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As he plays with my fingers, I look up. Our gazes cross, and the same craving from last night hits me again.
"If you won't let me help you, at least let me enterta
in you."
I turn, locking eyes with him. "How exactly would you entertain me?"
"Just come with me this weekend. There's a lot we can do there. Horseback riding, if you're into it.”
“Hmmm... what else?”
His eyes flash. “I’ll be there.”
“You’re using your stick-in-the-mud ass as a selling point?”
“As I said, you’re rubbing off on me, so don’t count me out yet. Besides, after last night, I have a feeling that I’m a great bargaining chip.”
I smile, sipping from my ale. “Fine, Mr. Blakesley. Knock my socks off.”
He offers me a full-on grin, and I have a feeling that he’d going to do away with more than my socks. Bring it on.
Chapter Eight
Jessica
"How was work today? Your boss returned, right?" Dani asks me two hour later, when the three of us are inside Parker's car, speeding on the highway toward Worcester.
"Crappy," I answer. Thankfully, she doesn't ask anything else. Parker doesn't look at Dani or me at all. He hasn't spoken one word to us since we started the trip, except to remind us to fasten our seatbelts. Which is good, because he's driving like a freaking maniac. Who would have thought Mr. CEO—whose shirt doesn't have one single wrinkle and whose car shines on the inside and outside like it's nobody's business—has such a disregard for driving rules? I wonder what other rules he ignores.
"You drive worse than James," Dani shrieks when Parker accelerates again, narrowly avoiding hitting a truck. I cover my eyes with my hands by instinct, my heart thumping so violently I think I might throw up. I turn to look at Parker and find that focusing on his features eases the anxiety about his driving. But it fills me with a different kind of anxiety altogether.
"Well, I'd say I drive better than James. I actually beat him at quite a few races."
"You raced cars?" Dani asks, suddenly grinning.
That brings a smile to Parker's face. The three of us make small talk for the next few hours. At some point, Dani falls asleep, then so do I.
When I wake up, Dani and Parker are chatting animatedly and my left leg is completely numb. I rub my palms on my thigh, while taking in my surroundings. We're no longer on the highway; freakishly green fields have replaced it.
I rub my eyes and look out the window again. The fields look even greener, if that’s possible. The kind of neon green that looks almost fake in movies. I'm tempted to roll down the window and check whether the air smells green as well.
"How long until we get there?" I ask.
"About ten minutes," Dani answers.
"You've been here before?"
"Sure. I spent some summers here when I was little."
Parker chuckles. "Then she outgrew Worcester, announcing it boring when she turned fourteen."
"Well, it is kind of boring," Dani says defensively, then quickly adds, "but it's nice for a weekend." I catch her eye in the rearview mirror and we both smile. Dani told me before, when Parker was out of earshot, that she wants to go to a party some of her friends are throwing tomorrow evening and is looking for a good excuse to return early. So far, neither of us has come up with a good enough reason not to activate Parker’s overprotective gene.
"Kids these days," Parker says with fake dismay.
When we arrive at our destination, I let out an appreciative whistle. A small castle—built sometime at the end of the eighteenth century judging by its architecture—surrounded by green fields as far as my eyes can see lies in front of us. Stepping outside the car, I take a deep breath. I swear to God, the air smells green.
"You're grinning," Parker says. He chuckles, unloading the three bags from the trunk, and we each sling one over our shoulder. As I step into a puddle that soaks my left foot, I mentally thank Dani for making me pack a pair of boots. I watch with awe as Dani aptly navigates her way through the puddles, not stepping into any. Then I remember she's had more experience than me with Worcester. She walks toward the house to meet two tall women, one strawberry blonde, the other with a caramel shade of brown. I recognize both of them—they appeared often at Parker's side in the newspaper pictures I found last night. Only one of them is his cousin, but I don't remember which one. Relief washes over me as I watch both women welcome Parker with a warmth that speaks of friendship and familiarity; nothing hints at a sexual or romantic connection. I'm elated.
