Playing Dirty (Risky Business, #2)(38)

An older lady in her mid-sixties, she had boundless energy that I’d kill for, and with her eight grandkids, she needed it. Her husband had passed away nearly a dozen years ago and she’d seemed perfectly content to fill her days with her kids, grandkids, and taking care of Parker’s apartment. To hear she was dating someone was juicy gossip indeed.

“How do you know?” I asked him, wanting all the details.

“She wanted to know if she could make something ahead of time for Saturday night and if I’d put it in the oven. She said she had plans Saturday or she’d come by and do it. When I asked her what plans, she blushed and said she had a ‘man friend’ who was taking her out.”

I laughed at the “man friend” descriptor—it sounded very Deirdre-ish—and shook my head.

“Well, how about that,” I said. “Good for her. Did she say who he was?”

“No, but I have it on good authority that he’s my butcher.”

“Marco?”

Parker nodded.

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“I bet they see each other all the time,” I guessed. “She’s always getting stuff there for you.” Hmm. The Italian butcher and the cleaning grandma … it sounded like a Lifetime movie.

“Kinda what I thought,” he said. “Think he’ll give me a discount if things go well?”

“Doubtful.”

Parker sighed in mock disappointment. “Yeah. I didn’t think so either.”

There was a tugging sensation on my skin and I realized the doctor had finished all the shots to numb the area and was now doing the stitches. I hadn’t even felt it. I glanced over at him, but Parker caught my chin lightly with his fingers.

“Don’t watch,” he said. “Look at me instead.”

Okay. Twist my arm.

He had on a deep navy pinstripe suit today with a crisp, white French-cuffed shirt. Silver cufflinks I’d gotten him for Christmas last year winked in the harsh fluorescent light. His tie was a gorgeous navy and silver diamond pattern with tiny paisleys in the center of each diamond. A busier tie than he usually wore, which meant he’d been in an exceptionally good mood this morning. Perhaps breaking up with Monique suited him just fine.

“All done,” the doctor said, taking off his gloves with a snap. “The nurse will give you something for the discomfort and an antibiotic to prevent infection. The stitches will dissolve in seven to ten days. You’ll have a thin scar, of course.”

I thanked him as he left, then swallowed the pills the nurse gave me. The numbness was starting to wear off and it hurt something fierce.

“The pain medication will make you sleepy,” she cautioned, “so no driving or operating heavy machinery, okay?”

“But Thursdays are backhoe night,” I deadpanned.

Parker snorted a laugh, but the nurse didn’t so much as crack a smile. Maybe she didn’t know what a backhoe was.

Hands full of papers and pill bottles, we left the ER and Parker drove me to my apartment. It was pushing six o’clock and my stomach grumbled all the way, complaining about my lack of afternoon snack. It would’ve embarrassed me, but the medicine had taken hold and I dozed in Parker’s passenger seat.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. We’re home.”

I mumbled something, prying my eyes open. My hair was in my eyes, but even as I thought it, Parker was brushing it aside. His hand touched my cheek and my heavy eyelids fluttered closed again. I expected him to retreat, but to my surprise, he cupped my jaw. The warm slide of his thumb across my cheekbone felt like having a drink of water after running five miles on the treadmill (which I was just guessing at because I’d never been able to do more than three), and a small sigh escaped me.

When I managed to overcome the medication-induced lethargy enough to open my eyes again, it was to see Parker quite close, staring at me. Gone was the lightheartedness he’d distracted me with in the emergency room. Now his expression was grave, his lips pressed together and his brow furrowed.

“You’re looking grim,” I said, my voice soft in the quiet car. “Thinking of how much work you’re going to have to do tonight to make up for this afternoon?”

“Thinking of how you were nearly taken from me. Again.”

I was too tired and my brain was moving too slow to process how to respond to that, so I blinked at him. Once. Slowly.

Parker didn’t seem to require a response, though. His fingers brushed my face, traced my brow, trailed down my cheek to my lips.

Unable to tear my gaze away from his, I waited … for what, I didn’t know. The things he’d said the other night, the insinuations and hints that he felt more for me—wanted more from me—were confusing. I thought I’d finally “gotten over” Parker, sort of, and now he was reeling me back in with almost effortless ease.

He was close enough to kiss, if I just leaned forward a few inches. It felt like a magnet was pulling me toward him, but something held me back and it took a moment for my sluggish brain to realize what that was.

Ryker.

Guilt hit and hit hard. I jerked back from Parker’s touch, my hand flying for the door handle. In my haste to get out, I nearly fell on my face in the parking lot.

“Hey, slow down. I’ll help you,” Parker said.