The woman glances at me with wide eyes, then turns her back and quickly walks away. She doesn’t even take her applesauce.
“I hate you,” I hiss, fighting off a blush as I whirl to face Parker — who, I might add, is grinning like he’s just won the lottery.
“Come on.” He laughs. “Grab your peanut butter cups. I’ll meet you up front.”
There’s really nothing to do but roll my eyes as he pivots on one heel and strides to the front of the store, somehow looking handsome and put together after very little sleep, while wearing his raunchy holiday sweater from yesterday. I follow at a slower pace, stopping to grab a six-pack of diet soda and a jumbo bag of Reese’s on my way. When I reach the front, I make sure to get into a different checkout line so Parker can’t pull any macho crap by attempting to pay for my groceries.
There’s an old lady in front of me, struggling with the credit card reader. The conveyer-belt is practically empty, except for some cans of soup, a box of crackers, and a few rolls of toilet paper.
“Ma’am, as I told you, starting last week we only accept cash or chip-enabled credit cards.” The cashier crosses her arms over her chest impatiently. “You can’t use that card here.”
“Chip-enabled?” the white-haired woman asks. “I don’t know what that is.”
The cashier sighs. “Call your card company. They’ll send you one.”
“But I need these groceries today. Even if they send a new card, it’ll take at least a week to get here.” The woman’s voice trembles a bit. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Come back with cash.”
“All— all right.” The woman is visibly distressed. “I suppose I’ll have to do that.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I have a line.” The cashier looks pointedly at me and the three other people waiting. “So, I’m going to need you to—”
“Here,” I say without thinking, reaching into my wallet and pulling out a twenty. “How much are her groceries? I’ll pay for them.”
“It’s $17.50,” the cashier tells me.
“Perfect.” I pull out another twenty. “Just throw it all in with mine, I’ll pay for it together.”
“Oh, no,” the elderly woman protests quietly, grabbing my arm. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“It’s already done.” I pass over the money and smile at her.
“Thank you,” she whispers, clearly embarrassed. “I usually have cash with me, but I was in a hurry this morning and—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I shrug and toss my stuff in a clear plastic bag. “The new chip technology is a big pain in the ass, if you ask me. But if you call the number on the back of your card, they’ll send you an updated one.”
She smiles and takes her bag from the cashier. “I’ll do that when I get home. Can I at least pay you back?”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
Her hands curl around the bag handles. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Then don’t.” I smile at her as she nods, turns, and walks out of the store.
I’m still smiling as I shove my change into my purse. When I go to grab my bag, I find Parker’s already got it looped around his arm alongside his own groceries. He’s waiting right at the end of the checkout line, watching me carefully.
“What?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Why are you giving me that look, playboy?”
“No reason,” he murmurs, suppressing whatever emotion I just saw in his eyes. “Come on, Zoe. Let’s make like a tree.”
“And leaf?” I snort and hold open the door for him — his arms are full of groceries. “I didn’t realize you were in fourth grade.”
“What do you have against a good pun?”
“Besides the fact that they’re the lowest form of humor?”
“Baby, I’m the pun master. I’ve got puns for days.”
“How nice for you.”
We walk in silence for a half block. That’s as long as he can contain himself.
“You know, sometimes when I get naked in the bathroom, the shower gets turned on.”
I sigh. “Stop.”
“I couldn’t remember how to use a boomerang, but don’t worry, it came back to me.”
“You’re getting less attractive by the second.”
“My grade in Marine Biology was below C level.”
“That, I can believe. You’re not the brightest bulb.”
“Two peanuts were walking in a rough area. One was a salted.”
“That’s it! I’m never sleeping with you again.”
“Fine. I’m done.” His voice is strangled, like he’s trying desperately to hold in a laugh.
Glancing over, I see his lips are clamped together to hide his smile.
“Oh, just say it,” I grumble. “I’m worried your brain will explode if you hold it in any longer.”
He laughs. “Never trust atoms. They make up everything.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re hot. Otherwise, you’d have no redeeming qualities.”
“If I wasn’t weighted down by so many groceries right now, I’d probably kiss you.”
“If you weren’t such a pain in the ass, I’d definitely let you.”
“Just for that, I’m not making you a kale smoothie when we get to your place.”
“Considering I don’t have a blender, you’re not making anyone a kale smoothie.”
“God, it’s like dating a heathen.”
“Except, we aren’t dating.”
He shakes his head in faux disgust. “Diet of pure sugar, no working heat, doors that don’t lock… I know how Jane felt when she met Tarzan. Except, obviously, I look much more dashing in a petticoat than Jane.”
I raise my brows. “Not even going to touch that one.”
“You said you love kids’ movies. Figured you’d appreciate the reference.”
We’re almost back at my building. “Yeah, well, Tarzan was never my favorite. I was all about Beauty and the Beast.”
“Let me guess.” His brows waggle. “You wanted a beast to call your own?”
“Um, no.” I punch in the code to the outer door and follow him inside. “I wanted the cool-as-shit castle with the talking furniture, huge library, and enchanted closets. Obviously.”
“Ah.” He grins at me as we wait for the elevator to return, clanging and groaning as it descends down the shaft. “Phoebe loved that one, too. She made me watch it a thousand times with her when she was seven. And then they made the damn Christmas-themed sequel, which wasn’t nearly as good.”
I bite my lip to keep in a laugh.
Playboy billionaire Parker West is discussing Disney movies with me.
It takes a moment for that to sink in.
Parker sighs. “The snow, all the decorations on the damn castle… I think that’s why she’s so obsessed with Christmas, to be honest. I place one hundred percent of the blame on Disney.”
I slide up the wooden lift gate and wait for the heavy metal doors to edge open. “Good to know.”
“Speaking of Christmas, you never answered my question.”
“Hmm?” I follow him into the elevator and slide my key into the panel. The car jolts into motion.
“Earlier, in the store, I asked what you’re doing tomorrow.”
I stare hard at the illuminated buttons on the panel. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes.” He pauses. “Christmas Eve. Prequel to the most widely-celebrated holiday in our nation. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”
“Ah.” I swallow and keep my eyes averted. When the doors slide open, I step into the loft and practically run to the kitchen. “So, yeah, you can put those anywhere. I suppose I’ll have to make room in my fridge for your healthy crap — that moldy banana is taking up so much space—”
“Zoe.”
Damn. He’s using his quiet voice. That gentle, cajoling one that makes me shiver and sigh at the same time.
I look over at him. He’s dropped the grocery bags on the counter
and is staring at me with questions swimming in his eyes.
“You want to tell me about it, or you wanna keep pretending it’s not an issue until it breaks you down?” He steps toward me, eyes wide with trust. “Your call, darling. But you should know, whenever that happens — you falling apart — whether it’s right now or tomorrow or next week or next year… if you’ll let me, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces.”
And just like that, for the first time in years, staring at this man who never pushes or pries, this man who’s just there for me even when I don’t deserve it… maybe especially when I don’t deserve it… I feel the damn floodgates crack wide open and tears spill down my cheeks in a relentless torrent of bottled-up despair.
14
The Lone Wolf
Once I start crying, I can't seem to stop.
I weep and weep and weep until my throat is burning and my lungs are aching, until there isn't a single ounce of moisture left behind my stinging eyes. I weep for all the years I never allowed myself to, for all the days when I didn't have the luxury of falling apart. Because you can’t cry when you’re sleeping on a cot in a church basement surrounded by strangers. You can’t let it show how much it hurts when your foster mother turns a blind eye to her husband’s wandering hands. You can’t be meek or weak when there’s a whole world of wolves out there, circling in the darkness, picking off the sheep one by one.
You do the only thing you can do: You become a wolf, too.
A wild thing.
It’s better to have battle scars and sharp edges than wind up dinner on a predator’s table.
But in this moment, I don’t want to have claws or teeth. I don’t want to lash out.
Inexplicably, I want strong arms around me.
I want lips on my hair, murmuring reassurances.
I want someone else to hold back the shadows that circle close, just for a few minutes, so I can finally, finally, finally drop my guard.
Parker doesn't say a word. He just holds me together when everything is spiraling into pieces, just like he promised he would. He lends me the strength I need to allow myself to be weak.
His shirt is wet when I finally fall silent, my ragged sobs settling into something resembling proper breath.
"Guess you picked now," he murmurs against my hair.
"I'm sorry," I hiccup. "I'm not usually this girl who gets all weepy and needs a guy to hold her and—” I hiccup again. “—to tell her it's all going to be okay."
"I know, Zoe." His arms tighten a bit.
"It's just this time of year, you know? The lights and the ornaments and the decorations and all the people out on the streets smiling and singing and acting like they actually enjoy each other's company. It's exhausting! I'm just… exhausted. I try to avoid it, to keep to myself, but this year..." I breathe deeply. "I'm sorry."
"Shhh." He pets my hair in long strokes. “Stop apologizing. You never have to apologize to me.”
I pull back to look up into his face. There's no pity in his gaze – nothing but compassion and sympathy and maybe a bit of worry.
"Thank you," I whisper.
“I didn't do anything, darling.”
"You were here." I shrug. "That's everything."
He pauses and I can tell there's something on his mind, something he wants to say but can't quite put into words.
"Say it," I whisper.
"You might feel better... If you talked about it."
I swallow. "I..."
“I don’t mean right now," he says gently. “I don’t even mean with me. But you should talk to someone, Zoe. You can't keep all this emotion locked up forever. It'll kill you. There are people out there, qualified people with fancy degrees, whose sole purpose is to help with shit like this. Believe me, I'd know – after everything that happened with my mom’s death, my father’s total inability to be a parent, I've got the therapy bills to prove it."
My brows lift. "You?"
"I know.” His smile is wry. “Parker West, the cavalier adventurer, in therapy. Who'd have guessed?" He shrugs. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you need help, reaching out and taking it from someone who's offering. There's no shame in admitting you can't do it all yourself."
Where did he come from?
How did I find him?
Seven billion people on this earth… and somehow I find the exact one I need.
"I think..." I trail off. It takes a minute, but I somehow muster my courage. "I think... You're the person I want to talk to about it. Not some stranger on a couch in a stuffy office who'll shrink me for $400 over the course of an hour. I'd rather talk to someone who..."
Cares about me.
Understands me.
Accepts me.
I don't finish the rest of the sentence; neither does he. But his eyes fill with something warm and his voice is barely audible when he rumbles, "All right, Zoe,” with so much emotion it nearly makes me cry again.
I take him by the hand and lead him to my desk. Opening the bottom drawer, I pull out the frame I keep hidden in the depths, where I don't have to look at it because it hurts too much. I barely glance at the image behind the glass as I pass it to Parker.
I don't need to — it's been burned into my memory for years. I can see it with my eyes closed, every perfect detail.
A little blonde girl in her ballerina costume, clutching a bouquet of red roses. Her proud parents, one on each side, their smiles so wide you'd think their daughter had just nailed her audition for Juilliard, rather than completed a rather halting rendition of The Nutcracker.
"These are..." Parker trails off. His finger hovers just over the glass surface.
"My parents." I nod. "And me. I was five."
He looks up at me as I pass him the other document from the drawer. It's a weathered sheet of newspaper, the front headline faded after nearly twenty years but still legible.
HOLIDAY DOUBLE-HOMICIDE: COUPLE SLAIN ON CHRISTMAS EVE
I watch his eyes move over the words, see the way his face sets into grim lines of grief as he reaches the smaller caption below the picture of bloody snow and rose petals outside the opera house. I memorized it long ago.
Rebecca and Luther Bloom, killed outside a recital hall on Christmas Eve by a suspect still-at-large. Their daughter Zoe Bloom, age 5, who witnessed the gruesome attack, remains in stable condition at Boston Children's Hospital, where she is expected to make a full recovery.
"Oh, Zoe." Parker looks up at me, ghosts swirling in his eyes, and I feel my heart clench like a fist inside my chest. There's nothing he can say. I know that — it's why I've never bothered discussing this with anyone. Even Luca knows only the smallest of details.
But, I'm stunned to discover, I don't need him to say anything. It's enough to have him reach over and twine his fingers with mine, his warm grip saying everything he can't find words for.
I feel my eyes fill with tears again, but I manage to keep them at bay this time. He only asks one question.
"Did they catch the scumbag who did this?"
I shake my head. "No. But... I've been trying to figure out what happened since I was old enough to turn on a computer."
His eyes flash. “That’s why you do this. The hacking, the coding skills…”
I nod.
“So...” His hand fists in frustration. "The police have no leads? Nothing?"
"It's a cold case," I say, feeling hollowed out from my crying jag. "Back then, when it happened, there was an entire department trying to solve it. But as years went by with no suspects, no clues, no new evidence..."
"They stopped looking." His face contorts into a scowl. "That's bullshit. I don't care how long it takes, the BPD should be all over this."
"It's complicated."
"What do you mean?"
"The FBI was involved somehow. I don't know what prompted them to look into my parents' deaths, but last year I hacked into their database as a last-ditch effort to find a possible lead and…”
"You found something?"
<
br /> "Maybe." I shrug. “There’s a file that comes up, when you type my father’s name into the government system. It’s almost entirely redacted, so it’s been pretty useless to me.”
Parker’s eyebrows lift. “That’s weird.”
“That’s what I thought.” I swallow. “Why would my father’s name and details of his murder be in an FBI file, unless there's more to his death than some random act of violence? Some crazed, Christmas-hating murderer on a senseless rampage?" My voice breaks. "I've spent so long wondering, so many years questioning why they were taken from me. And not having answers…”
Parker's silent for a minute. When he speaks, his voice is a vow.
"I'll help you. We’ll find out. I promise you, Zoe. This is the last Christmas you’ll spend wondering what happened to your parents.”
“How can you promise something like that?” I whisper brokenly.
“My best friend is the best private investigator in the city.” His eyes are somber. “Plus, my sister’s abduction last spring and my father’s testimony served Boston’s biggest mob boss to the FBI on a silver platter. They owe the family a favor, trust me.”
Something dangerous swirls to life inside me. It feels an awful lot like hope.
His eyes hold mine. “You aren’t alone anymore, Zoe.”
There’s a lump in my throat too big to talk around, so I don’t even try. I just reach for him and, when I do, he’s there to hold me close.
* * *
Later that afternoon, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the Porsche with my arms crossed over my chest, staring straight ahead and wondering why I ever agreed to this.
“Are you sure I have to go?”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, darling,” Parker says. “But I’d say there’s a seventy-five percent chance if you stall any longer out here with me, Phoebe’s gonna burst through those doors and drag you inside with her bare bands.”
Damn. Figured as much.
“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing the door handle. “I’ll go. But I won’t like it.”
One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) Page 18