Okay, that last one wasn’t funny at all.
By now, Parker was holding my purse up for me while I dug around in it for my keys. I’d yet to meet a man who wanted to brave the contents of a woman’s purse, no matter how justified. It was taking too long, but he just stood there, patiently holding the knockoff Michael Kors.
At last, I triumphantly produced the keys. “Got ’em!” Then proceeded to immediately drop them on the floor. “Oops.”
Parker grabbed them before I could contemplate how to bend over without falling over, and unlocked the door. I followed him inside, really glad to be home. Heading for the couch, I plopped down on it and kicked off my shoes while Parker turned on a couple of lamps.
“You’ve got to be hungry,” he said. “What do you want to eat? I’ll go get it for you.”
I tipped my head back on the sofa and looked up at where he stood behind the couch. He touched my hair again, moving it aside from my neck to my shoulder.
“Aren’t I usually the one making the runs for take-out?”
His features softened with a small smile. “I’ll make an exception. Just this once. Don’t tell anyone.”
“That you’re really not a jerk?” I asked. Oops. Probably shouldn’t have said that either, but his smile only widened.
“Is that what people say about me?” he asked.
“Not everyone,” I hedged. “People know you’re very … dedicated to your job.” Which was true. Parker was respected at KLP, and most had a healthy fear of screwing up and getting on his radar. He dealt mainly with clients, so if Parker had to take time out of his busy schedule because of a personnel issue, it wasn’t pretty.
“That’s why I have you,” he said. “You’re my human credential.”
“I’m your what?” I’d never heard that before. I twisted around so I could stop looking at him upside down.
“People know you’re as sweet as can be, always nice and helpful. So if you can work for me and not quit your job—or kill me—then I can’t be that bad, right? My human credential.”
“Huh.” I hadn’t ever thought of it that way, but it was true. I’d had the impression people had feared Parker a lot before I’d begun working there, but now things were better, though everyone still came through me if they wanted to see him.
“So what do you want to eat?”
I thought about it. “Pizza. Lots of cheese.”
Twenty minutes later, I’d changed into yoga pants and a T-shirt and Parker was handing money to the delivery guy. The smell of fresh-baked pizza wafted through the apartment. I went to get off the couch and winced.
“Sore?” Parker asked, setting the box down on the coffee table.
I nodded as he sat down next to me. “Yeah. Everywhere. I guess my whole body just tensed up when I saw that truck coming.” That plus getting kicked around in the nightclub last night, which I definitely wasn’t going to tell him about.
He handed me a plate with three slices of pizza dripping cheese.
“I can’t eat all that,” I protested.
“Sure you can,” he said, grabbing another plate for himself. He’d discarded his jacket and loosened his tie, but still looked incongruous taking a bite of his own slice. Setting down the plate, he went into the kitchen.
I watched him, wondering if I should daintily nibble on my pizza or scarf it down like I wanted to. Considering how much my stomach was growling, I decided I didn’t really care if it was ladylike or not and took a huge bite. My eyes slid shut.
Heaven. Pure heaven.
I had a whole slice gone and was halfway through round two when Parker returned, carrying two wineglasses and an open bottle of red. He poured himself a whole glass and me half before handing it to me.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against mine.
I’d slowed down by the time I got to the third slice, and my toes caught my eye. “Crap,” I mumbled around pizza.
“What?”
“The asphalt scraped my polish,” I explained, wiggling my toes so he could see what I was talking about. “Now I have to redo them.”
“You’re not going to be able to bend enough to paint your toes,” Parker said, taking his fourth slice.
Well, shit. I hadn’t thought of that, but he was right. I couldn’t move off the couch without groaning. No way could I paint my toes. I’d just have to go around with them looking awful.
For some reason, this was the thing that broke me. Not the slice in the shoulder, not the scrapes and bruises from last night, not even the stitches. I was bawling because I couldn’t paint my toes.
Parker took the glass out of my hand and the plate from my lap. I covered my face with my hands, embarrassed beyond belief that I was sobbing in front of him. He had to think I was insane.