by Jill Shalvis
hours.
Parker had tried to go to bed, but after that kiss with Zoe he was way too keyed up to sleep and gave up after an hour. Instead he changed into running clothes and hit the streets.
Running cleared his mind. Not that he’d been up to running since nearly being killed by Carver, but he thought today felt like a good day to get back to it.
A few minutes in he was doubting that thanks to the fact that each step jarred his ribs and made him want to go crying to his mama.
The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour. The air was high-altitude dry and a perfect-for-running fifty degrees. Probably later it would be a scorcher, but for now he had the cool predawn air and the world to himself, it seemed. The only sounds came from a high wind rustling the pines that were gently swaying like hundred-foot-tall ghosts and the sound of his feet hitting the pavement.
When he came to a bridge he stopped in the middle and pretended to look down at the river beneath moving slow and meanderingly. Breathing hard, hurting like hell, he gulped for breath. After a few minutes, still not ready to continue, he pulled his phone from his running shorts pocket. Accessing his camera, he focused it on the last of the moon seemingly sinking into the water with the blue glow gliding over the rocky riverbed.
He sent the pic to Amory, thumbing in a quick miss you. When he got a ping that told him the message had been sent, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and forced himself to keep going.
As Sharon had pointed out, he needed to get back to lean, mean fighting shape for the job. He’d worked his ass off to climb the ranks. He wasn’t going to let anyone think he wasn’t able to get back to it. And if a small part of him realized that in pushing himself so hard to become something important, to make something of himself, he’d instead become a workaholic like the workaholic parents he resented, he ignored it.
His phone buzzed an incoming text. He was smiling as he pulled it back out of his pocket, already formulating his teasing response about Amory being up so early.
She loved when he sent her pics and stories. A late-in-life baby, she’d been born with Down syndrome when Parker had been twelve. Their parents had qualified for state funding and had gotten help, and they’d been lucky enough to have that help genuinely love and care for Amory. But this had created an unexpected problem. Amory had been overprotected and overshielded from normal life at every turn.
She expressed only contentment with her life, but Parker could only imagine how constricting it was. She had to feel closed in by perimeters of her quiet existence.
He hated that for her, and that more than anything else had him texting her pictures from wherever in the world he was as often as he could.
But it wasn’t Amory on the phone.
It was Kel. “So,” the sheriff said without preamble. “Interested in knowing that Cat’s Paw is suddenly a hot topic around the water cooler?”
“Very,” Parker said. “Although word got back to my boss that I’ve been digging.”
“You up shit creek?”
“Without a paddle,” Parker confirmed. “Tell me you got something concrete to make it worthwhile.”
“I’ve got a buddy in the ATF. He couldn’t confirm for certain, but word’s out that your guy cut some sort of a hush-hush deal.”
Parker had suspected this very thing, but goddamn, that asshole didn’t deserve a deal of any kind. “Anything specific?”
“Nothing,” Kel said. “Whatever’s going on up there, it’s above my pay grade. They still haven’t included any local law enforcement. I’ve got a few feelers out for more intel. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks,” Parker said. “Appreciate it.”
“Stay safe.”
“You, too.” Parker stared at his phone after he disconnected, torn by conflicting urges. He wanted to say fuck everyone and whatever they were waiting on and go in after Carver himself. But that was stupid and selfish, and he tried very hard not to be either of those things.
He needed to play this safe but he wasn’t exactly in tune with his safe side. He looked at the time, and knowing it was two hours ahead in D.C. and that his boss would be up and in the office chewing on the balls of her underlings for breakfast while simultaneously running her world, he called her.
“All I want to hear from you,” Sharon opened with, “is that you’re on a fucking island making your left hand jealous of your right.”
“I have a theory,” Parker said.
“Oh Christ. Is it that you’re a pain in my ass? Because that’s a fact, Parker, not a theory.”
“I think Tripp Carver made a deal,” he said.
Sharon’s silence went glacial.
“I think he’s giving information,” Parker went on, “and in return he’s got his freedom. How am I doing? Am I close?”
“We’re not having this conversation,” she said.
Yeah, he was close.
“Listen to me, Parker,” Sharon said. “You’re not able to see reason on this case because of Ned’s death, and I get it. But I’m trying to protect your job here.”
He blew out a breath and rubbed his still-sore ribs. “I know, and I appreciate that. But I need you to be straight with me on this.”
There was another long silence, during which Parker heard rustling and then a door shutting, as if Sharon was getting herself some privacy.
“What did he have that made it worth keeping him in the wild?”
“I’m not confirming this, Parker.”
But nor was she denying. “Shit,” he said with disgust. “This is insane. To give him his freedom after all he’s done—”
“You need to see the bigger picture here,” she said. “The much bigger picture, which, trust me, makes Carver look like a saint. Something’s going down and if you screw things up, I won’t be able to help you save your career. You have to let this go, Parker. Now repeat that back to me. You’ll let it go.”
He got what she was saying. If he pursued this, he was risking the career he’d so painstakingly built, but Christ it went against the grain. “I want in on the takedown,” he said.
“I can’t promise that. We’re not running the show.”
Yeah, he was getting that loud and clear.
“You know I’ll do what I can,” she said. “But in the meantime, stay the hell out of Idaho because if Carver sees you, he’ll run. He’ll vanish like smoke, and then he really will get away with it.”
“He’s not going to see me.”
“You willing to stake your career on it?” she asked. “Because right now he’s getting comfortable, and that’s right where we all need him to be. Comfortable. Cozy. Lazy.”
Carver was a lot of things, but lazy wasn’t one of them. And yet Sharon was right. He had to let it go.
For now.
He went back to his run, halfway to dead when he stopped two miles later and bent over at the knees, gulping in air like it was his job. He was still there sucking wind when a truck pulled over in front of him on the side of the road.
Wyatt got out. He was in cargo pants, a T-shirt that read VETERINARIAN: Because BADASS isn’t an official job title, and a fading smile as he got a good look at Parker.
“I’m fine,” Parker said, still wheezing.
Wyatt nodded as he came close enough to put his hand to Parker’s shoulder and push.
Parker fell over onto his ass.
“You’re full of shit,” Wyatt said, and offered him a hand to pull him up. “Get in the truck.”
Parker didn’t take orders from very many people. But stick a fork in him, he was done. “Love it when you get all demanding,” he said, keeping his whimpers to himself. “Gives me the shivers. You going to buy me breakfast first?”
“Maybe after,” Wyatt said. “If you’re very good.”
“After what?”
“If you want to kill yourself with physical activity, I’ve got just the way to do it,” Wyatt said.
Fifteen minutes later they entered the Belle Haven Animal Center, wh
ere Wyatt worked as a veterinarian. They were greeted by well over a hundred-pounds of Saint Bernard. Gertie threw herself at Wyatt and then shoved her big nose into Parker’s crotch, making him yelp.
Wyatt grinned. “Welcome to the insanity.”
“Help!” screeched a feminine voice. “HELP ME!”
Parker whipped around, automatically reaching for the weapon that he didn’t have at the small of his back because, oh yeah, he was in running gear with no place to hide a weapon.
But there was no woman. Just a huge parrot perched on a printer at the front desk.
“Help!” it squeaked in a shockingly authentic woman’s voice. “I’ve been turned into a parrot!”
“Peanut, play dead,” Wyatt said.
Peanut sighed and tucked her head into her feathers.
“Good parrot.” Wyatt looked at Parker. “She’s a nut.”
“Damn, shit, farts,” the bird muttered beneath her breath, making Parker grin.
Wyatt sighed. “Peanut’s a mimic, and Jade, our office manager, has a bit of a potty mouth.”
“Boner,” Peanut said, head still tucked into her feathers.
“Peanut, dead parrots don’t talk.” Wyatt turned back to Parker. “Follow me.”
Parker did, and found himself working his ass off for the next hour mucking out four horse stalls. It was late June and the day had heated up. He swiped an arm across his sweaty brow. “Why are we doing this again?” he asked Wyatt.
“Because we had to fire the maid,” Wyatt said, swiping his damp brow, too. “And also because each of us here owns a horse and we take turns at this. It was my day and you were looking to punish yourself for God knows what. Just being a friend, man.”
When they finished, Parker staggered to a fallen log and sat. And because that wasn’t enough, he lay flat on his back in a patch of overgrown wild grass, sweating, shaking, and unable to move.
Christ, Sharon was right. He wasn’t in lean, mean fighting shape yet. Not even close.
“Aw. Need a nap?” Wyatt asked.
Remaining still, not even opening his eyes, Parker flipped him off. He wasn’t going to move, not a single trembling muscle, for a good long time . . .
The scent of coffee roused him and he opened an eye.
A feminine hand waved an iced coffee—God bless her—in front of his face. He opened another eye and met Zoe’s sunglasses-covered gaze. “Marry me,” he said.
“Huh, you’re right,” she said to someone over his head. “That did revive him.”
“Told ya,” Wyatt said. “And I bet vodka would’ve done the same thing.”
Zoe’s eyes were still on Parker, and he watched as the memories of the night before flitted through her mind, making her lips twitch.
“It’s too early for vodka,” Parker muttered. “You,” he said, pointing to Wyatt, “are an asshole.”
“Sticks and stones,” Wyatt said, and walked off. “Dinner tonight,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’ll introduce you and your potty mouth to the woman I’m going to marry.”
“Is she a sadist, too?”
Wyatt flipped him off, and Parker let out a low laugh. “Shit. She is, isn’t she?”
“Ready?” Zoe asked him.
He looked at her, taking in her long, slim-cut black blazer and skirt—blessedly short and revealing her mile-long legs. Was he ready? Ready for what? Because several really great possibilities were running on repeat through his mind, none of which could be done in front of her brother. Not to mention he’d need a shower first. And maybe another nap. “For?”
“A ride.” She narrowed her eyes. “What did you think I was offering?”
He just stared at her.
She flushed and squirmed a little bit. “Do you have to make everything sexual?” she asked.
“As much as possible. What are you doing here?”
“Wyatt called me. Said you needed a ride. Something about you being an idiot and . . . some other things I’m not going to repeat.”
He found a smile. “Aw, come on. Talk dirty to me.”
She snorted. “You want a ride or not? My first flight was cancelled but I have a lesson later that I can’t miss, so . . .”
Parker looked at the building, knowing her car was on the far side of it, both of which seemed like a million miles away. “How about you sit and talk to me for a minute?”
She huffed out a breath but sat right there in the wild grass next to him. Her long legs folded beneath her, she settled without a care for if she got dirty.
And he nearly fell in love with her right then and there.
Nearly.
Ten
“What do you want to talk about?” Zoe asked Parker warily, her eyes covered by her dark sunglasses.
That was Zoe, more afraid of trusting someone than of getting dirty. “Do you like teaching people to fly?” he asked.
“I like flying,” she said. “And in the beginning, lessons were an additional way for me to get hours in the air.”
“You needed so many hours for your license, right?”
“Yes.” She paused, clearly carefully considering her words. “You can’t accept payment for flying with a private license, but you can be paid to teach. In order to fly for a living, I had to get a commercial license, which is mind-bogglingly expensive. It required—at least in my case—loans.”
“How expensive?”
She turned to the sun and tipped her face up to it. “I’ve got about a hundred K in student loans,” she murmured.
He let out a low whistle.
“Yeah. And getting that commercial license required a minimum of two hundred fifty hours in the air. Teaching got me to those hours, and I didn’t have to pay for plane rentals or fuel.” She shrugged. “Win-win.”
“Nice,” he said, impressed. “And you kept giving the lessons after you got your license.”
“Yeah, I still get more lessons than flights compared to say, Devon, who’s been working for two years less than I have.” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s the twenty-first century, but female pilots are still few and far between, and not always a client’s first choice. Even though women have been flying as long as men, it’s still very much a boys’ club. Jobs are a lot harder to find. I’m lucky to get to work so close to home, but I don’t always get a fair share of the flights.”
Reaching over, he pulled off her sunglasses and waited until she met his gaze. “I’d hire you over a male pilot any day of the week,” he said.
She snorted. “Shock,” she said, not taking him seriously.
Which was for the best.
“Anyway,” she went on, “for now at least, teaching brings in more money, and more money helps me to pay down my loans.” She shrugged again, philosophically. “So I teach.” She looked at him. “Now you.”
“Me what?”
“Tell me something about you.”
“Well, for starters, my world is a man’s world, too. In my field, men outnumber women five to one.”
“Would you work with a woman as a partner?” she asked.
“In a heartbeat,” he said.
She smiled. “That was quick. You did realize I didn’t mean sexual partner, right?”
He grinned. “Either way. Women are smarter, sharper, more interesting, and far more fun to be with. No matter what we’re partnering for.”