9

Parker

Nothing says I’m just here for a business meeting like spending an hour figuring out which jeans best accentuate my butt without making it look like my cheeks are dueling blimps trapped in denim. I got my mother’s German booty, and the struggle is real.

Also, yes, I would very much like this to be something more than a business meeting. And I’m pretty sure the uber-kissable hunk I’m taking to my high school reunion might be up for that something more.

Provided the sight of him doesn’t turn me into a tongue-tied moron, and I don’t spill hot coffee in his crotch when I’m trying to help him optimize his blog this morning. But I don’t think I will. Something about last night—about that kiss—broke something inside me. In a good way that I can’t quite identify. All I know is, I’m not entirely myself this morning, but I like whoever it is that I am.

She feels stronger. More ready to tackle this reunion.

I reach The Bean Tree, an organic café on the Lower East Side, and step out of the muggy Sunday morning air and into the cool shop. Scents of hazelnut and warm croissants wash over me. The muddy green walls, natural wood tables, and eco-friendly lighting give the place a cozy feel. The café is cool, but not so cold that it makes me shiver.

No, that shiver and the nipple-puckering is all courtesy of a man currently frowning over a laptop at a table in back, earbuds tucked in, seeming oblivious to the mommy-date on his left and a table of cute little hipster girls eyeballing him on his right.

He’s ridiculously perfect this morning. His tousled hair and thick stubble suggest he just rolled out of bed and his gray Librarians Do It In The Stacks T-shirt is plastic-wrapped over the chest that I know first-hand is just as hard and hot as it looks.

I weave through the tables, expecting to be right on top of him before he notices me, but I’m still two tables away when his eyes lift and land on me.

I tell myself the smoky warmth in the green depths and his sudden smile is him practicing to be a good reunion date, but my hooha is totally hoping it’s something more.

“Parker Parker Elliott. You’re here.” He pushes his chair back and stands to pull me into a hug and press a kiss to my cheek, barely off the corner of my mouth.

He smells like books and jungle heat. My knees threaten to buckle, so I drop into the seat across from him. “You didn’t think I’d miss a chance to optimize a blog on a Sunday morning, did you?”

Yep. That’s me. Drooling in my girly bits over a hot guy—yes, yes, I know that was awful, I just can’t help myself—and denying any interest with my mouth.

“Not necessary, but whatever turns you on,” he says with an easy grin.

Whatever turns me on is apparently him.

Which is still mildly awkward what with the whole babysitter-and-bachelor-auction thing, but we’re both grown-ups who hadn’t seen each other in twenty years, so I’ve convinced myself it’s not that weird.

My mother’s so thrilled I’m not taking an escaped convict to my reunion that even she’s not disturbed.

He gestures to an empty purple mug and tray of tea selections, along with a plate of muffins and a teapot. “Help yourself. Unless I can get you something different?”

It’s more than most of my previous dates would’ve offered, and I’d be lying if I said the simple gesture didn’t prompt a happy sigh from my inner romantic, who’s been in hiding so long I almost forgot she existed.

“It’s perfect, thanks.” I pull the tea bags toward me and nod to his laptop. “Working on your blog?”

The frown is back. “A dickwad from the Times wrote an ignorant attack on romance novels. I’m contemplating if I should write a response.”

My mother never thought I was old enough to read Sweet Valley High, much less try anything with Fabio on the cover, and my thick epic fantasy novels were one more thing that got me unwanted attention in high school. So I don’t have much specific advice for a romance rebuttal to the Times.

But I do understand a thing or two about people. “On your blog? Or in a letter to the editor? Because if you want maximum readership and impact—”

He stretches out, his leg brushing mine and sending more sparks exploding over my skin, even through the denim of both our jeans, and gives me a lazy smile. “My blog’s just for fun. You don’t have to be Ms. Marketing VP this morning.”

I swear I didn’t tell him my job title, and at the mention of my position, I get the usual rush of pride warring with the sheer terror that Chase will realize he made a mistake and demote me back to lower management, or just fire me.

I am smart. I am bold. I am good at my job.

At least, I’m trying to be. My reunion is a test, and I’m missing the study guide. “Fun or not, it’s obviously bothering you. What would you want to accomplish? To get the Times’ attention, or to tell your readers you’ve got their backs?”

He studies me while he contemplates the question, and I barely refrain from swiping a hand over my mouth to make sure I don’t have a milk mustache or something. Instead, I grab the teapot and pour the hot water over my tea bag without spilling anything. Hallelujah.

“I’ll probably do both.” He’s a gorgeous man, but that is not a gorgeous smile. It’s an I am displeased and someone’s head will roll smile, which, combined with the ink peeking through under his shirtsleeves makes him look like president of the Bad Boy Librarians Club.

Which shouldn’t also be a turn-on, but apparently I’m easy this morning.

Also, there’s some cockiness to that smile that suggests not only is he going to do both, he’s planning to go viral with it.

I have two master’s degrees and fifteen years of marketing experience, and it’s only been in the last three years that I’ve finally had any confidence in my ability to understand what can make something go viral. Even then, the best content can bomb based on weather patterns, global events, and sometimes just the wrong person sneezing while they’re scrolling past a post on social media, thus losing you the power-share that would launch a piece of content into the stratosphere.

Knox doesn’t even auto-post his blogs to his social media profiles or recycle evergreen content, and he’s sitting there oozing so much confidence I fully believe he can influence and manipulate the entire universe to make sure his response to an attack on romance novels is read by every person on the planet.

Even people who can’t read. And possibly a few of their pets too.

“How big is your readership?” I have a rough idea, but I haven’t seen his stats yet.

“Big enough.”

“Big enough?”

He winks. “Maybe a little bigger than that.”

And now my mouth’s gone dry and my panties are on fire, because I’m thinking of something else that’s a little bigger. I wonder if he can see the smoke.

I swallow hard. “Overall, what’s your goal? Is your blog something you’d like to monetize, or is it just a hobby?”

“A hobby?” He clutches his chest again, much like he did last night. “Parker Parker Elliott, you’ve honestly never read a single romance novel? Not even one?”

“I loved Titanic.” I know, it’s a movie, but it’s the best I’ve got.

“Not a romance.” There’s a steel belief behind his words that’s making my nipples pucker harder.

“It was a beautiful love story.”

“That movie sucked. No happily ever after, even though Jack would’ve fit on that damn door and could’ve lived. It’s like Nicholas Sparks wrote the damn thing. Therefore, not a romance.” He straightens and grabs his phone. “You need a romance. A good one. Like…Wallbanger. Monster Prick. Or maybe Full Package.”

I gape at him.

Maybe he really is just a hornball.

He cracks up and hands me his phone. “Books, Parker. They’re books.”

I glance at the screen, and—whoa.

They are. His phone is open to an app with virtual bookshelves. There’s one called Wallbanger with a cover that makes my lady bits sit up and take notice. Another called Well Hung. And another—Hard Wood. Oh, wow—there’s even—is that Fucked, or Pucked?

I peer closer. Pucked. A hockey romance.

And he’s rated them all quite highly.

My chacha would like to rate the covers very highly, thank you very much.

I scroll through the list of books on his phone. There must be hundreds—no, thousands—of books listed here. All of them with star ratings, many with notes. Covers with bare man chest. Covers with couples embracing. Light fluffy pink covers. Dark covers in blacks and grays.

“You’ve really read all of these?”

“Or listened to them. Have to be careful in the gym though. Not the best place for the steamier books.”

“Because your buddies laugh at you?”

He leans closer to me with a grin. “Because there are some scenes that should only be read in private.”

Hello, hot flash. I’m suddenly imagining him on his back under a weighted-down bar with a tent in his pants.

“Exactly,” he says with a knowing wink. There’s not an ounce of shame or embarrassment, and once again, I feel that yearning.

Not to grip him by the shirt, pull him into the bathroom, and check out again just how well-endowed he is—okay, yes, maybe a little of that—but more, I want to not feel ashamed or embarrassed or afraid of anything too.

“What’s your email address?” he asks. “I’ll gift you a few books. Try ‘em out. See if you like ‘em.”

“So fiction can make me feel worse about my dating life?” I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

“Ah, Parker. So little faith in Mr. Romance?”

I lift a brow. “It’s not you,” I deadpan, except it’s really not funny. “It’s me.”

“It’s not you.” He thumbs through his phone. “Historical? Paranormal? Contemporary? Suspense? Pick your poison. What do you want?”

“I want someone who can check his ego at the door, carry on an intelligent conversation without checking his phone every three minutes, demonstrate for me that the mythical man-made orgasm actually exists, and then leave me the hell alone so I can get my sleep.”

He tips his head back and laughs, a delicious, rich sound that sends a jolt of lust straight to my core. Women from at least six tables around us turn, do a double-take, and probably start mentally fanning their ovaries.

I know I am, despite my ovaries getting absolutely no say in my life.

“The Parker Parker Elliott guide to marriage?” he says.

“No. No marriage. But I wouldn’t mind riding a pony that knows what he’s doing.”

He’s not laughing anymore. No, that’s the intent look of a man contemplating the nearest dark corner to rip a woman’s clothes off, which I only recognize because I’ve seen men look at other women that way.

And half the female population in a six-block radius just had to check and make sure their birth control is current, because his laser-focused, aroused interest is that potent.

Even that mom behind him nursing an itty-bitty baby and sporting bags under her eyes that suggest she still remembers the consequence of sex is eyeing him with the lust-glazed look of a woman turned on by a sexy man.

“We can do that,” he says.

Can we?

What if he is that good? What if I never want to have sex with anyone else again?

Then again, what if he’s not? Which, let’s be honest, is a far more statistically likely outcome. Which means I’ll have to fake my way through my reunion, pretending he’s packing heat when he’s really no more adept at handling his equipment than any other blowhard who can thrust his pelvis in a loincloth.

But it was such a nice loincloth.

And he is…ahem…more well-equipped than most of the blowhards I’ve dated.

He mistakes my hesitation for self-doubt. Logical, but wrong. Still, having his long fingers wrap around my wrist while he leans into me is doing plenty to banish my self-doubt too.

“You’re smart. You’re beautiful. And you’re also pretty fucking brave. Anyone who can’t see how sexy you are is a moron.”

Determination and confidence radiates out of his deep green eyes, and once again I’m struck by the flecks of gold adding another dimension to his intensity. My nipples pebble, I flash back to him kissing me in the men’s room last night, and despite his chastisement, or possibly because of it, a wave of longing once more sweeps through my core.

“Can we do this?” I whisper, because if I say it any louder, I’ll lose my nerve. Also, if I say it any louder, I can’t pretend I didn’t say it if I’m misunderstanding him. “No strings. Just…casual, mutual satisfaction?”

He’s leaning so close with sexy promises in his heavy-lidded gaze, I can feel his answer. Yes. Yes, we can. “For you? Abso—”

He cuts himself off, eyes going wide, as the baby behind him decides she’s had too much for breakfast, and Knox’s shirt is the perfect target.

I barely register what’s happening in time to shove my chair out of the splatter zone.

I’ve seen babies spit up before, but never like she’s auditioning for a role in The Exorcist: Infant Edition.

Knox slides a look at the baby spit-up dripping down his right shoulder and chest, then back at me with a Well, this is unexpected half-grin, half-shrug. “Some days, it’s a hard Knox life.”

I pinch my lips together to keep a mortified giggle from slipping out.

“What?” the mother behind him says to her companion. “She—Oh! Ohmygosh, I’m so sorry, let me help you!”

Still bouncing the baby, she tackles Knox with a burp rag, rubbing his shoulder, down his pecs, trailing to his stomach, and—

He scoots his chair out of her reach. “It’s alright, ma’am,” he says. “I can, ah, take it from there.”

I stifle a snort of half-frustration, half-amusement, because of course.

If this is a sign from the universe that I’m not supposed to get some casual sex as part of this deal, the universe can go fuck itself.

The mom’s face matches her companion’s bright red lipstick. “Ah, right. Yes. I’m so sorry. Let me get you new drinks, and—”

“Not necessary,” he says. “But could I hold her?”

She blinks.

The baby makes a weird gurgly coo.

I suck in a surprised breath.

“For just a minute. My Nana would love to see this.” He tops off his request with that charming Knox grin, and I have to pinch myself to make sure this is actually happening.

I’m sitting here with a guy covered in baby spit-up who’s not terrified of the little human in pink footie pajamas.

In fact, he seems downright smitten with the tiny human in pink footie pajamas.

“She might spit—oh, hell.” The mom wrinkles her nose and laughs, her cheeks glowing neon pink. “I guess that doesn’t matter now, does it?”

He hands his phone to me, then takes the bundle from her mother and smiles a loopy, love-at-first-sight smile down at the squirmy baby. One large hand cradles her head, the other tucks under her little baby booty, and he gently rocks her as though he holds babies every day. “Mind taking our picture, Parker Parker Elliott?”

No problem. As soon as I clean up my exploded ovaries.

What was I saying about them having no control over my love life? Because they’re making some pretty loud demands at the moment. “Yeah. Sure.”

I pull up his camera app and snap a few pictures, some with Knox making faces at the baby, some with the two of them looking at the camera. Okay, him looking at the camera, the baby staring at him in wonder as though even she, at no more than a month or two old, is awestruck by his perfection.

“She likes you,” the mom says.

Who doesn’t?

Knox grins at the woman. “She’s adorable.”

The baby waves her fists and coos at him, wide blue eyes rich with adoration.

And while he charms the hell out of both of them—the baby by jiggling her gently, her mama by assuring her he’s had way worse during toddler story time at the library—I blink back an unexpected hot wetness growing behind my eyeballs.

I vowed at fifteen to never have children, and I’ve never once questioned my decision. Any kid of mine would be just as awkward as I was, and I’m never putting another human being through that.

So my twenties were spent doing grad school at night and dating the occasional guy who wasn’t the one, which was fine. My early thirties were occupied with getting the band going with Sia and Willow and Eloise, and recently, I’ve realized every subsequent boyfriend I’ve had has been worse than the last.

Because the good ones are all taken? Because I’ve been spending more and more hours at work, and my brain cells are too preoccupied to tell the difference by the time I meet someone?

Or because I’ve let myself become a magnet for jerks in the interest of not getting tied down with the kind of guy who’d want babies?

I don’t know, but I know I’ve never dated a guy who would be totally cool about having a baby spit up all over him in a coffee shop.

He’s handing the baby back. I shake myself out of my melancholy. “Hey, would it be okay if Knox posts that picture on his Mr. Romance blog? No names or locations or anything, but his readers would love seeing him with a baby.”

Her eyes go round. “Ohmygosh, you’re Mr. Romance?” she squeals at him. “It’s your fault I got pregnant. Damn you and your recommendation for those Crossfire books. I was losing sleep and then I got horny, and—”

“Ah, my pleasure,” he interrupts.

Her phone rings, and she winces. “Whoops. Time for our baby play date. It was so good to meet you. Thank you again. And I’m so sorry.”

She and her companion cram a stroller full of enough stuff to entertain the entire marketing department at Crunchy for a week, wave and thank Knox again, and weave their way out of the coffee shop.

He sips his tea as though he’s not covered in baby goo and has no idea the hormonal explosion he’s just prompted throughout the entire coffee shop. One or two of the male baristas might’ve just ovulated too.

“I should probably get out of this shirt,” he says. “Mind if we pack this up and take it back to my place? It’s just around the corner.” He winks at me. “Might need to get out of something else too.”

I might not want babies, but suddenly, Baby Spits-Up-A-Lot is my favorite human being in the entire world.