Chase steps forward, displeased with his date fawning over a man who is currently draped over his ex-girlfriend. I couldn’t have painted a better scenario myself.
“Chase Broadshire.”
The men grip hands but exchange no further words. Chase eyes Parker with a wary gaze, focusing on the way his arm hangs lazily around me.
“You look ravishing tonight, by the way, darling.” Parker winks at me, and I smile at the compliment, giving him a laugh. He nods his head back toward Chase. “She’s quite the catch, wouldn’t you say?”
Parker Covington is sly. He looks like the golden boy everyone wants to be with, but I see the mischief that lurks under his skin.
Chase’s nostrils flare slightly, and he speaks through his teeth. “Yes, she is.”
Felicity’s eyes spark with displeasure, and she returns her vice-like grip to Chase’s arm. Parker ignores them both, returning his full attention to me and plucking my empty flute out of my hand.
“Care for another drink?”
“I would adore one.”
As Parker goes to steer us away, Chase attempts to step forward to stop us. Felicity, however, tightens her grip to keep him back, and mutters something low in his ear. Chase’s upper lip curls slightly, but he relaxes into Felicity’s hold. Parker manages to glide us a few steps from the happy couple, but we are halted again when we land in the path of my mother’s sharp gaze.
“Stephanie, don’t you want to introduce us to your new friend?”
A small, quiet groan leaves my lips. Parker gives my shoulder a squeeze before redirecting us toward the railing my mother and father are leaning against. Vittoria and Michail have gone elsewhere, leaving me to deal with them.
“Parker Covington, lovely to meet you, Mrs. Andwell.” He disentangles himself from me, grabbing my mother’s hand and leaning down to place a kiss on it.
“Please, call me Cassia,” she croons.
My father steps forward, and Parker grips his hand in a healthy shake, exchanging pleasantries.
“Well, I hate to cut our introductions short, but Stevie and I were about to take a walk in the garden, if that’s alright.”
I can tell my mother wants to inundate Parker with questions, desperate to make a connection with him. But another part of her is trying to scheme a way to get me to become the next Mrs. Covington, and that part wins out.
“Of course, take care of my daughter.”
Parker holds my hand, all but running us to the stairs in a desperate attempt to avoid being pulled into any further conversations. My tight dress doesn’t allow me much movement, so Parker slows as we walk down the stairs. I wonder if he regrets coming to my rescue.
We descend the last step, and Parker swipes a champagne flute off a nearby waiter, passing it to me before grabbing one himself, downing it in record time, and picking up two more. I laugh at the sight.
“I don’t think they’re going to run out of champagne anytime soon,” I quip.
“Yes, but my sanity might.”
I tilt my head in agreement, taking in a healthy gulp of bubbles.
We walk in comfortable silence, and I let the cooling breeze ground me. My mind calms the farther we get from the bustle of the party. When we reach the garden, Parker drops down onto a small bench surrounded by forget-me-nots. He places one of his champagne flutes on the ground next to him before leaning back and nursing the remaining flute. I stare at him, something nagging in the back of my brain. It might be the alcohol catching up to me, but this entire scene gives me a weird sense of déjà vu.
“Have we met before?”
He pauses mid champagne sip, gaze flicking over to me before focusing ahead.
“Nope.”
I walk over and sit next to him, crossing my legs and leaning back. My near-empty champagne flute dangles from my hand.
“Really, because it seems like you know me.”
“I don’t.”
“Then how did you know my name? Why did you wave to me?”
“Coincidence.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows thickly. He sits up and drains the last of his champagne before placing the empty flute on the ground. His hand clenches before he runs it through his thick hair.
I finish off my glass, analyzing him.
Something’s off.
I just don’t know what it is, and it’s bothering me.
His phone chimes, and he pulls it out of his pocket. I sneak a glance and see a notification alert that looks familiar. It’s one that’s been popping up on my phone every other night.
Jigsaw pieces begin falling into place. The puzzle isn’t complete, but I can make an educated guess of what the image is supposed to be.
It’s a longshot. A little out there. But it might just be right.
The only issue is…if I’m right about this…it means I might be right about something else.
“Parker—”
He stands up abruptly, shoving his phone back in his pocket and picking up his remaining champagne flute.
“Great chatting, Stevie, but I have to take care of something.”
What the hell.
He gets a few steps before I call out.
“English.”
His steps falter, and he whips back around, fear bleeding into those baby blues. He chugs his champagne, then tosses the flute into a bush with complete disregard. I stand up to yell at him, but he takes off in a bolt.
Oh, no you don’t, buddy.
I start to run after him, my heels pounding into the stone, but I’m nowhere near as quick in this damn dress. I hike it up, attempting to give myself a little more movement. We get to the stairs, and he begins taking them two at a time.
Ligo. Skata.
I bounce up behind him, the people coming down the opposite side give us bewildered looks. Parker spills onto the patio and starts to shoulder his way through the mingling guests. I cross over the last step and knock into a body. I almost go falling back, right down the staircase, to my death. But the person reaches out and pulls me back.
“If it isn’t Stephanie Andwell.”
Oh, fuck me with me a pogo stick.
“Daniel Decker.”
“Having fun, are we?”
I shake out of his grip, “I’m in a rush, Decker.”
“Decker? Seems like those guys are rubbing off on you, Andwell.”
Running off on me is more like it. I scan the crowd and spot Parker’s stark hair disappearing inside the house. Shit, I’m going to lose him.
“Seriously, I need to go.”
He steps aside and gestures in front of him. I eye him warily, surprised at how quickly he relented.
“Thanks,” I mutter, stepping past him and then breaking into a jog. I try to move through the crowd as gracefully as possible. The last thing I need to do is bowl over some state judge or CEO.
I make it inside and see Parker through the archway, standing in the foyer. He gives one of his sisters a kiss on the cheek before slipping out the double doors.
He is not seriously trying to leave, is he?