Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3)(31)

“Parker. Always lovely to see you.”

She winced and looked up. “Thing One. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Is my father here?” she asked, hating that he would know and she didn’t.

“I’m afraid he can’t make it.”

For God’s sake. Her father was blowing off his own niece’s wedding. The Coven would have a fit. Parker was used to it—Thing One: Emissary—but Harry usually put in an appearance with the extended family, the better to lord his power.

“Anything you need, Parker?”

“No thank you.”

“Not even this?” He handed her an icy glass and sat next to her. “I asked the bartender what you were drinking.”

“And to think I never liked you,” she said with a small smile. He raised an eyebrow. “Thanks, Thing One.”

He had a drink, as well, and sat down next to her. Like every man there, he was wearing a tux, which was…good. Not many men looked worse in a tuxedo, and Thing One was no exception. He was quite attractive. Not to her, of course. But he looked…good.

Wicked good.

She took a sip of her drink.

“Having a nice time?” he asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

“Oh, absolutely. You?”

“You bet.” This was their first one-on-one conversation since…since Nicky was born, come to think of it. “So how have you been, Parker?” he asked.

She smiled as she sipped the martini. “Do you care, Thing One?”

“Of course. I’m paid to care.” He grinned at her, and Parker had to laugh.

“At least you’re honest. If there is such a thing as an honest lawyer, that is.” He had a nice smile. Hell.

“I get the idea that you’re somehow persona non grata around here,” he said. “Why is that?”

“No clue.”

“Probably because you’re prettier than anyone else.”

Parker rolled her eyes. “Save the ass kissing for my father, dear boy.”

He shook his head and looked into his drink, the smile playing around his mouth. “Beautiful women. So cruel.”

“Smarmy men. So common.”

“Now you’re just reinforcing my point.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, slender box tied with a silky black ribbon. “Happy birthday from your dad.”

Oh, hell. Bugger and damn. She swallowed carefully, not looking at Thing One.

Because yes, it was her birthday. No one had mentioned that fact when Esme’s wedding date had been set, and Parker hadn’t wanted to bring it up. She wasn’t sure that her aunts knew when her birthday was.

She wasn’t sure her father knew when her birthday was.

Parker took the package from Thing One’s hand and untied the ribbon.

Inside the box was a fountain pen made of some glossy blue stone. It was heavy and beautiful, and there were two cartridges of peacock-green ink. She could use it for signings. The kids would love the ink color, and her signature would look like calligraphy, coming out of the brass nib.

It was perfect. “My father did not pick this out,” she said, not looking at him.

At least he didn’t deny it. She turned her head to look at him. His eyes were brown. She’d never noticed that before. There was a warm, tugging sensation down in Lady Land. Thing One had nice brown eyes. He’d brought her a present and a martini. And had she mentioned the tux?

“What’s your name, Thing One?” It was James. She knew that. She just didn’t want him to know she knew it.

“James.”

“James what?”

“James Francis Xavier Cahill.” He smiled as he spoke, and she felt the tug harder this time, her stomach tightening, knees tingling.

“Thank you for the beautiful pen, James Francis Xavier Cahill.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

That was a good smile, vodka goggles or not. A great smile. That was a smile involving his whole face. Yep. With vodka goggles—quite possibly without, she’d never really let herself dwell—Thing One was smokin’ hot. Really thick, dark brown hair. It would be hard to check for deer ticks in hair like that. Okay, that was the mother part of her speaking…also maybe the vodka part. Let’s shift gears, shall we? Parker asked herself. No need to waste a perfectly satisfactory ogle thinking about ticks. Hair that would look excellent if it were all tousled and rumpled. There. Much better. His eyes were, shoot, she couldn’t think of the word for them, but they were smiley. Smiley eyes with very nice crinkles around them. One of his incisors was a little bit crooked, and for some reason, that made his smile even better.

“How old are you, James Francis Xavier Cahill?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Five years younger than she was. She could’ve babysat for him. She wouldn’t have minded babysitting him, now that she thought about it…when he was around eighteen, let’s say, and she was twenty-three. Weren’t there  p**n o movies about that kind of thing?

He seemed to read her dirty mind, because he smiled again, just a little. Then his eyes dropped to her mouth. Heck yeah! So he was having kissing thoughts, too. And from the looks of it, his mouth would be excellent for kissing, full and generous.