One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(29)

Actually — not even for a boat. It’s just plain amazing.

The stairs leading down here are so steep they’re practically a ladder — it reminds me of climbing into a treehouse or a fort of some kind – but that’s to be expected, I suppose. The space is about the same length as my loft but a lot narrower, maybe fourteen or fifteen feet at its widest point.

I thought the inside might feel claustrophobic, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s all warm wood and white cushions. Natural light pours in everywhere, despite the cloudy day — skylight hatches cover the ceiling, round portals dot the walls.

From what I can see, there’s a full master suite at the front, a small bathroom to either side, and a decent sized kitchen complete with a compact refrigerator and a stove top. On the right, there’s a table that seats six and a desk covered with navigational equipment. The left is dominated by a low-slung white couch with a plasma TV mounted on the wall across from it. Turning to glance behind me, I see there are at least two more bedrooms in the rear of the boat.

It may float, but it’s nicer than most apartments I’ve been inside.

And, to my surprise, it looks lived in. There’s an open camera bag sitting on a shelf — from here, I can see several different lenses and a giant Nikon sticking out the top. There’s a dirty coffee mug in the sink. A bread on the counter. A sweater draped over the back of one chair. A well-worn pair of Sperry’s sitting by the bedroom door.

“Do you live here?” I ask, recalling that I couldn’t find an address for him during my cyber-stalking. A sailboat wouldn’t be listed in the Registry of Deeds or the RMV database… and I hadn’t thought to check any boating registries.

“Yes.” His reply is muffled — he’s leaning into the closet, searching for something.

“Every night?” I pester.

“Yes.”

“All year?”

“No more questions. You’re stalling,” Parker calls, pulling another water-resistant suit from the closet. It looks bigger than the one in my hands, and it’s red instead of white. “Put on your foulies.”

“Foulies?” I ask.

“Foul-weather gear,” he responds, bending to undo the laces of his leather shoes.

Ignoring his command, I lean against the table and glance around the boat again. “I didn’t know a boat could look like this.”

“She’s not just a boat.” He scoffs, clearly offended. “She’s a Swan 60.”

“She?” I ask, amused.

“Folly.” I hear one of his shoes drop to the floor.

“You named your boat Folly? Isn’t that asking for trouble?”

There’s another thud as the second shoe drops. “I didn’t name her — the guy who sold her to me was an idiot, and I haven’t had time to rechristen her with something better. I’ve only had her a few months. I was crashing at my friend Nate’s place for a while, when I first moved here. My last boat was too small to stay on long-term, so I had to upgrade.”

Nate. He must mean Nathaniel Knox, the best private security specialist in the city… and his sister Phoebe’s boyfriend. Our paths have never crossed directly, but I know Luca has done some work with Knox in the past – hired him for surveillance work when we needed help on a few tricky cases, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t call them friends, but they certainly know each other.

“Needed my own space,” Parker adds. “Nate’s a great guy, but his place has about as much color as a monastery.”

“And you decided a boat was better than a reasonable one-bedroom because…?”

He chuckles. “Darling, what about me screams reasonable?”

“Point taken,” I mutter, studying the navigational equipment at the desk and wondering how hard it would be to hack his GPS software.

Maybe I can send him sailing straight into the Bermuda Triangle… Then I’ll never have to deal with him again.

“Plus, I don’t know how long I’ll be sticking around. I only came to Boston to help with the family business. Once WestTech is stable enough, I’ll hire a new CEO and sail off into the sunset. Literally.”

A pang of something unfamiliar jolts through me when he mentions leaving. I steadfastly ignore it.

“Anyway, to answer your original question,” he continues. “All boats and cars are women. Why do you think men love them so much?”

I look back at him, a comment about patriarchal stereotypes poised on my lips, and feel my mouth go completely dry. He’s stripped off his suit jacket and his tie, leaving him in a tight-fitting white button down. His bicep muscles strain against the fabric each time his deft fingers move to undo the buttons at his wrists.

He grins as he reaches for his belt buckle. “Should I put on some mood music? Usually when I do a strip-tease, I like a background beat…”

“Ah!” I turn away swiftly. The sound of pants hitting the floor makes heat rise to my cheeks. “Why are you stripping?”

“Well, I’m not going to wear a two-thousand-dollar suit sailing.”

“You seriously think we’re going sailing? In December?” I’m so incredulous, I forget that he’s practically naked and spin my head back around… only to find my eyes glued to the finest bare chest I’ve ever seen in my life.