At least, that’s the reason I give myself for staying close to him as we make our way down the docks. There are only a handful of boats in the harbor this time of year — it’s too cold, even at the heated marina slips, for most to remain in the water. We eventually come to a stop at the end of the row, where a massive sailboat is docked. Its hull is starkly white in contrast to the lapping gray waves. It must be at least sixty feet long.
I eye the vessel warily. “Please tell me we’re not going deep sea fishing.”
He laughs. “You can’t go deep sea fishing on a sailboat.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I murmur. “I’ve never been on one.”
“A sailboat?”
“Any boat.”
I don’t do boats. I don’t know how to swim. Hell, I’ve only been to the beach a handful of times in my entire life, and frankly I would’ve rather eaten a bucketful of sand than actually enter those shark-infested waters.
Um, hello? They filmed Jaws in Martha’s Vineyard for a reason.
Still — my aversion to water sports is a rarity, in a place like this. Boston is surrounded on three sides by water. If you grow up here, there’s a good chance you’ll spend your summers tanning at a beachfront cottage on the Cape, sailing between the harbor islands, zipping around on jet skis, tubing or waterskiing off the back of a motorboat.
Assuming, of course, you have parents who are alive to do those things with you…
I feel Parker studying me, but I keep my eyes trained forward. I don’t want to see the curiosity — or worse, the pity — in his stare.
“Well,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “Let’s do something about that.”
I swallow hard, determined not to broadcast the idea of getting onboard that thing scares the shit out of me. I’ve always been in favor of keeping both feet planted firmly on the ground.
But… The more time I spend with him, the more I’m getting the feeling Parker lives in total contradiction to that belief. His is a changeable, mercurial existence — flying on wind currents, skimming over waves. He, down to a molecular level, challenges everything about the person I’ve worked to become and the values I’ve tried to instill.
I’m careful. Cautious. Methodical.
He’s bold. Brash. Free.
It’s anathema.
It’s addicting.
“Spend one afternoon with me,” he whispers. For once, his voice is totally stripped of that wisecracking sarcasm he’s constantly using.
I look up at him, straight into his eyes, and feel my heart thudding too loud inside my veins. I don’t want to ask the question — I don’t want to reveal any insecurity to him — but I can’t seem to stop the words from tumbling out.
“Why are you so intent on spending time with me?”
“I like you,” he says softly, hazel eyes roaming my face like a detective searching a crime scene for clues. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“You don’t know me,” I counter.
He thinks about that for a minute. “Thing is, that’s not really an excuse. Because no one ever really knows anybody. Some people spend their whole lives with someone, only to find out after they’re gone that everything they thought they knew was total bullshit.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. I’m stunned to find… I actually agree with him.
His hand tightens on mine. “I’ve traveled a lot. Been all over the world. Seen places of immense poverty and immense wealth. For a long time, I wanted to see everything, just so I could say I’d done it. Climbed Kilimanjaro, walked among the moai statues at Easter Island, dived on an underwater volcano in Indonesia, seen the dragons on Komodo. But at a certain point, you realize you’ll never see it all before you die—” He pauses. “—or before some petite, pretty-as-hell hacker frames you for murder and sends you to prison with a cellmate named Nacho.”
“Diablo,” I correct, laughing.
He shrugs. “My point is, you can’t see it all. You have to pick and choose. Prioritize the places you want to visit, the way you want to spend your limited days on this earth. Life’s too damn short to waste it with people who don’t make you happy, in places that don’t excite you, doing things that don’t challenge you.” He looks at me — really looks — and I get the oddest sense that he actually sees me. This person who, by all accounts, is nothing more than a partying playboy, a tabloid prince, a paparazzi favorite… somehow understands me.
Me.
Zoe Bloom, who’s never been anywhere outside the Greater Boston Area, never even heard of half the places he rattled off with such familiarity.
“Zoe,” he says lowly, snapping my attention back to him. “You travel that much, you get pretty good at sorting out the things you’ll enjoy exploring from the places that’ll leave your soul empty.” His hand gives mine a quick squeeze. “Only took one look at you to know which category you’d fall into.”
I suck in a sharp breath.
Only took one look…
“So,” he says, before I have time to recover.
“So?” I echo, ignoring the racing of my heart.
“Spend the day with me. Let me take you on an adventure. Let me show you what fun looks like.”
I take a breath.
Here it is. The tipping point.
I’ve been putting him off all day, telling myself I don’t like him, don’t want to spend any more time with him than I have to, that lingering in his presence is due to the flash drive, nothing else. Certainly not because I might actually like him.