Knox

Parker Parker Elliott.

Holy shit.

No wonder she was stuck in my mind. She’s there, but she’s so different. Do I remember the geeky girl she swears she was? Nope.

But I remember fun. She didn’t turn on movies or call her friends or boyfriend on the phone when she babysat us. She played. And my brother and I loved her.

She’s power-walking down the street, her guitar thumping her back, her ass swinging in a beautiful wave of determination. Unfortunately, that determination apparently involves not talking to me. I have to hustle to keep up with her. “Hey. Where’s the fire?”

I smile, but her face stays set in a grim pinch. “I don’t even want to know what your mother thinks of me right now. Or what my mother is going to say when she hears this.”

“I don’t eat my boogers anymore,” I offer. “And my mother tends to stay out of my dating life. Nana might give you some trouble, but she’s harmless. She’s pretty hell-bent on getting me married off though.”

“I’m not marrying you,” she shrieks. “I’m not marrying anyone. Ever.”

“Parker.” I finally get in front of her and block her way. Not because I’m trying to be a dick, but because her self-doubt is killing me. This right here?

This is my territory. Show me a woman suffering from low self-esteem, and I’ll show her just how much she should expect from the next guy after me. “I don’t know what kind of idiots you’ve been dating, but you’re gorgeous. And you’re talented. And sexy as hell.”

Her nose crunches, and she gapes at me like I’m a moron. “You think I don’t want to get married because I’m not attractive enough to find a man?”

There’s not a right answer here. One wrong step, and boom. Emotional landmine.

I’m usually smoother than this.

“I’m never getting married because I like my life.” She’s glaring at me now, and there’s so much passion burning under the surface there that the hard-on that started in the bathroom is surging to beyond-full-mast. This isn’t the cautiously bold woman who gave me her number last weekend. It’s not the hesitant woman who made a date with me for brunch tomorrow morning. Nor is it the woman who panicked at being locked in the men’s room.

This is a woman who knows what she wants. “I don’t want to share my apartment. I don’t want to give up playing in the band. I don’t want to have to take so many days off work for sick kids that I get passed over for even more promotions.”

She jabs me in the shoulder with her pointer finger. “You know what? You can dance all hot, and you can kiss decent, I’ll give you that, but I’ll bet the women you’ve slept with have faked it. Because man-made orgasms are a myth. They don’t exist. I can take care of myself, thank you very much, without all the trouble of having to manage your life too.”

Did I say full-mast? Because now I’m picturing myself showing her exactly how not fake orgasms can be, and my cock’s trying to show the whole fucking navy how you raise a flagpole. It’s not enough that she’s completely clueless as to how hot she is in that cut-off tank top, short shorts, and carrying her guitar. Or that her hair’s loose around her shoulders, teased and curly and thick, perfect to hold onto while I’m kissing the fuck out of her.

“You’d get married for good sex?” I say hoarsely.

“I’m not ever getting married.”

“But you want good sex?”

“Fucking biology says I do.” She steps around me while I’m trying to get a handle on all the signals I’m getting.

The fuck off from Parker. The can we please do her from my dick. The show her you’re not an asshole from my brain.

“Parker—”

“It’s not you, okay?” her voice is softer now, and her shoulders are beginning to droop. “I’m just…surprised. And a little weirded out.”

I fall into step beside her again. Squeezing her hand is both the most natural gesture in the world and also way more charged than it should be. Touching her sends a jolt through my veins. Her insecurity is getting to me. I want to fix it.

Nana’s right. I get off on being someone’s hero.

And I’m going to hero the shit out of saving Parker.

“Know what my favorite part of this is?” I say.

She shakes her head.

“We’re going to have the best how we met story at your reunion.”

She covers her face and snorts with laughter.

It’s not sexy, and it’s not seductive, but it’s real. I like real.

“This is a little messed up,” she whispers.

“Hey, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

She angles a look up at me, and it’s only a quick flash, but I see it.

The spark. The intrigue.

The raw desire.

That buzz? She feels it too.

Friends? We’re something, but it’s not fucking friends.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “We’re friends.”