One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(6)

“You must be an actress.” He cuts me off as his eyes scan me again from top to toe, like I’m wearing lingerie instead of one of the set costumes from the show Party Down. He leans a little closer. “Or a model, though you’re a tiny little thing, aren’t you? Too short for runways.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the tray. Screw it. He takes one more step toward me and he’ll find one of these lukewarm edamame balls shoved so far down his throat, he won’t be able to eat solid foods for a week.

“Sir, if you’d like an edamame ball—”

His mouth twitches into a lewd half-smile. “Ah, don’t be like that.” He presses so close, I can feel his breath against my face — sour and smelling strongly of bourbon. “Come on, sweetheart, give me a smile—”

Before he can get the words out, a body slams into his with the force of a linebacker performing a tackle. My back presses tight to the wall and my eyes widen as I watch the blur of pinstripe jostle sideways and stumble off balance. I’m almost positive the creep is about to be sent sprawling on his ass but, at the last moment, a large hand clamps onto his shoulder and steadies him with what seems like very little effort.

“Whoa, there, Sanders.” An amused male voice rumbles from my left. “Watch your step.”

My eyes dart to the man who’s just interrupted Pinstripe’s lechery, and I feel the air constrict in my lungs as I take in his features.

It’s an undeniably attractive face….

And, worse, one I recognize.

Parker West.





2





The Mission




We’ve never met in person, of course, but I’d know him anywhere. His picture appears several times a month in the society pages, always with some bimbo or another hanging on his arm like Spanish moss — decorative, but ultimately lacking in substance and purpose. Funnily enough, Parker doesn’t seem to mind that his wafer-thin dates’ weights are higher than their IQ points.

He’s a notorious womanizer. Which should bother me.

I know it should bother me.

But…

Damn.

A bolt of electricity shoots straight between my legs as I take him in. He’s sex and sin in a tanned, muscular package, and that’s just the start of it.

He towers over me — at least six two, maybe taller. Again — damn. I’ve always had a thing for tall boys. His nose is straight, aristocratic, the type of feature that speaks to a long line of good genes. His light brown hair is sun-streaked with gold, as if he spends more time outside than in, and slightly tousled, as though running a comb through it for a formal dinner party was simply too much effort. I instantly want to slide my fingers into the thick waves, to messy it further.

Oh, boy.

His whole look — from his tailored Hugo Boss suit to his crisp black tie to his messy-on-purpose hair to his half-hooded bedroom eyes — works on an elemental level. Judging by the way he carries himself, he’s fully aware of it, too.

Zoe, you hate pretty boys, I remind myself. Remember?

For some reason, it’s hard to hold onto that thought as I look directly into his hazel-gold eyes, which are currently fixed on my face with an alarming amount of curiosity in their depths. He’s staring at me like I’m a question he wants very much to answer.

I gulp.

His eyes crinkle.

Thankfully, the pinstripe groper — Sanders — chooses this moment to interrupt our little staring contest.

“Mr. West.” He’s breathing heavily and his face is getting red. “Watch where you’re going, son, you almost plowed me over.”

Parker’s eyes lose a little of their heat as they slide away from me to focus on Pudgy Pinstripe.

“Yes, I’ll have to be more careful,” he says in a dangerously soft voice. “Just as I’m sure you’ll be more careful about where you place your hands when selecting appetizers in the future. Isn’t that your wife, over by the bar? I’d hate for her to hear about your…” His pause is lethal. “…appetite… for certain dishes.”

The threat hangs there in the air for a moment and Sanders’ face turns red as a tomato before he grumbles an excuse about needing the bathroom and storms away, no doubt to grope one of the other cater-waiters.

And then there were two.

I dare a glance at Parker and find he’s staring at me again.

“What?” I ask sharply, gripping my tray tighter. “Are you waiting for a party in your honor? A cookie? A parade of some sort, complete with clowns and miniature horses?”

His grin widens. “I was hoping for a thank you. But, now that you mention it, I am a fan of miniature horses.” His brow furrows. “I don’t like clowns, though. Bad experience at my fifth birthday party. Never quite recovered.”

“How tragic,” I say dryly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I won’t, actually,” he says immediately, sidestepping to block me when I move to leave.

I crane my neck to glare up at him. “Won’t what?

“Won’t excuse you.”

“It’s an expression,” I say incredulously. “Said while trying to be polite. It doesn’t actually require the other person’s permission.”