One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3)

by Julie Johnson

  “Oh, no, sir,” the bitch backpedals quickly. “Of course not, sir. We meant no disrespect, you understand. Just doing our jobs.” She swallows. “Please, have a pleasant evening.”

  “We will,” Parker says, cheerful once again. I find it somewhat alarming how fast he can shift gears from intimidating to exuberant. For the first time, I wonder if there’s something more to the playboy facade he puts on for paparazzi and the public.

  I don’t dwell on the thought, because we’re suddenly moving again. This time, the guards don’t follow as we make our way down the hallway toward the ballroom. His arm remains tight around my shoulders even after we’ve left their line of sight.

  When we reach the bathroom where I changed earlier, I dig my heels in and draw to a stop. He glances at me curiously, mouth parting to ask a question I don’t want to answer. Before he can say a word, I shove open the door, grab hold of his arm, and drag him in after me.

  The door slams with finality, closing us together in the small space.

  Breathe, Zoe.

  I put as much distance between us as possible — which only amounts to about six feet, in the tiny bathroom. For a moment, we just stare at each other in silence.

  With his hands shoved casually into his suit pockets and his tall frame leaning back against the door he looks totally relaxed, as if what just happened was no more interesting than the dinner party taking place thirty steps down the hall. His eyes though — they’re totally alert and keenly intelligent as they hold mine. I get the sense they don’t miss much.

  “So,” he says softly, shattering the quiet. I go tense, waiting for the inevitable questions. The threats. The demands.

  Who are you? What were you doing?

  Tell me, or I’ll turn you in before you can say “twenty-five to life.”

  I’ll keep your secret… if you make it worth my while…

  I fight off a shudder and brace myself.

  A tiny crease appears in the space between his eyes, like he’s mulling something over.

  “I’m thinking there should be one of those giant floating balloons, now,” he murmurs. “Maybe a celebrity float. No one super famous, who’d overshadow me on my big day, obviously. Anthony Bourdain could work. I wonder if he’s free for private events…” He shrugs his shoulders. “If not, we’ll just go with two balloon floats.”

  The whole time he’s talking, I feel my eyes getting wider.

  He’s insane, I realize bleakly. Parker West is certifiably insane.

  “Excuse me?” I manage, when I’ve finally regained control over my vocal cords.

  “Balloons.” His head tilts and he looks at me like I’m the crazy one for not keeping up. “You know, like Macy’s has every Thanksgiving.”

  I stare at him. “Are you having some kind of mental break, right now?”

  “The parade. My parade. The one you promised me.” He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward me, narrowing the number feet between us to five. This close, I suddenly recognize the humor lurking at the back of his eyes. “I’m thinking it’s going to have to be pretty elaborate,” he says quietly. “Considering I’ve saved your ass twice now, snookums.”

  “Don’t call me that.” I cross my arms over my chest, hoping it might muffle the sound of my heart slamming against my ribcage. “And, I will point out, I didn’t ask you to save me. Either time.”

  “I didn’t ask to be this good looking.” He grins. “Things happen.”

  “Humble, aren’t you?”

  “Trouble, aren’t you?” he counters, taking another step toward me.

  Four feet left.

  “No,” I lie, heart still hammering.

  His grin widens. He knows I’m full of shit.

  “Too bad.” His eyes flicker to my mouth. “I’m rather fond of trouble.”

  Gulp.

  This whole night has been a clusterfuck of epic proportions. First the groper in the pinstripe suit, then the standoff with the guards, now the playboy billionaire with some weird tendency to channel his inner Lancelot like I’m a freaking damsel in distress… and, just so I have something to look forward to, later I’ll have Miriam to deal with.

  By this point there is a zero percent chance that she hasn’t noticed my absence, which means I’ll probably have to cut and run without finishing the job — not ideal, since if a breach is ever discovered in the LC network, they’ll be much more likely to suspect responsibility lies with the cater-waiter who conveniently disappeared after the first half of her shift. To add insult to injury, I won’t even get paid for the two hours I spent schlepping trays and fending off lewd advances.

  “Listen, just tell me what you want so we can get this over with,” I say, trying to sound like I’m in control and not about to defy national health statistics by having a heart attack at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

  “What I want?” he asks in a precariously gentle tone.

  “Yes.” I take a breath that does nothing to steady me. “To keep quiet about this.”

  “Why would you assume I want something?”

  “Everyone wants something.”

  “Maybe I don’t.”

  “Well, what I want is to not be be indebted to you.” I jerk my chin up. “I don’t want to owe anyone anything. Ever.”

  There’s a pause as he weighs my words and I get the sense he’s trying to figure me out. I could save him the time — tell him I’m a puzzle with so many missing pieces he’d be better off throwing the whole damn thing in the trash — but I don’t waste my breath.

  “Have you considered the possibility…” he says after a while, his voice full of gravel. “…that I might want something you don’t want to give me?”

  “I…” I swallow. “I can give you money. Not upfront, but I could pay you in installments… or… something…” I finish weakly, watching him take another step toward me.

  Three feet.

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “I could upgrade your computer system,” I offer, shuffling backward until my spine hits the tile wall.

  He shakes his head, amused.

  “Walk your dog?”

  His eyes spark with humor. “Don’t have a dog, darling.”

  “Water your plants when you’re out of town?”

  “Do I look like the kind of guy who keeps a garden of delicate orchids?”

  No. No, he does not.

  He looks like the kind of guy who’d only ever see a flower if he decided to fuck you senseless in a field of wild daisies, just because he felt like it.

  My mouth feels suddenly dry. When I speak, my words crack. “Then what do you want?”

  His eyes flare with something dangerous. Something that makes my palms start to sweat and my legs press a little tighter together.

  “I don’t think you want to know,” he whispers.

  I agree. I definitely don’t want to know.

  We’re silent for a long, heated moment, both waiting for the other to say something.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me?” I blurt, unable to stop myself. I clamp my lips shut as soon as the words are out, instantly regretting my lapse of control.

  “Ask you what?” The humor in his stare has heated into something else entirely. “About your little Jane Bond act, with the costume change?”

  I swallow my words when he takes another step closer and give a small nod of affirmation.

  Two feet left.

  “No,” he murmurs. His eyes are fixed on my lips and suddenly my lungs feel too tight, like someone’s sucked all the air out of them. “I’m not going to ask when I know you won’t tell me.”

  I don’t say anything, partly because he’s right but mostly because I don’t think I’m capable of coherent words, at the moment.

  “You don’t know me. You don’t trust me.” He pauses and I see something in his eyes — the thrill of a challenge. I hear the echo of unspoken words humming in the air between us.

  Not yet. But you will someday.

  I p
ush the strange thought away.

  He takes that final step, until the space between us has all but disappeared. We’re not touching, but our faces are so close if I rise onto my tiptoes we’ll be kissing.

  “What are you doing?” I breathe, pressing tight against the wall.

  His eyes drag away from my mouth. Our stares clash like swords on a battlefield.

  “I’m taking what I want.”

  Before I can blink, his mouth claims mine.

  I make a sound of surprise, but it’s lost as soon as our lips touch. He’s everywhere, all over me — invading my senses, stealing my breath. His hands pull me close, cup my face, slide into my hair, touching me in all the places he can reach as if his desperate fingers can’t decide where to linger. I’m stunned to find I’m just as ravenous – plastering my front to his, winding my arms around his neck, sliding my fingers through his thick, gorgeous, golden hair until it’s messy, like I wanted to the first time I saw him.

  Some distant part of my brain is screaming this is crazy, reminding me I don’t even know this man, but I can’t hear it over the rush of desire flooding my veins. I can’t help myself.

  Maybe I lived on the streets too long — learned the hard way that good things don’t come easy. Ever. If someone hands you a dollar bill, you grab it and don’t look back. You want something, you take it before it slips away.

  And, for some inexplicable reason, what I want right now is him. This infuriating, entitled, egotistical playboy whose easy jokes don’t quite reach his eyes.

  It’s just sex. Just lust, I tell myself. You want it.

  So… take it.

  I pull him closer, my leg slipping out the slit in my dress to wind around the back of his thighs as my hands grip his shoulders to get better leverage. Feeling my response, he makes a rough sound as his tongue seeks entrance to my mouth. I open for him without hesitation. Our mouths collide with such heat I forget to breathe, to think, to do anything except press closer to him.

  There’s a terrifying edge of familiarity to this kiss — as though we’ve kissed a thousand times before, as though our mouths were made to fit together for only this purpose.

  Not for speaking or eating or breathing.

  Kissing.

  I’m filled with need, a devouring, deep-rooted desire that surpasses the fact that we’re strangers, that he doesn’t even know my name, that I’m relatively sure we don’t even like each other. Desire trumps it all, threading through me until I don’t care about any of the reasons I shouldn’t be making out with a stranger in a dingy bathroom.

  The straps of my dress fall down my shoulders with a flick of his fingers. His hips pin me roughly against the wall, so hard I can’t move, and I’m shocked to find I like it, shocked to find I want more.

  More pressure, more weight, more Parker.

  I’ve never liked to lose control. Never been the meek little girl in missionary position.

  Oh, yes, let me lie here subdued while you fuck me.

  Sex, like life, is about power. I don’t relinquish mine in either the business world or the bedroom. My previous partners have learned quickly — try to domineer me and you’ll find yourself blue-balled so hard, you’ll look like an extra in Avatar.

  But this is different. There’s something about him that breaks every single one of my rules.

  Maybe it’s the knowledge that he doesn’t know me, that he’ll never see me after this moment… or maybe it’s just him.

  I don’t care.

  All I know is, he could have me any way he wanted and I’d like it. Up against a wall, flat on my back, driving in from behind. It’s an addictive feeling. An adrenaline rush.

  I pull him closer, until his frame dwarfs me completely, and abruptly find myself kissing empty air as he tears his lips from mine and moves them to my neck.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he mutters against my skin as his hands move inside the bodice of my dress, beneath my bra.

  Dear god, I’m going to come undone and he’s barely touched me.

  “Does it matter?” I ask, craning to give him better access.

  Something about that question touches a nerve. He goes still and lifts his head so our eyes meet. I don’t know him well enough to put a name on the emotion in their hazel depths. I feel dazed, my lips still tingling from his kisses as I stare up at him. His thumb moves to brush my bottom lip, as if he can’t quite help himself.

  “It matters,” he says quietly. “I’m not fucking you for the first time in a bathroom stall. In fact, I’m not fucking you anywhere except my bed for the foreseeable future.”

  The way he says that — with such certainty, like there’s no doubt in his mind we’ll be doing this again — sends alarm bells ringing inside my head.

  Common sense returns in a flash.

  What the hell are you doing? my brain is screaming at me. You aren’t the kind of girl who gets carried away because of… what? Lust? The promise of a good fuck? You’re here on a job. Get your head out from between your legs and get the hell out of here.

  “I have to go,” I say, pushing against his chest and sliding past him before he has a chance to corner me again. By the time he’s turned around, I’ve already crouched to retrieve my backpack and pulled it from the cabinet beneath the sink.

  “Go?” His voice is full of disbelief. “I just had you pinned to a wall, with your hands in my hair and your tongue in my mouth. Darling, where exactly do you think you’re going? If the answer isn’t my place, you need to rethink it.”

  “Listen, this was…” I trail off, fighting a blush as I slide the strap of my backpack up over one shoulder and edge toward the exit door. “This was…”

  “Hot as hell?” Parker supplies.

  I shake my head.

  “Not nearly enough?” he suggests.

  Another head shake. God, I’m actually blushing. Like a virginal little schoolgirl.

  What the hell is this guy doing to me?

  I swallow. “I don’t know what this was.” I rise to full height, avoiding his eyes at all costs. “But I have to leave now. So… thanks for…for…”

  “Saving you?” He’s watching me carefully. “Or for the second part that happened just now, the part that’s got you so turned on you can’t even look at me?”

  My defiant eyes fly to his. “I’m not turned on.”

  “Red cheeks? Swollen lips? Wild hair?” He smirks. “You look pretty turned on, darling.”

  “Well, I’m not,” I snap.

  He steps closer.

  I step back.

  “I’m leaving now.”

  “So you said,” he murmurs, still watching me.

  “Don’t follow me.”

  “I wasn’t planning to.” He takes another step.

  I hold out a hand to stop his advance. “And don’t even think about kissing me again.”

  He grins. “Seems like you’re the one thinking about it, snookums.”

  “Ugh!” I whirl around to the exit door and put my hand on the knob. Before I can turn it, he’s there at my back, pressing into me — a wall of heat and need. Damn if it doesn’t feel good.

  “This isn’t over,” he whispers, his lips brushing the bare skin of my shoulder in the hint of a kiss, his hand tracing the sensitive skin of my spine. It takes all my strength not to lean back into his touch.

  “You’re right,” I say, wishing my voice didn’t sound so rough. “Something can’t be over if it never even started.”

  Twisting hard on the knob, I yank open the door and slip out into the hallway.

  This time, he doesn’t follow me… but his voice carries softy at my back and I can’t tune out his final words no matter how hard I try.

  “I wouldn’t count on that, darling.”

  4

  The Three Stooges

  My Uber driver shoots me a strange look as I clamor into his backseat and I can’t exactly blame him— kiss-bitten lips, sex hair, and an ensemble featuring a white button down layered over an even
ing gown doesn’t exactly scream stable. Thankfully, he chooses not to comment as he drives me across town to my loft in the Leather District. I wouldn’t be able to keep up a conversation if he tried. My body’s in the car but my mind is back in that bathroom — remembering the way Parker West’s mouth felt against mine.

  I’ve never been kissed like that in my life — kissed until I lost myself, kissed until I ceded control over my every autonomous instinct, kissed until I felt possessed, owned, kept like a bargain I didn’t remember making. His mouth hit mine and suddenly I belonged to him. Worse, I liked it. His lips are the only shackles I’ve ever allowed to hold me; it’s more than a little disquieting to realize I enjoyed the sensation of their weight against my skin.

  My driver pulls up outside the towering brick warehouse. The faded white paint that stretches across the side in bold letters is visible even in the dark.

  EDISON PIANO FACTORY, EST. 1922

  I punch in the building code, shuffle down the hallway, and shove my finger into the small illuminated panel to call the freight elevator. I hear it coming long before it arrives — rattling and groaning as it descends slowly down the shaft. The clanging, ancient brute of a machine is a relic from the original factory, built to haul thousand-pound pianos between floors. It refuses to fall apart no matter how many decades pass. With its iron bars and odd shape, it looks more like a birdcage than a viable mode of transportation. Hell, it almost makes the prospect of walking up six flights of stairs sound appealing.

  Almost.

  I’ve aged several years by the time it finally arrives. Sliding open the wooden hoistway gate, I wait for the inner metal doors to spring apart, step inside, insert my key into the panel, and breathe a sigh of relief as I feel the box jolt into motion.

  I’m home.

  Parker West will soon be a distant memory.

  And, most importantly, I’m pretty sure I got the intel Luca needed.

  A smile drifts across my face as the elevator rattles to a stop on the top floor and I step into my dark loft. Sure, the whole Parker-saving-me thing wasn’t ideal, but that doesn’t matter, now. He doesn’t matter, now. All that matters is the Lancaster financial data, proving their CEO is a lying sack of dog shit.