Page 51 of Untouchable

"Or, we could do this the smart way—the safe way—and you can stay here and leave as soon as you want when it's light again or when the roads are clear. I'll set you up in a bedroom on this floor with its own shower. You don't even have to eat with me—I'll just keep to myself. I've got a landline in there where you can make whatever calls you want and you can have whatever you want out of the pantry downstairs."

"I really don't—"

"Parker, it's dangerous on the roads. I've got food, I've got liquor, I've got wifi—hell, I've even got weed. It's stupid to get on the roads until it's safe, and it's stupid to call someone else to get on the roads for you."

Parker realizes it isstupid.

And once more, he’s infinitely grateful to Harp, for not only shaking some sense into him, but for being so straightforward about it all. The way Harp lays the situation out is so matter-of-fact that Parker doesn’t feel like he’s somehow fucked up, like Harp is simmering in resentment because Parker is disturbing him.

Staying simply seems like… the most logical thing to do.

“Okay,” he says, and as soon as it’s out relief washes through him. A shower and a meal sound far better than skidding to his death on a dark mountain road. “Thanks.” It takes every ounce of strength not to apologize again. “A shower would be... really good,” he says, gesturing down at his soaked shoes.

* * *

Harp leadshim to one of the guest rooms on the bottom floor. It's big, comfortable, and, Harp thinks, the nicest room in the house other than his own. At the very least he doesn't let the dogs sleep in here.

"You should be able to find whatever you need in the closets. Just look around. If you need something and you don't see it, give me a shout. The towels in the bathroom linen closet are clean. I'll see what I can do about a change of clothes."

Harp realizes that he hasn't been able to make himself look at Parker for several minutes. Now that they're alone in the house together and it's not immediately apparent what's going to happen next, Harp is doing everything he can to keep his anxiety in check.

Harp waits by the stairs until he hears the bathroom door close and then he rushes off. He knows he said he'd find clothes, but first he needs to clean up half-finished glasses of whiskey and water and cigarette butts from some of the places he'd been assuming Parker would nevervisit.

He also gives his fridge a quick purge before rounding up all of the garbage, taking it downstairs, and locking it into the bear-proof shed out back.

Harp half forgets to find clothes, but at the last minute, he goes to the room he'd set up for his brother just in case he needed a place to crash, no questions asked. Harp had tucked a random assortment of clothes Gil had hemorrhaged over the years, a jacket left in Harp's hotel room when he'd visited, t-shirts from the back of his car after beach trips. He's glad now that he'd gathered up the garments over the years, washed them, and tucked them away.

They're a little... maybe brighter than he imagines Parker would wear by choice, but at least he won't be swimming in them like he would in Harp's clothes.

Actually, you don’t know that,he tells himself. He realizes he’s only ever seen Parker in his office scrubs and the various jackets and windbreakers he puts over them.

As a last thought, Harp throws in one of his flannels that had grown a little small lately but had always been one of Harp's favorites. If nothing else, maybe the kid could use it as a top layer.

* * *

Parker turnsthe water on and quickly strips down, and it’s only once his extremities have thawed under the relentless beating of the shower—great water pressure, Parker notes—that he begins to think about how weird this all is.

Not bad, necessarily.

He grabs the shampoo and lathers it in his hands before scrubbing it through his hair. It’s a different brand than Harp uses—Parker doesn’t recognize the scent.

Parker takes more time than he needs to in the shower, going through a rather impressive mental gymnastics routine to justify all of this to himself as he warms up. Harp is his client, yes, but Harp has also bought him milkshakes. Harp has asked him to help find his dog. Harp is now harboring him during a snowstorm.

A line has been crossed, clearly, and it’s also clear that the line was crossed long ago, whether or not Parker wants to admit it. And so, maybe, just for the duration of the storm, Parker can stop beating himself up for forging a strange, semi-inappropriate relationship with a client.

Who is he kidding, though? It’s not just semi-inappropriate—it’s definitely a bad sign if Parker finds himself thinking about how to make sure his boss doesn’t hear about this.

But none of that changes the fact that he’s stuck up here, at least for the night. So, he figures, he might as well enjoy it. He resolves not to worry about it all until he’s back down the mountain.

By the time he turns the water off, though, he is warm and flushed and sleepy, and he’s too tired to care. Up on the mountain, he feels far removed from the rest of his life, and for once, he gives himself permission to chill out.

Freshly showered and groomed and moisturized with a surprising fruity lotion he found in the cabinet, Parker emerges into the bedroom, which is shockingly cool compared to the steamy bathroom. A folded pile of clothing is stacked neatly on the bed—Harp has given Parker plenty of options. Parker is not quite sure where all the clothing is from—it’s definitely too small for Harp, and some of the t-shirts are… not exactly what he’d expect Harp to wear. He smiles as he sifts through the garments.

He settles on a pair of sweatpants that say GATORS up the side in large block letters—some sports team, Parker assumes, or maybe Harp just really loves alligators, and a well-worn flannel that looks soft and warm. His underwear is still unpleasantly damp from the snow seeping through his scrubs, so he forgoes them and slips in the flannel and sweatpants, pulling on a pair of thick wool socks before padding up the stairs and into the kitchen.

Time to… hang out with Harp, I guess, he thinks.

His stomach feels fluttery, and it’s hard to convince himself the sensation is not the kind of butterflies he gets before a first date.

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