One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(19)
“My name is Marvin,” he corrects coldly.
“Of course it is.” My eyes swing back to Parker, who’s watching this exchange unfold in silence. I can’t read the expression on his face, though the twitching of his lips suggests he may be fighting off a smile.
“Listen, Curly and Moe are innocent bystanders,” I inform him. “As is Larry. I think he’s still downstairs.”
Parker opens his mouth to respond, but the chime of the elevator arriving cuts him off. Two beefy security guards step into the fray, eyes scanning the room for potential threats.
“Sir.” The larger of the two inclines his head to Parker. “Patricia called down and told us there was a woman causing a disturbance up here, who needed to be removed from the premises.”
Parker glances at me. His lips tug up at one side. “You cause a lot of trouble for someone so small.”
I shrug. “It’s a talent.”
“Sir?” The security guard edges closer to me. “Should we remove her?”
My eyes are locked on Parker’s and I can’t help but notice the green flecks in his irises, brought out by his emerald tie.
“That won’t be necessary.” He pauses. “She’s with me.”
She’s with me.
His low decree sends everyone into motion — the guards back into the elevator with brisk nods, the receptionist back behind her desk with an annoyed huff, the tech boys back to the bank of couches, where they hover in awkward suspense. The only point of stillness in the room is me, frozen to the floor as Parker slowly closes the distance between us.
I don’t move — I don’t even breathe — as he comes to a stop less than a foot away. The air between us seems to hum with tension.
“My office.” His eyes flicker down to my mouth for a brief moment. “Now.”
“That was pretty good, playboy. You almost sounded like an intimidating CEO.” I tilt my head. “Almost.”
His eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to respond, but Moe’s shrill, nervous voice interjects.
“Sir, what would you like us to do about the computers? The entire network is frozen— no one can log in or access their work stations.”
“Patricia,” Parker says, never shifting his eyes away from mine. “Send everyone home.”
“What?” I hear her gasp. “Sir… it’s only just past lunchtime. We have more than one hundred employees on site—”
“Patricia.” He turns his head just a fraction of an inch and shoots her such an intense look, I’m surprised she doesn’t keel over. “Send everyone home.” His head moves again and he unleashes the look on Moe and Curly. “That includes you.”
“But, sir, the network—”
“I’ll fix it.” Parker looks back at me and I see a muscle working in his jawline. “Or, I should say, I know who’ll fix it. So, have a nice afternoon. Consider it paid vacation. I’ll see you all on Monday.”
Without another word, he takes hold of my arm, turns on the heel of one extremely expensive leather shoe, and drags me down the hall to his office with all the gentleness of a rugby player.
The opaque glass doors close soundlessly at our backs, entombing us inside the enormous space together. There’s an incredible panoramic view of the entire downtown sprawl, but I don’t bother looking. All my focus is used up by Parker.
As soon as we’re inside, he releases his grip and puts a few feet of distance between us, crossing to lean against his desk with both arms folded across this chest. The sun beams shining through the wall of glass behind him surround his frame with a glowing halo, like he’s some sort of angel.
I know the truth — he’s no angel. He’s a lion, ready to pounce.
King of the jungle.
And I’m a f*cking gazelle.
His gaze is intent, almost intimate, as he stares at me in silence. I know I should say something to shatter it. In fact, I spent all morning carefully rehearsing exactly what I was going to say to him when I got him alone. And yet, staring at him now… all my words have fled.
The silence between us feels heavy, hard to swallow — like the summer runs I take along the Charles, when it’s nearly impossible to haul humid breaths into my aching lungs. I stiffen my spine, telling myself he’s not intimidating at all, leaning there like some Greek god sent down from Mt. Olympus to f*ck with my head.
And possibly other parts of my anatomy.
He’s watching me with that same look in his eye he had last night, the first moment we met — with razor-sharp curiosity, as though he’s never seen anything quite like me before. The thought makes my throat start to close. I swiftly decide I’ll happily lose our staring contest, if it means not being the subject of his study for another moment.
I drag my eyes from him and examine the office around me. I thought it would be soulless, colorless — the space of a corporate drone. Instead, I find myself surrounded on all sides by photographs. They line the walls in a kaleidoscope of color. Intrigued despite my better judgment, I wander a little closer to examine the ones on the nearest wall.
There’s no discernible pattern or theme — every frame is a different size, a different subject. There are massive canvases that take up several feet of wall space alongside tiny frames no larger than a postcard. Some are portraits — young faces, wrinkled features, every age in between. Some are places — recognizable streets of Boston, entirely foreign lands I couldn’t think to name.