My grin widens as I reach into my bodice, searching for the flash drive…
…and morphs into a grimace of shock when my fingers find nothing but flesh and fabric. I go completely still, panic overriding my every sense as I realize the USB is missing.
No.
No way in hell did I drop it. It was so tight against my skin, nothing save a full body search could’ve shaken it loose.
Then again, a quiet voice at the back of my mind whispers. You do know someone who recently attempted a full search of your body… Someone with burnished blond hair and broad shoulders, who kissed like a vow and touched without hesitation… Someone who could’ve easily taken that flash drive from your cleavage without you noticing, so distracted by his touch you weren’t even aware it was gone until now…
My hands curl into fists as I realize exactly what happened to my flash drive. Or, should I say, exactly who happened to my flash drive. I hear a husky voice, still fresh in my memory, making me a promise.
This isn’t over.
Parker. Fucking. West.
I admit, I’m shocked he found it while feeling me up. I’m even more stunned he was clever enough to pocket it. I underestimated him — dismissed him as nothing but a stacked wallet, high cheekbones, and unadulterated sex appeal. And yet, he’s backed me neatly into a corner without my even realizing it.
Now, I’ll be forced to seek him out. See him again.
Kiss him again.
No! No.
There will be no more kissing.
With a groan, I flip on an overhead chandelier, basking the industrial space in soft, feminine light. The loft is my sanctuary, my safe haven, though I’m probably the only person in a ten-mile radius who’d use those words to describe it. Even disregarding the ancient elevator, it’s not in the greatest of neighborhoods. I don’t participate in a weekly potluck with my neighbors or know their first names. It’s frigidly cold in the winter months — the polished concrete floors are icy against my feet, the exposed brick walls essentially act as a meat locker. Most mornings, I can see my breath when I roll out of bed.
My little icebox.
But that’s just it… it’s mine.
When I turned eighteen, I finally gained access to the financial trust my parents left behind for me when they died. It’s not much – certainly not enough to carry me forever – but it pays my meager rent each month and keeps me fully stocked in as many chocolate peanut butter cups as I can eat. So long as I take on a few freelance programming or graphic design jobs on the side every now and then, I’m able to live and work quite comfortably.
To soften its harsh industrial lines, I decorated in lush white fabrics and delicate glasswork. Colorful art prints span the interior walls; massive floor to ceiling windows look out over the city skyline to the north. A cluster of couches flank my black wood stove. A granite-topped breakfast bar divides the range from the rest of the space. My queen-sized platform bed dominates the far side, smothered in piles of down blankets and white faux-fur pillows. And in the corner, my most cherished possession — a bank of computer monitors on a massive black desk.
I peel off my flats, toss the backpack by the door, and shimmy out of my dress. Crossing to my dresser, I pull a loose-fitting white sweater from the bottom drawer and tug it on over my underwear. It drapes to mid-thigh, stretched out after a zillion washes. I shove the sleeves up above my elbows and feed a few fire-starters into the wood stove along with some kindling before I plop down in front of my computer.
I need that flash drive back, otherwise Luca will kill me and thousands of people will continue being screwed out of their hard-earned retirement accounts. Which means… Parker West just found his way onto my hit list.
Time to dig up some dirt.
As my fingers hover over the keys, I consider what I already know about the man, besides the fact that he kisses so well it should be illegal.
Not much.
My one and only interaction with the West family happened last spring, when Parker’s younger sister Phoebe stumbled into trouble with Keegan MacDonough — head of Boston’s most notorious Irish mob family. The MacDonoughs are a nasty lot, prone to brute force, bribery, and extortion. Taking Phoebe was just another one of their schemes to manipulate her sleazy father, Milo West, and tip the many, many millions controlled by the WestTech telecommunications company in their favor.
Twenty-five years ago, MacDonough bullied his way to the top the criminal food chain and never relinquished an ounce of his control, even with the DA breathing down his neck and the FBI searching his many properties for proof of illegal activities. He was a cancer, slowly eating away at everything that makes Boston beautiful. So, when I heard through the backchannels that he was holding the West heiress in a slum-house in Charlestown last April… Luca and I couldn’t resist an opportunity to fuck with his carefully-constructed house of cards.
Now, I’m happy to report he’s rotting in jail.
Plus, watching the Louboutin-wearing princess die at the hands of ugly thugs without lifting a finger to intervene isn’t something that sits well on one’s conscience — even a morally-hazy conscience like mine.
I may live in the gray area, but I’m not fond of watching innocents die.
And Phoebe is innocent. Annoying, but innocent — the girl talks a mile-a-minute, wears exclusively designer labels, and has never, not for a single moment in her privileged life, known what it feels like to go without food or heat or a safe place to lay her head.
We never spoke again, after that night. She doesn’t even know my name — she never will.
Still, against my better judgment, I sort of… liked her, when we met.
Her brother is another story.
With their father facing prison-time for his collusion with MacDonough, Parker moved to the city a few months back and took over WestTech as interim CEO. I’m not sure what exactly makes a party-loving playboy qualified to run a Fortune 500 company, but no one asked my opinion on the matter.
My eyes narrow as his gorgeous face flashes in my mind. I still can’t believe the jerk stole my flash drive. But, more so, I really can’t believe he kissed me. I mean… the nerve of it all.
Who the hell does he think he is?
Only the most attractive man you’ve ever been pressed against, full-frontal...
I ignore the squirmy feeling in my stomach and focus on my anger. That’s the only emotion I’m equipped to process, at the moment.
Cracking my knuckles, I turn my attention back to my computer screen and dive in.
* * *
By midnight, I’ve scoured the internet for all traces of Parker West… and, frustratingly, come up rather short. I sit back in my computer chair and exhale a heavy sigh. Besides the slew of Instagram pictures of him posing with half-naked Victoria’s Secret models, there’s really not a lot to go on. No criminal history, with the exception of a few teenage disorderly conduct charges his father’s lawyers buried before they ever made it onto his permanent record. No marriage licenses; not even a trace of any long-term relationships, if his Facebook profile is anything to go by. No property listed in his name. In fact, I couldn’t even find an address for him listed in the Registry of Deeds, which means he’s either crashing with friends, staying with his sister, or booked at a hotel.
Or, more likely, he’s shacking up with one of his many bimbos on the Eastern Seaboard.
Disquieted by the ridiculous thread of jealousy in my thoughts, I rise and head for the kitchen. I have to hop up onto the counter to reach the top cabinet where I keep my stash of candy — an intentional hurdle, since I figure if I have to climb to get my fix, there’s a chance I’ll eat less of it.
Fat chance. Emphasis on fat, because one of these days my metabolism is going to slow down and I’ll actually have to work out to burn off the zillion calories contained in Reese’s peanut butter cups.
…An eventuality I plan to ignore until the moment it happens.
I pop the chocolate into my mouth a
nd let it melt on my tongue as my mind spins in indecisive circles. Since I can’t track down where Parker’s staying, I have no choice but to confront him somewhere I know he’ll show up.
The WestTech offices.
I feel my lips tug up at one side as the beginnings of a plan take shape in my mind.
He told me this thing between us wasn’t over — he was right.
It’s just begun.
* * *
“Did you get the intel on Lancaster’s finances?”
I squirm against the hard plastic subway seat and adjust my grip on the phone. “Yes. No. Kind of.”
“What the hell does that mean, babe?” Luca sounds impatient. “You either got the intel or you didn’t.”
“I got it,” I murmur, wincing. “And then… I kind of… lost it.”
Silence blasts over the line. “Care to explain?”
“Listen, Luke, it’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it for me.”
“I have the files on a flash drive.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?”
“The flash drive may or may not be… misplaced at the moment.” I wince again. “But I’m going to get it back. In fact, I’m on my way to get it back at this precise moment.”
More silence.
“Don’t freeze me out,” I snap, making sure my voice is too low for the other passengers to overhear. “You should be thanking me for going on this crazy mission of yours at all. I almost got caught. Some…” I pause, searching for the right word to describe Parker. “…some stranger had to save my ass.”
“Uh huh. Would this stranger have anything to do with your missing intel?”
My jaw clenches. He knows me too well.
“Guess the silent treatment is okay as long as you’re the one using it, huh, babe?” he teases.
“Shut up.”
“For real… you okay?” he asks, voice suddenly serious. “Don’t like hearing you were almost caught. I shouldn’t have asked you to put yourself at risk. I should’ve been there to help you.”
“I’m fine.” I sigh. “Parker — the guy who helped me — was there. He covered for me. I don’t know why, but he did.”
“I know why,” Luca mutters. “I’ve seen that black dress.”
I blink. “What?”
“Never mind.” He clears his throat. “Just let me know how it goes.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
He clicks off, leaving me listening to dead air.
I hate when he does that.
Ten minutes later I’m out of the dark subway tunnels, squinting as afternoon sunshine glares off the towering glass skyscrapers of the Financial District. This part of the city feels foreign to me — too new, too tall, to modern for Boston, a place steeped more strongly in history than the tea we once dumped into our harbors to piss off the British. These towers all look the same, totally devoid of charm and character. I head for the one with the WestTech logo on the side and step through the glass rotating doors, keeping my head held high and my strides confident.
The first rule of blending in anywhere: act like you belong and people will assume you do.
Luca’s been saying it since we were kids. Fake it till you make it, babe.
The lobby is jammed with people returning from their lunch breaks, just as I’d hoped. Amid the chaos, I note the entire space is decked out in holiday decorations, complete with a fifteen foot Fraser fir and massive ornaments suspended from the ceiling, like model airplanes at a museum.
It takes effort not to physically recoil at the show of Christmas cheer.
In ten days, it’ll be December 26th and all these painful reminders of the things you’ve lost will be packed back in their boxes for a whole year and shoved away in attics and basements, out of sight.
Ten days. 240 hours. 14,400 minutes.
You can make it, Zoe. You always make it.
I fall into step with a group of women on their way back from lunch. The uncomfortable heels I bought at PayLess for fifteen bucks on my way here are giving me blisters, but I don’t pay them any attention. I trail behind the chatting women, trying to look like I’m part of their posse, and remind myself not to tug on the lapels of my navy blazer or white skirt.
Fidgeting is a dead giveaway.
I’m past the security desk and in line for the elevators before anyone has time to give me a second glance. When the doors open, I slip inside and stare down at my phone so no one has the urge to make small talk with me. The words are a blur on the screen — I can’t focus on anything except the knowledge that in another twenty-seven — ding! Make that twenty-six — floors, I’ll be face to face with a man I’ve been fantasizing about since last night.
The crowd thins as we slowly ascend, stopping to unload passengers every few floors. My pulse starts to skyrocket the higher we climb, as though my blood pressure is somehow linked to altitude.
Or proximity to Parker.
I swallow hard and tighten my grip the phone, trying to remind myself this is about business, nothing more. Plus, I’m not just going to walk into his office, wag a disapproving finger in his face, and say, “Return my flash drive, or else!”
Give me a little credit. I have a plan.
I get off on the twelfth floor, which — according to a quick internet search — houses the Tech Support Department, and push the chunky, cat-eye glasses further up the bridge of my nose as I make my way down the hall. The lenses are clear glass — just a prop — but they’ll help me get the leverage I need.
Techie boys can’t resist the allure of cute nerd girls. It’s a scientific fact.
I follow a short hallway until I find their office and step through the doorway. A trio of IT guys sit amidst a bank of computers. Satisfaction thrums though my veins when all three men look up and take notice, going still at their desks as their eyes sweep me from head to toe.
What did I tell you — cat-eye glasses and knee socks?
Nerd-boy kryptonite.
They’re all in their mid to late twenties, pale from too much time in front of a computer screen and in serious need of some wardrobe advisement judging by their crumb-covered khakis and lopsided ties. I fight the urge to sigh. This is exactly why computer geeks never get the girl.
(At least, not until they make their first million.)
I linger in the doorway and watch as the three of them slide off their noise-cancelling headphones and pivot in their squeaky computer chairs to get a better look at me. The sound of fingers clacking against keys fades into silence and the air fills with hushed excitement. I can almost see the red alert messages flashing inside their brains.
GIRL. IN. OFFICE.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
“Can we help you?” the bespectacled man closest to me asks. The other two are leaning forward in their seats, looks of anticipation on their faces.
The Three Freaking Stooges, in the flesh. This is going to be almost too easy.
“I seriously hope so.” I jut out a hip as I pull a laptop from my bag. “I’m Sandra — I work up in accounting. I spilled something on my keyboard this morning and I will be, like, eternally grateful if one of you can salvage it.” I pause for effect. “The girls upstairs were like, ‘Oh, you should take it to the geniuses at the Apple Store’ but I was like ‘Um, don’t you know we have a whole department of geniuses right downstairs?’” I grin when I see Larry, Moe, and Curly are hanging on my every word.
“So…” I swivel my gaze around the office. “You think you guys could help me? If you’re too busy… I guess I can go to the Apple store…”
“No!” All three of them practically yell at the same time.
My grin widens until I’m beaming. “Great!”
I step into the office and walk toward Moe, swinging my hips and stopping a fraction closer to him than I would a normal stranger.
It’s safe to say he’s affected by my nearness. The man can barely meet my eyes as he takes the junk laptop — another prop I keep handy for occa
sions such as this — from my hands. You wouldn’t believe how many times this same routine has gotten me access into buildings I’m not supposed to be within a ten-block radius of.
Never underestimate the power of horny tech-support staffers.
(Spoiler alert: they’re always horny.)
“We’ll take a look and see what we can do,” Moe tells me as Larry and Curly watch from the sidelines, no doubt envious they aren’t the ones who’ll be attempting to resuscitate a computer that’s been dead since 2010, when a city-wide power outage fried my hard drive.
“Thanks so much!” I gush. “I owe you guys! And I’ll be sure to tell the girls upstairs that they should stop walking all the way to the Apple Store every time they have an issue. This is much closer… and you guys are way cuter.”
Moe’s expression matches that of a child on Christmas.
Larry looks like he might start weeping tears of joy.
Curly looks a little nauseous.
God, I’m good.
“I suppose you guys won’t mind if I hang out here for a bit, while you’re fixing it?” I ask, batting my eyelashes. “I can just, like, play Solitaire or something on one of your extra computers.”
“Of course not,” Moe mutters quickly, looking slightly embarrassed as he examines the console beside his. The desktop is littered with empty Red Bull cans and old microwaveable burrito wrappers. “Let me just clear this off for you…”
“You can sit over here!” Larry calls.
“Or here!” Curly adds.
“No worries, boys.” Holding Moe’s gaze, I watch a blush creep up the side of his neck beneath his collar and try not to smirk as I backpedal toward a desk in the corner, where my screen won’t be visible to them. “This one will be fine.”
“Okay.” Moe looks a little crestfallen, but turns his attention quickly back to the fried laptop in his hands. “This looks like it might take a while. Just hang tight and let us know if you need anything.”
One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) Page 5