “This, um, this is my favorite flavor.”

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