One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(52)

“Several times. Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“What will get me somewhere? Specifically, to third base?”

I scoff at him. “You’re not getting anywhere near my bases.”

“Zoe! I’m shocked and appalled.” He shakes his head as if deeply disappointed, shifting into park just outside one of the stadium gates. “I was talking about bases on the actual baseball field. You know, where the Red Sox play. Clearly.”

“Clearly,” I echo dryly.

He chuckles as the engine falls silent with a low purr, throws open his door, and rounds the hood to open mine like I’m some eighteenth-century maiden climbing from a stagecoach. Before he can even reach for my handle, I’m out waiting on the curb with my arms crossed over my chest.

“Chivalry is dead?” he asks, brows raised.

“And buried,” I concur.

“Great. Just checking.” He grabs my hand before I can stop him and starts leading me toward the doors.

“I wish you’d stop tugging me around like a dog on a leash.”

“You’re so tiny. I’m worried I’ll lose you in the crowd.”

I glance around at the deserted street. Two days before Christmas in thirty-degree weather, there’s not a soul to be seen.

“Yeah, that seems likely.”

He laughs lowly as we walk along the gated entryway.

“Your snazzy car is going to get towed,” I feel obligated to tell him.

“It’s not mine, it’s Nate’s. And it won’t get towed.”

“This is Boston. Do you know how overjoyed it would make one of the demonic meter-maids to find a car like that parked illegally on the street?”

“Will you just trust me?” He stops and looks down at me. “Can you do that? Just for one night. Trust me.”

I bite my lip to keep in all the bullshit reasons I shouldn’t, all the arguments that I should never leap before I look… and give a slow nod.

“I think I can do that,” I murmur quietly.

His hand tightens on mine. “Finally.”

When we reach a small green side door, Parker bangs a fist against the metal grate a few times.

“Jim!” he calls loudly. “It’s Parker.”

Almost instantly, the door cracks open.

“Bro! I didn’t know you were back in the city till you texted me!” The gangly, bearded man in a Red Sox jacket reaches out and envelops Parker in a bear hug. “Haven’t seen you in years! Thought you were off living the dream, exploring the world, banging chicks—” Jim seems to realize what he’s saying, because he turns red and shoots me a bashful look.

I roll my eyes.

“Sorry.” Jim hurries on. “What I mean to say is, never thought you’d come back to the city, after college. Guess it makes sense, though, after all that shit with your dad went down…” He gets red again. “Sorry, sorry.”

Jim has a serious case of word-vomit.

Parker clears his throat awkwardly and takes a step back. “It’s good to see you, man.”

“You too. We gotta grab a beer sometime, catch up.”

“Definitely,” Parker says in a way that makes me think he won’t be following through on that statement anytime soon. “So, we all good?”

“Yeah, you got an hour before my shift ends. Just don’t mess anything up or I’ll be in a f*ckload of trouble, feel me?”

“I feel you. Thanks, Jim.”

“Nice outfit, by the way.” Jim smirks and punches Parker on the bright green arm of his BALLS sweater. “Not even going to ask why you’re dressed like my seventy-year-old grandmother at a holiday party.”

Parker laughs, returns Jim’s arm punch, then leads me inside. I hear the sharp peal of the door slamming closed as we walk into the abandoned park. I must admit, it’s a bit surreal to be here without the usual rush of crowds. Boston baseball fans are a boisterous lot — it’s strange to see Fenway stripped of people pushing to find their rickety wooden seats, devoid of vendors calling out, “Peanuts!” at the top of their lungs as they cut through the rows, silenced of the strains of “Sweet Caroline” pouring from the overhead speakers.

The field is covered with snow; it’ll be months before the season opens.

“We’re definitely not supposed to be in here,” I whisper-yell at Parker.

“I know,” he says at a totally normal volume. “That’s what makes it fun, Zoe.”

I sigh.

A few hundred steps and ten minutes later, my legs are aching but my eyes are wide with wonder as we step through a door and I realize where we are.

“We’re on top of the Green Monster,” I breathe, spinning in a circle to get the full effect.

Fenway is the oldest MLB park in the country. Her Green Monster — the forty-foot emerald wall that towers over left field — is legendary. Even though I was raised in this city, I’ve never been up here before. Game tickets are too expensive for my meager salary; I can’t imagine how much it would cost to take a private tour.

And yet, Parker made it happen with a single text message.

Laughing like a little kid, I drop his hand so I can spin around unrestrained. I don’t care if I look like an absolute fool running between the rows; I take it all in — the snowy field sprawled out below us, the city skyline to the north, the infamous Citgo sign glowing red and white just behind the park. The stars are so bright and so close, I feel like I could reach out and grab one. Usually, with the stadium lights shining, you can’t see them at all.