by Layla Hagen
“Where are we heading today?” I ask while we climb into a cab. I’m picking her up from the museum.
“Prince’s Gate Mews.”
“What is there?”
“A pretty street.” The corners of her lips lift, and I kiss off the sassy smile. “You should know it. It’s one of the most famous mews in London.”
The mews are small streets snaking through the city, famous because they’re so quiet and peaceful despite being in the heart of London.
As we walk onto the cobblestone street lined up with colorful houses on each side, I have to give it to Jessica. This street is definitely worth a visit. It’s not just quiet, it feels like we’re not in London anymore. Mistletoe hangs from the outdoor wall lights of a house, and Jess asks me to take a picture of her under it.
“Why would they already have mistletoe?” she asks on a grin. “It’s only September.”
After I snap the picture, I join her, taking one of both us.
“You know what they say about mistletoe.” I kiss her thoroughly. She smiles against my lips, threading her fingers through my hair. “I love you, Jessica,” I murmur as I move to kiss her cheek. She buries her nose in my neck, which she usually does when she wakes up in the morning. That’s one of my favorite moments of the day. Waking up next to a woman was something I'd avoided for years, but I love having Jessica in my bed, and my house. “I know it’s quick. I don’t know when it happened, but I love you.”
She says the words back so quietly that I almost miss them, but then she moves her mouth to my ear, and repeats them. “I love you too, Parker. You’ve grown on me, you stick-in-the-mud Brit.”
I hear the smile in her voice and wrap my arms tight around her. “Thanks for making me pull my head out of my ass and making me enjoy this beautiful life with you.”
“Thanks for trusting me enough to let me in your life.”
I swallow hard at her comment. I should come clean about something, but I don’t want to spoil this moment. It’s too beautiful, and raw, and I don’t want to upset her. Soon though, I won’t be able to avoid having the conversation.
Chapter Twenty
Jessica
No good deed goes unpunished. My boss seems to live by those words. No matter how nice I try to be toward him, it comes back to bite me in the ass. He isn't satisfied if he doesn't make Fiona cry at least once a day. And though I don't shed a tear, I have a growing suspicion it won't be long now before I kick him in the groin. The only thing keeping me from doing that is I pity him too much. He talks almost daily with his divorce lawyer, and his asshole mood is more pronounced after those calls. Fiona keeps saying once the divorce is over, he'll return to his normal self.
But as soon as I leave the office, I'm catapulted to a world where mundane worries such as work don't matter anymore. Parker takes good care of that. I smile, a bubbly feeling forming in my chest, as it usually does when I think of him. Ever since we said the L-word three weeks ago, I feel closer to him. Last week he did something—a small gesture—that meant a lot to me. I’d been keeping my toiletries in a bag I carried around with me, not really having any space to put them in Parker’s sparsely furnished bathroom with just two shelves. He cleared one of his shelves, making a place for my stuff. I didn’t even ask him to do it. The next day, he also freed some space for my clothes in his closet.
My cell phone buzzes.
"How did the presentation go?" Parker asks.
"Fantastic. The guys from the museum in Barcelona were ecstatic about my proposal, and even Mr. Norton seemed pleased." Loud honking blares from behind me.
"Where are you?"
"Westminster Bridge."
"What?" Parker asks sharply. "You walked from the museum over there? Why didn't you call me? I would have picked you up."
"You know I like walking a lot. Besides, I knew you were in a meeting. I didn't want to disturb you."
"Well, the meeting is over now. I can come over and—wait, why are you at Westminster Bridge, anyway?"
I step off the bridge and look at the giant Ferris wheel in front of me with a grin. "I wanted to get on the London Eye. But I'm too late," I add with disappointment, realizing the capsules aren't moving anymore.
"We'll see about that," Parker says. "Can you go inside a coffee shop or something and wait for me there?"
"Sure, there's one right next to it," I say, stifling a laugh. I slip inside a coffee shop just below the Ferris wheel on the Thames shore.
"What?"
"Are you going to use your CEO voice to sneak us onto the London Eye?" I whisper as a smiling cashier points me to a table.
“Maybe."
"It'd better work."
I order hibiscus tea and hold the cup for dear life, warming myself. Okay, so maybe walking for so long in this end of September weather wasn't the greatest idea, even though I'm wearing boots and a knee-length wool dress. I shiver and take another sip of tea, watching the small ship anchored on the opposite shore of the river float in the twilight. My fingers itch to have a cigarette between them—a habit I've refined over years of smoking. But I made a promise to Parker I'd try my best to quit smoking, and lately, I’ve kept that promise. There's nothing more effective to keep me away from cigarettes than remembering his promise. Those sweet and unexpected words that warm me every time I remember them: I promise I'll make them worthy.
Nope. No more smoking for me.
Parker walks in about an hour later, and by the wide grin he's sporting, I can tell his mission was a success.
"So how many people did you intimidate, just so we can get on this thing?" I ask as he takes my hand and guides me out of the cafeteria. Instead of an answer, Parker pulls me into a kiss.
"No that many," he says against my lips. "Come on."
He pulls me up the metal ramp where we can get inside a capsule. I've been here already on my second day in London, and I liked it so much I promised myself I'd come again. I was here in the morning that day. Now, at night, the glass and steel capsules are slightly illuminated, which gives them an eerie look. A young man awaits us at the landing, and he frowns as he points to the open doors of a capsule, and we step inside.
"Fancy," I say when the doors close and the capsule starts moving slowly. "A private capsule."
"Which generally comes with an obligatory butler. Believe it or not, it was more difficult to get rid of the butler than getting them to start the wheel at this hour."
I sit on the bench in the center of the capsule, crossing my legs. Parker stands near a weird-looking trunk that I didn't notice when we entered, though I'm pretty sure it was there.
"Why is a butler mandatory?"
"They say it's for security," Parker says. "I think it's more for preventing sex."
"Sounds legit." He bends down and fumbles with the trunk, then turns to me with a bottle of Pommery Brut Royal Champagne and two glasses.
"And for serving this."
"Oh, I think you're qualified enough for the job."
He pours us both champagne, then puts the bottle back in the ice bucket, sits next to me, and we clink glasses. Though we're still not very high up, I see the city stretching behind him, the bright lights of the buildings and street lamps contrasting beautifully with the growing darkness.
"To us, Jess," he says.
I notice something in his eyes I haven't seen before. "You look troubled."
He smiles and we both take a sip from our glasses. "I didn't want to bring it up now, but there's interest from some buyers for Blakesley Enterprises."
"That's good, right? I mean, you said that was the plan. Run the company until you can sell it."
Parker runs his hand through his hair, a few blond strands falling over his eyes seductively. "I don't know . . . it was my father's company, after all. Somehow, selling it doesn't feel right. It's also not yet in a stable financial state to get a good price for it. What do you think I should do?" He tugs at his lower lip with his teeth, looking at me expectantly.
"I . . . umm . . ." I st
utter, "I don't know a darn thing about financial stuff, so I'm probably the least-qualified person you could ask."
"No," Parker says with urgency, "you know me. Your opinion is important to me."
"Well," I say, carefully considering my words, "I think you will be much happier if you sell it and get back to dedicating your time to what you like to do. I want to see you happy, so I vote for selling the company."
Parker nods, as if my words somehow carry great importance.
"Thank you," he says, before leaning in to kiss me. I put down my glass, wrap my arms around his neck, and climb in his lap. I taste the champagne on his lips, turning his words back and forth in my mind, still a bit surprised that my opinion matters so much to him. But after all, I care about his opinion as well. I asked him for advice more than once in the past few weeks. And Parker was so willing to help me. He even helped me prepare for a presentation, listening to me rehearsing in front of him and then challenging me with trick questions and giving me feedback.
His rigid, businesslike demeanor made it very hard for me to keep a straight face while presenting. I usually ended up tickling his seriousness away after he was done with the feedback, and then he wrestled me to bed. Mixing work and pleasure turned out to be so much fun.
"Stop," I say, pushing his hand away from my ass, and leaping away. "I wanted to come here for the view. I won't miss it." I turn my back to him, looking outside. The London Eye is my favorite Ferris wheel ever. The capsules are built almost entirely of glass, which makes taking in the surrounding view so much easier. And what a view it is. On the left side the old city—Westminster—stretches out, with all the classic tourist attractions: Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and so on. On the right side is the new part—the City—where glass and steel giants dominate the skyline. Though vastly different, the two parts form a picture that's harmonious in its own way. Just like me, I hope. The old Jess was reckless, and always up for fun with a touch of danger. The new Jess is more responsible and restrained, though the reckless part lingers inside, yearning to come to life now and again. I think I've found a way to reconcile both sides of me. Or Parker has, really. I feel one of his arms enveloping my waist, the other busy finding its way under my dress.
"Parker," I gasp. "Not here."
"Why not?" I can feel his devilish smile against my neck. "No one can see what's going on inside."
"No, but I'll know they're out there. That they could see."
"Mmm, but you like that, don't you, Jessica? Don't pretend you don't. There's no need to pretend with me."
"I do like it," I admit through heavy breaths.
"So do I," he says, before yanking my dress to the ground, leaving me in just my underwear and thigh-highs. "You're beautiful. And all mine."
"All yours," I agree, tilting my head to one side to give him better access. Why do I like this so much? Is it because it's in some way forbidden? Forbidden things and forbidden behavior have always thrilled me. They give me a sense of nonconformity and freedom. And Parker gives me this kind of freedom when I’m with him. No, we give it to each other. He craves the same thing I do. Because deep down, under his sleek Armani suit, groomed manners, and years of trained self-control, there are still remnants of the bad boy from years ago.
And they are delicious.
The decadence of it all strikes me as Parker pushes me against the window. I grab the metal railing with my hands. My panties are soaked already. Decadence, yes . . . maybe that's why I enjoy it so much. It should feel wrong. But it doesn't feel wrong at all. Not with him. We are partners in this. When we are apart, we are on our best behavior, fitting in. But when we are together, we carve our own bubble of freedom in which nothing can touch us—where we can let loose.
This might not be right for the world, but it is right for us.
Parker's kisses trail down my back, and then he's on his knees, cupping my buttocks with one hand and slipping his fingers of the other to the front, stroking my panties. I breathe heavily, the contact of the wet fabric with my skin sending shivers through my nerve endings. Then he rises to his feet, pushes the portion of the fabric covering my pussy aside and slides into me. I started birth control a while ago, and feeling him bare inside me... oh God.
I grip the railing with all my might, rocking my hips against him. Then, I feel an ice cube at the back of my neck, then further down until it rests on the point where our bodies touch before falling to the ground with the next thrust.
Parker grabs a fistful of hair, pulling my head back, and kisses me ferociously. His tongue darts in and out, in and out of my mouth, with a precision that makes me delirious. When he lets go, I swear the world disappears before me. I can barely breathe, see, or make any sense of time or place. I lean my head back, resting on his shoulder and let his thrust guide me. As the coveted tension starts building inside me, I open my eyes. We've reached the highest point of the London Eye, and I think to myself that nothing, nothing could be more perfect. As my mom always said, when the pieces fall where they should, all things start aligning.
I would, of course, soon prove that a different saying—one of my own—would hold true in my case.
The higher you are, the harder you fall.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jessica
"You're kidding, right?" I say after we get off the Eye, when Parker says we have to stop by his office so he can pick up some papers he needs to go over tonight in preparation for the meeting with the buyers tomorrow. "That means you'll completely ignore me tonight, won't you?"
"Until Saturday, actually." He smiles apologetically, opening the door of the car for me. "I'll be stuck in meetings with them tomorrow and Friday."
I cross my arms over my chest, pretending to be upset, but then grin. The truth is I'm happy for him, because if he does manage to go through with the sale, he'll be a much happier man. "Let's go get your papers, you damn workaholic. I’m dying to see your office anyway."
There isn't one soul inside the building, but given it's late at night, that's no surprise. Blakesley Enterprises is on the second floor.
"This is quite a luxurious office for a company that's in the dumpster," I say.
Parker smiles, putting his hand at the small of my back as he guides me through the corridor between offices. "You'd be surprised what constitutes a priority when it comes to cost-cutting."
Once we’re inside Parker’s office, I inspect it closely while he shuffles through some papers on his desk. There's not one personal item of his here. No pictures or anything.
Parker curses under his breath.
"Not finding what you need?" I ask.
"My secretary must have locked up the papers." He opens a drawer under his desk, takes a key out, and proceeds to the floor-to ceiling shelves next to his desk. They have sliding doors that need a key to unlock. Parker unlocks one, opens the door, and takes out a folder. "This is the one. But I still need the other one..." he murmurs to himself. "Be right back.” He leaves the room, holding the folder. I look around, and the unlocked door of the shelves catches my attention. I pull the door completely open and peruse the spines of the thick folders. It's not like the names on the folders actually mean anything to me—just random companies I haven't heard about. But it makes me feel closer to him, like I get to discover something more about him.
And then my eyes freeze over one of the folders. It looks exactly like the other ones.
Except it has my name on it.
I open the folder slowly, cold dread invading every cell of my body. My mom always says that our body has a way of predicting when something bad is about to happen, and it's best to listen to the warning and run. But unlike my mom, I was never one to run away from things. Even bad ones.
A picture of me is on the front page. Taken a few years ago. No big deal, I tell myself. He could've downloaded it from Facebook or whatever.
The same cannot be told about what lies on the second page, though.
My name is on the top, followed by a fucking ta
ble of contents.
Because only Parker, who asked his secretary to research which French dishes could appeal to a hobby chef, could put a team of detectives—judging by the three names and their professional titles listed at the bottom of the page—to investigate me and then organize the information in a table of contents.
It all begins rather innocently, with info on my date of birth, names of my parents, and my address. The next pages document my years of high school and college. Nothing on my relationship with my father. That was my best-kept secret. My only well-kept secret, it seems. They did a thorough job, I'll give them that. Every single piece of crap about me is here. How I got involved with a moron who turned out to be a drug dealer in my first year at Stanford. I only learned of his “profession” when I was caught in the middle of a deal because he used me as a drug mule. Luckily, the police believed I had no idea of his deals, and assured me my record would be untouched. Theoretically, that meant there was no way for an outsider to find out I had a part in the whole thing. But for Parker there is always a way, it seems.
My second year is also closely documented. How I slept with Alex, a Stanford professor who was subsequently fired because of that. The way the investigation was carried out makes my stomach squirm. The emphasis is mostly on how the story resurfaced: if I did something on purpose to expose us.
As per your request, this issue was researched thoroughly. All data suggests that no action on Ms. Haydn's part triggered the discovery. Our sources assured us there was no attempt on her part before, or after the discovery, to blackmail Alexander Johnson.
I tear up. So that's what Parker wanted to know. I don't read any further. I don't want to know more. Every cell in my body screams betrayal.
"Jessica."
My head snaps up. Parker is standing in the doorway, two shades paler than when he left. "I can explain this," he says evenly.
Despite the lump in my throat, I manage to croak out laughter. "I won't stop you. I’m very curious to hear you out."
"I meant to tell you about this. I just didn’t know how you’d react.”