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"What do you mean?" he asks as he raises a thick, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, still leading the way out of the doors.
As soon as we leave the crowded event hall, the paparazzi cameras catch up with us. Fashion week is the biggest event on the entire social calendar in New York, and Parker is something of a celebrity himself.
Every tabloid has something to do with him. That is either because of the gossip that surrounds him, or because of the many celebrities the handsome billionaire rubs shoulders with.
Either way, as soon as we set foot on the sidewalk in front of the building, we are engulfed by the public.
"This way," Parker says as he grabs my hand and pulls my body into his to protect me. His arm firmly encircles my waist as he shields part of our faces with the tablet he is carrying.
He hurries us to his car, a late-model luxury sports car that won't go unnoticed. He waits until I’m in the car before shoving his way through the reporters and getting in the other side.
"I'm sorry about that," he says as he weaves through the New York traffic.
"It's okay," I say faintly, a little embarrassed and feeling my cheeks flush at the thought of the sure and steady way he held me when we pushed our way through the reporters. The scent of his cologne, as well as his touch on my skin, still troubles me, even though our proximity lasted no more than a few minutes.
Parker doesn't seem to be upset, so I remind myself that I shouldn't be either.
"What do you mean, we'll do things your way?" he asks me, picking up the topic of conversation from before the harassment of the media.
As I try to remain calm, I clear my throat. "If I have to help you with this event thing, there are a few things that I'd like to change for certain."
"Like what?" he asks me, apparently sure that his handling of the event was perfect.
"Like the curtains on the runway, for example." The curtains are a dark burgundy color, similar to that of old blood. It makes the entire show look like it’s knocking on death’s door.
"What about the curtains?" asked Parker. “
"They're awful!" I exclaimed. "Dark and depressing. The fabric has nothing to do with a runway event. Those ugly curtains belong in a funeral home. You need something white, light, and airy.”
Parker purses his lips. "All right then, any more notes?"
"Actually, I have a few."
“Of course you do,” he mutters under his breath.
“Don’t ask if you don’t want to hear them.”
He waves a hand, focusing on the traffic in front of him. “Fire away.”
Searching through my mental list of all the little details I had noticed that needed to be improved before the show, I begin listing them off.
"The lights on stage are not right, and I thought I heard yesterday that the band's bass was rumbling too much during rehearsals. That needs to be changed, or the audience won't be able to pay attention to the fashion at the fashion show. I also think we should do something about the choice of chairs, and the material of the paper used for the V.I.P. guests' name cards."
As I name each and every flaw I saw with the planning of the show, Parker's lips form an unexpected smile that distracts me.
"What's wrong?" I ask him as the car glides through the crowded streets, rounding a corner and speeding through traffic.
"Nothing. Although, you always have been a perfectionist. I don’t know why I thought that would change after all these years.”
I try my best to appear indifferent. "Of course I am! Isn't it your name on the line here, too? You should want everything to go perfectly!"
"I do," Parker says in a confident, but still slightly flippant tone. "I was just answering your question. It's obvious you won't settle for anything less than perfection."
"Should I?" I look at him with a raised eyebrow.
Parker's intense gaze met mine across the dividing space between us. His eyes seem to tell me something I can't quite make out.
"No. You shouldn't," he says, making my heart skip a beat. When we stop at a red light, his gaze drags down my body. “You always did have a talent for perfecting things.”
