7

Parker

I look at Knox tucking himself back into his jeans—holy moly—I look at the urinal, I imagine him in his loincloth and realize he wasn’t stuffing anything, and my nipples try to poke through my shirt and reach out to grab him.

This is where I should tell you I strike a sexy pose, intentionally lock the door, and wait for him to tell me he’s secretly loved me for years because he saw the real me beneath my skin, tooth, and eye problems.

But you know me well enough by now that I’m betting you don’t believe I could pull it off either.

Which is why I’m actually stammering, “Sorry,” and spinning to go and grab the door handle, which won’t turn because my palms are sweaty and the handle’s crooked and fuck, it’s one of those trick door handles that you probably have to jiggle just the right way and I can’t jiggle it. I’m trying and jiggling and turning and twisting and it’s not fucking working.

Water runs in the sink. “Parker Parker Elliott. Holy shit, I did not recognize you last week.”

If I could go back and erase that year I wanted to be James Bond, I would. And for a lot of reasons, including that I called myself Parker, Parker Elliott instead of Elliott, Parker Elliott.

See? I don’t even do female James Bond fantasies right.

And leave it to Knox Moretti to remember.

“Whoa, wait, hey, no need to dash off.”

“I thought half the skirt was missing,” I say as I yank the doorknob harder.

“Ah…”

“On the door. Half the stick skirt was missing on the stick figure on the door. But it was one of the dude’s legs, not a skirt. I’m not stalking you. In the bathroom. That would be weird. I didn’t know you were Tarzan. That Tarzan was you. That I used to babysit Tarzan.” My fingers are numb. So is my chest. Why won’t the fucking door open? And why am I blathering like an idiot?

This would’ve never happened to James Bond.

Or it would, except he would’ve done it on purpose so he could bang his informant up against the wall, or maybe in the sink, or possibly while swinging from the light fixture to get extra information out of her.

The faucet shuts off. I yank on the doorknob harder, and it breaks off in my hand.

I briefly wonder if I were to dive into the urinal and flush it if I could make it all the way out to sea. Or at least to the Hudson.

I can give a four-hour presentation on organic produce marketing strategy to a packed auditorium at work. I can even force myself to give a guy my phone number in the name of a business transaction, but I’ve masturbated to images of him every night for seven nights and I used to babysit him.

His mother would die. Mine’s probably already saying a million Hail Marys, and she doesn’t want to know why, just that it’s necessary.

He steps beside me, and even though he’s in jeans and a polo, I swear he smells like a jungle man. Earthy and sweet and spicy and hot. Like eating mango salsa on a salty summer beach. Or—you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?—like he’s been swinging through the jungle hunting the fruits of paradise.

Even if I hadn’t seen him nearly naked on stage, I’d know every inch of his six-foot-two frame is solid muscle. His forearms are corded masterpieces, his shirt sleeves strangling his perfectly-proportioned biceps and that tattoo on his right arm, and his jeans are so tight they’re practically painted around his taut waist and rock-hard thighs.

And damn him and that warm, amused smile that’s making my hooha tingle and my nipples pebble and my brain short-circuit. “Hey. It’s just me. Nothing to panic about.”

“I used to babysit you and I was such a dork and there was that thing with Randy Pickle and I just wanted to look good and have a hot piece of ass on my arm to show them all that I’m not some dweeb loser anymore so I blackmailed my boss into giving me money to buy a bachelor and then you were dressed like Tarzan—Tarzan—and you have an eight-pack and a sexy tattoo and butt dimples and the only six-pack I’ve ever laid hands on are the kind you get in the refrigerator section of the liquor store and now your mother probably knows I tried to buy you.”

Yep.

I just confessed to that thing with Randy Pickle. Which almost always leads to—

“Do I want to know what a randy pickle is?”

That.

Mentioning Randy Pickle always leads to that. Above and beyond the rest of my ramblings, he narrows in on that. The best part of my brief and quickly-annulled-because-it-wasn’t-actually-legal marriage? I never changed my name to Parker Pickle. “Shut up.”

He leans a shoulder against the door. “I don’t remember you being a dorky loser.”

“The glasses? The braces? The headgear?”

His brows scrunch together. “That cool thing that made you look like an extra in a Terminator movie?”

“Not helping.”

“Weren’t you the one who played hide-and-go-seek with us that one time?”

“If by that one time, you mean the time you ran away and I almost had to call the police and tell your mother you were abducted.”

“You were. Man, that was fun. We were blowing bubbles and pretending they were space aliens invading earth, so Troy and I went on a secret hide-and-seek mission. You got all into it, screaming like you couldn’t find us, and—”

He stops.

Probably because now I’m glaring at him like the librarians glared at me when I fucked into the microphone.

“You really thought we ran away.”

It was all a game to him. He and Troy honestly had no idea how terrified I was that I was going to have to tell their mother I lost them.

I clutch the popped-off door handle so tight I’m afraid my knuckles are going to crack and squeeze themselves into dust.

He puts a warm, sure hand to my lower back, below where my short boy band T-shirt falls, to nudge me out of the way, and sparks explode all over my skin. His breath audibly catches as though he feels it too.

I risk a glance at him.

He’s studying me.

Surprised. Wary. Intrigued?

No way.

“If I’d known you had superhuman strength and could’ve kicked our asses, I wouldn’t have run away,” he says.

“Very funny.”

“And if I’d recognized you, I would’ve called sooner.”

Now I’m snorting in disbelief.

His brows dip lower. “You have no idea, do you?”

“About what?”

His lips part, but just when I think he’s about to enlighten me, he shakes his head. “I have about eighteen romance novels I want to recommend to you right now.”

I wrinkle my nose.

“You don’t read romance novels?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice that actually makes me smile.

“Oh, I don’t read in general.”

He gasps and puts a hand to his heart. “Parker Parker Elliott, say it isn’t so.”

Despite all the lingering weirdness, I laugh. “I can read,” I tell him, though notice I’m not confessing to reading his blog this week. Go me. “I’m just too busy for much more than marketing or business books. Which usually put me to sleep.”

“Wouldn’t be so tired if you weren’t spending all that energy chasing off all those band groupies.”

This time, my laugh is a snort. “Yeah. All those groupies.” More like all those hours at work, busting my ass to prove myself. Chase took a huge chance promoting me to the top floor, and I don’t want to blow it.

“I’d be your groupie.”

Right.

He must’ve seen it in my face, because he holds his hands up in a what can I say? gesture. “Girls with guitars are hot.”

“The last guy who picked me up with that line spent our coffee date taking selfies with my guitar and left me with the bill.”

“He was lying about which part he found hot. I’m not.” His smile makes his olive-green eyes crinkle in the corner and shows off his perfect white teeth. I wish he was the kind of guy who had a flaw. Like maybe he’d left the bathroom smelling like only men can, or that he had a pimple somewhere, or he’d confess to having a tiny weenie to make me feel better about the inadequacies in my love life.

Based on how those pants fit him and my little accidental lookie-loo, though, he’s packing something bigger than an overgrown organic banana.

Which I absolutely should not be thinking about, because his offer does not include teaching me the joy of man-made orgasms.

“You don’t have to flatter me,” I tell him. “I can…I can go…by myself. Not a big deal.”

“You’re not going by yourself.”

That caveman thing shouldn’t work on me, but I’m a total floozy when it comes to men who can put two sentences together, haven’t tried to ask my breasts for their phone number—yes, my lemon breasts—and who have no earthly reason to try to be my hero, but seem to want to be anyway.

“Your date from last weekend won’t mind?” I force myself to ask.

“She bought a date. Not me.”

“She was very pretty,” I say.

He holds my gaze long enough for me to once again wonder how he got those fascinating green eyes ringed in gold. His pupils are dilated bigger than they should be in the bright bathroom lights, and his lids are getting heavy. “Parker Parker Elliott, so are you.”

I stare at him stupidly. “Oh, please. On a good day, I’m a seven on a scale of one to ten. She’s like a fifteen.”

“A seven?”

“I said on a good day. Today’s not a good day, okay? I take it back. I don’t need you to go with me, because there’s no way anyone will believe this anyway. I can pull off a seven for my reunion, but you’re a solid eleven. And sevens and elevens only mix at corner grocery stores, and only when they’re coming together to sell slushies, and there’s no way you’re planning on making slushies with me, because even I know that’s a horrible euphemism, and it’s just my reunion, and—”

“Ah, I see.” He nods knowingly. “You’re right. We need to do the chemistry test.”

The chemistry test? Oh, god. This is not good.

I try to pinch my lips together, but my lip muscles are apparently tired after the show, or else they’re willfully betraying me, because suddenly I’m shaking my head and trying to press myself through the door while my mouth once more demonstrates its mortifying superpowers. “I don’t do chemistry. I once dated a doctor for three months before we got to the bedroom, and everything was clumsy and awkward and his pet chicken was watching and we broke up right after that because he said I was lousy in bed. A doctor with a voyeuristic pet chicken thought I was lousy in bed. I’ve never had a man-made orgasm. And I think it’s because I’m not sexy at all, or maybe my plumbing’s broken, or maybe my hotness radar is way off and instead of picking the sexy men I actually pick losers and please, god, just let me keep the fantasy that you’re actually good in bed because if you’re not good in bed, then I’m definitely broken somewhere, and would you please make me stop talking because I’m physically incapable of chemistry with anyone and I’d kinda like to just shrivel up and die right now.”

I squeeze my eyelids together so tight my I give myself a headache. And with my eyes squeezed shut, now my lips get the memo and clamp as well, but it’s too late.

The damage has been done.

Knox knows I have a defective vagina.

At this stage in my life, I have no choice but to accept the facts.

One, I will never be able to masturbate to thoughts of this man again, and quite honestly, with the whole Tarzan thing, he’s ruined me for all other male fantasies. I’ve just ruined my last chance of ever orgasming. Thanks, me.

And two, it’s not the men.

It’s me.

If I keep my eyes pinched shut like this, I can still probably make it all the way into the stall, lock myself inside, and wait for him to figure out how to get out of the bathroom. I’d call someone, but Willow has my phone, and I doubt there’s signal down here anyway.

A warm thumb brushes my cheek.

My breath catches.

He strokes my hair, and despite my utter mortification, the gesture nearly makes my pussy spontaneously combust.

I do believe I finally understand the term hot mess. And that’s me. A total hot mess.

“One test.” He’s so close, his breath is tickling my cheek. “If I screw this up, I’ll find you someone perfect for your reunion. But if I don’t, I’m going to be the best fucking date in the history of reunion dates.”

“Screw what up?” I still can’t look at him, and I’m afraid if I open my eyes, he won’t be touching me, or I’ll actually be alone in the women’s room, or worse, I’ll be acting out some weird fantasy on stage while all the librarians watch.

“You’re not a seven,” he tells me. “You’re a twenty-eight.” His lips brush mine, and I am definitely not making that up.

They’re firm and warm, rubbing across my mouth so lightly it tickles. I squeak in a surprised gasp, and he sucks my lower lip into his mouth.

Liquid heat surges in my pussy.

He nips at my lip with his teeth, and Jesus, Mary, and One Direction, that one little nibble is going to make me come apart at my seams. My panties are so hot they’re smoking. Like my pussy’s going to need a cigarette after this, and neither I, nor my pussy, have ever smoked a day in our lives.

I whimper into his kiss and cautiously touch his chest. His shirt is warm with body heat over solid rock. Touching him is making me bold, and I go exploring, tracing the ridges of his ribs and abs through the cotton material, the curves and valleys, while I kiss him back.

His grip tightens in my hair, and I open my mouth to let his kiss all the way in. He doesn’t hesitate, plunging his tongue in to stroke mine, setting off fireworks in my belly and making my core clench. He’s devouring me like he can’t get enough, feasting on me as though I’m a rare delicacy and he doesn’t want to miss a single drop. I’m hot and horny and would it be too much if I straddled his leg and humped it?

There’s a little voice reminding me this isn’t real, it’s temporary, it’s a test, the bottom’s going to drop out any minute, but Oh. My. God.

His lips—and his tongue—his hands—his body—it’s all sensory overload. He pushes me back against the door, suckling and teasing and nibbling, stroking my body, pressing his hips into my belly and—

He’s definitely not stuffing his loincloth, because that solid ridge pressing against me is thick and long and I can’t get my leg looped around his back, but I want to feel him between my thighs. I’m empty and desperate and on the edge and I need him to touch me like I need to breathe, and if he doesn’t, I’m going to—

“Aaaahh!”

The door bangs into my head, throwing my body into Knox’s, and I’m tumbling forward with him skittering back and— “Ow!”

I land on my hands with a jolt. Knox rolls out of the way, and I don’t know the last time this floor was cleaned. I flop to my butt, looking around wild-eyed.

We’re surrounded.

Judy—his mother. A few librarians. His grandmother. Willow and Eloise—with a lock-picking kit. Of course Eloise would have a lock-picking kit.

Judy heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Knox…”

“My fault,” I squeak.

He easily pulls himself off the floor and offers me a hand, something dark and unreadable lingering in his expression. “My fault,” he corrects. “You okay?”

I’m going to have a few bruises in the morning.

But my pride has had worse. “Yeah.”

“I’m taking Parker home,” he tells the room.

Eloise gives me the fuck, yeah! head nod. Willow shoves my phone at me and darts back to the stage. “I’ll grab your purse and guitar,” she calls over her shoulder.

Judy’s still giving Knox one of those mom looks, and I realize my mother will probably know about this by morning, if not in the next ten minutes, which means I’m totally screwed if he backs out of my reunion now.

Also?

That kiss?

Not only has he ruined masturbation, he’s also ruined me for kisses.

For life.