Parker

Maybe it was the orgasm, or maybe it was the buzz of feeling like I was rescuing a guy from my bonehead brother, or maybe it’s just the thrill of feeling needed for something, but when we sit down on the couch with our tacos, I’m riding a high I’ve never felt before.

“So your boss is afraid the Times is going to label you as some kind of perv using romance novels to score with women?” I ask as I unwrap a carnitas taco.

Knox tilts his head to look at me like I’ve once again sprouted something phallic out of my ears, and I wonder if I’ve misread the situation.

“It amazes me that you know that.”

“Lucky guess.” Or possibly I read one of his posts about the weird things people say to dudes who love romance novels when I was looking into him before the bachelor auction, because it’s unusual to find a man so vocal about loving romance.

Based on that slow smile spreading over his deliciously kissable lips, I suspect he knows it. “Parker Parker Elliott, you told me you don’t read romance novels.”

“You never asked if I read your blog.” Honestly, it’s one of the things I like about him. He doesn’t ask Do you read my blog? He doesn’t put himself anywhere in the question. It’s all about the books for him. “Just how much trouble are you in?”

I bite into my taco—which I would’ve called my favorite kind of heaven before Knox crawled under my desk earlier—and sigh happily as he unwraps his own taco.

“Have a big program coming up,” he tells me. “Romance and Chocolate. Same day as your reunion, but in the afternoon. Some big-name authors and bloggers. My boss is working on getting the Times to commit to being there. And in the meantime, I’m supposed to be on my very best behavior.”

“Very best behavior?”

His lips settle in a grim line, which looks completely wrong on him.

“Ah,” I say. “So you basically can’t even talk to women at work.”

“I need to be a model romance hero.” He winks at me, but it’s not his full-strength get me out of trouble wink. “We need a picture so I can tell people about my brilliant girlfriend.”

“Yeah, the flavor of the week’s going to get you out of all kinds of trouble,” I tease back. “What you need is a temporary wife.”

He laughs. “I’ve read that book. Probably close to eighty-seven of them. You know how they all end?”

“In disaster?”

“In true love and happily ever after.”

I give a big shudder. “The horror.”

“But…” He tilts a thoughtful glance at me, then shakes his head.

“What?”

He shakes his head again and bites into his taco.

“You want to get married?” I ask.

I swear any other man would’ve choked. But not Knox. Nope, he flashes me another wink, like he’s seriously considering getting married to save his job. I hope he remembers he’s playing my fiancé—not just my boyfriend—when we show up for my reunion.

“Hell, what’s another quickie marriage between friends?” I say.

And that’s when his dinner goes flying across my living room.

My face burns hotter than fire salsa as he looks at me—really looks at me. He finishes wiping his mouth, glances at the scattered bits of meat and cheese and tortilla on my rug, and then back at me. “Another?”

I leap off the couch and head to the kitchen for a towel.

“Parker?”

“Man, you should’ve seen the look on your face,” I say too brightly. “Gotcha.”

He’s not buying it.

“Your ex,” he says softly. “At the reunion. You meant ex-husband.”

I squat to the floor and set about picking up the spewed taco. “Technically, an annulment means you were never married,” I say quietly.

“Who?”

Bye-bye, lingering afterglow. “Randy Pickle.”

He absorbs that for a moment. Before he can comment, I press on. “He’s doing this thing with organic, indoor-grown hops. Chase—my boss—heard about it and wants to expand our house brand from just vegetables to breads and cheeses and beer, so—”

“So your boss can fucking call him on the phone.”

“He’s tried. You have to understand Randy. He was a big dork too, and—”

“You’re not going to your reunion.”

I snap straight. If I could Go-Go-Gadget my arm halfway across the room, I’d have him by the ear right now. “Excuse me?”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “If you didn’t have to talk to Randy Pickle, would you go?”

I glare at him. That’s a ridiculous question with a stupidly easy answer, and he’s too smart to not know it. “If I were a man, and I needed to talk to an old classmate who was unreachable everywhere except his class reunion, I’d fucking go to the fucking class reunion. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“What makes you think this Randy guy is even going to be there?”

“He’ll be there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And you’re going to be my hot piece of ass making me look like I have just as great of a life as everyone else there will be pretending to have, and I’m going to seal this deal with Randy and prove I’m worthy of my top-floor office.”

I’m not going to cry. Vice presidents don’t cry.

They also don’t get eaten out under their desks—no, wait… Odds are good if I were a man, I wouldn’t think twice about that either.

“But if you don’t want to go anymore,” I say stiffly, “I understand.”

He rises and comes to join me on the floor, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You’re not going alone.”

Yeah, now I’m going to cry. But I suck it all in and force my voice to stay level as I nod at him. “Thank you.”

His lips lower to mine, and what starts as soft and gentle quickly turns hot and handsy. He’s palming my breast, sucking on my tongue, gripping my hair, and I pull him down on top of me, settling him between my thighs and rubbing myself all over that hard bulge in his pants.

Someone bangs on the window. I jump. Knox goes still and alert.

“Get your hands off my sister, jackass,” Rhett says.

“Your brother’s an asshole,” Knox says.

“You don’t know the half of it.” I love my brothers—all four of them—but they’ve gone overboard on this overprotective thing for reasons that may be obvious by now. “He’s not going to go away until he gets some tacos.”

Knox pinches his lips together, once again visibly fighting a smile as he dips his head into the crook of my neck.

“No, you’re not getting any more taco tonight,” I say glumly.

He’s laughing as he presses a kiss to my shoulder while the window slides open and Rhett easily slips in. I know he used the fire escape, but I sometimes suspect he actually can climb the side of buildings with his bare hands.

“That’s where babies come from,” Rhett says. “Mom will be thrilled.”

He digs into my taco bag, and with a sigh, I push Knox off. “You should get a picture together,” I tell Knox. “Put it on your blog. How many SEAL romances have you recommended?”

Rhett, predictably, snorts in derision. “I don’t pose for pansy-ass blogs.”

“You do if you want to eat my tacos.” I nudge Knox, who’s sitting with his knees up, resigned amusement lingering in his eyes. “And you should put up that picture of you and the baby on your Facebook page. Now. That’s as anti-dick as you can get.”

He pulls his phone out. “Yep.”

But as his thumb hovers on the home screen, I see a text light up. And even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help reading it.

Had a great time last week. Call me.

From Lila Valentine.

Personal assistant to reclusive billionaire Dalton Wellington, and the woman who paid a hundred grand to win Knox in the bachelor auction.

I quickly glance away, because I don’t have the right to this weird green monster roaring to life inside me. We have a mutually-beneficial business arrangement with a side of sex.

Not a real relationship with feelings.

Because that would be horrible.