One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(82)

My eyes start to burn with telltale tears; I blink rapidly to clear them. “Yeah?” I ask after a minute.

“Yeah,” he whispers, kissing me. “I know this isn’t your favorite holiday. But I’m hoping, after this year… you might see that it isn’t always so bad.”

I swallow and press my face into his chest so I won’t cry. After a while, his arms come around my back and he pulls me close.

“Parker,” I whisper a few minutes later, desperation in my tone.

His body tenses. “What is it, darling?”

“Earlier… you asked me what I want for Christmas.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I know, now.”

“Name it, Zoe.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

I choke back the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. “I need you to stop being so wonderful.”

He pauses. “What?”

“Stop being nice to me. Stop being so damn sweet and funny and kind.” I try to breathe normally and fail miserably. “Because…”

“Because what, darling?” His voice is infinitely soft.

“Because I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it…” My voice cracks pathetically. “…if you make me fall in love with you and then leave me behind.”

He rolls so I’m pinned beneath him and he’s staring down at me, his expression more serious than I’ve ever seen it. I press my eyes closed so I don’t have to look at his gorgeous f*cking face.

“Zoe. Look at me.”

My eyes crack open a sliver.

“There’s only one reason I’ve spent my life running,” he says, his voice intent. “You know what that is?”

I shake my head.

“I’ve never had a good reason to stay.”

I feel my eyes fill with tears.

“But you – you’re my reason, darling. Now that I’ve met you…” He brushes his mouth against the tip of my nose. “I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?” Another kiss lands against my forehead. “I’m not leaving you.”

I can’t breathe.

“Zoe Bloom.” His hazel eyes burn into mine. “There are some things I’d like to say to you. Things I’m pretty much dying to say to you. But I’m afraid if I tell you out loud that I care about you, that I want to wake up to your face every morning for the next week, next month, next year… you’ll bolt. I’m afraid if I say that, in the span of a single f*cking week, you’ve come to mean more to me than anyone else in my whole unfortunate existence… you’ll run before I can catch you and convince you to stay.”

I press my lips together to contain a sob.

“So,” he whispers, his eyes still holding mine. “Right now, I’m not going to tell you that I’m pretty sure you’re the one woman on this planet who was made for me. I’m not going to say that I think I could spend a whole lifetime exploring you, and have that be a sufficient adventure. I’m not going to admit that I think I love you.” His lips twist. “Not yet. You’re not ready for that.”

My heart beats double-time inside my chest.

“But…” He brushes his lips against mine again, soft and sweet. “One day, you’ll be ready. And, darling, for the record… I plan on sticking around until that day. And for all the days after.”

My eyes are suspiciously wet.

“You feel like running, yet?” he asks gently.

I shake my head because I can’t form words.

“Good. Because, honestly, we’re in the middle of the ocean. And it would make for a pretty awkward sail home if you decided you wanted to leave after that speech.”

A laugh bubbles up from my stomach and collides with the lump in my throat, resulting in a choked sob-giggle conglomeration.

“I…” I try to speak, but can’t seem to form any words. “I…”

“Shh.” Parker’s arms wrap around me as he tugs me close and tucks me into his side. “Sleep, darling. You don’t have to say anything right now.”

“But…”

His mouth presses a kiss into the hollow of my neck. “I know, Zoe. I know.”

He knows.

And so, I fall asleep in the arms of the man who maybe, possibly, definitely loves me, not worrying about the future or the past or anything except this moment.

Here.

Safe.

Home.



* * *



There’s a magical quality to the five days I spend at the lighthouse with Parker. We stay in bed all day, talking about nothing and making love. He cooks terrible, semi-charred grilled cheese sandwiches on the tiny kitchen stove and I don’t complain, because it’s highly unlikely I could manage to produce anything remotely more edible if I tried.

Sunsets blend into sunrises as we stay up talking about everything and nothing. I tell him about my childhood bouncing around foster homes; he reveals the horror of losing his mother at a young age and raising his sister in the absence of a reliable father figure.

He doesn’t tell me he loves me again.

I don’t say it either.

And yet, it doesn’t matter.

There’s no awkwardness or stilted conversation. We never fade into small talk.