His eyes crinkle.
Thankfully, the pinstripe groper — Sanders — chooses this moment to interrupt our little staring contest.
“Mr. West.” He’s breathing heavily and his face is getting red. “Watch where you’re going, son, you almost plowed me over.”
Parker’s eyes lose a little of their heat as they slide away from me to focus on Pudgy Pinstripe.
“Yes, I’ll have to be more careful,” he says in a dangerously soft voice. “Just as I’m sure you’ll be more careful about where you place your hands when selecting appetizers in the future. Isn’t that your wife, over by the bar? I’d hate for her to hear about your…” His pause is lethal. “…appetite… for certain dishes.”
The threat hangs there in the air for a moment and Sanders’ face turns red as a tomato before he grumbles an excuse about needing the bathroom and storms away, no doubt to grope one of the other cater-waiters.
And then there were two.
I dare a glance at Parker and find he’s staring at me again.
“What?” I ask sharply, gripping my tray tighter. “Are you waiting for a party in your honor? A cookie? A parade of some sort, complete with clowns and miniature horses?”
His grin widens. “I was hoping for a thank you. But, now that you mention it, I am a fan of miniature horses.” His brow furrows. “I don’t like clowns, though. Bad experience at my fifth birthday party. Never quite recovered.”
“How tragic,” I say dryly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“I won’t, actually,” he says immediately, sidestepping to block me when I move to leave.
I crane my neck to glare up at him. “Won’t what?
“Won’t excuse you.”
“It’s an expression,” I say incredulously. “Said while trying to be polite. It doesn’t actually require the other person’s permission.”
“Then why say it at all?”
I scowl at him. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Standing here being charming and irresistible?”
“No. Playing dumb — or, rather, dumber than you look which is a feat in itself, so bravo! — to keep me here talking to you.”
His lips twitch. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re sassy?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re annoying?”
“And that voice of yours.” He leans in a fraction and I catch a waft of his aftershave. I feel my thighs press together of their own accord. “So husky. You should be a late-night radio host announcer. Or an audiobook narrator. Hell, you call up Apple and offer to voice the new Siri, I guarantee I’ll never lose my iPhone again.”
“You’re sexually harassing me.”
“Me? Harassing you?” He has the nerve to wink while acting outraged. “If I wanted to do that, I’d have suggested you become a sex line operator.”
“So, to be clear, you saved me from sexual harassment only to sexually harass me yourself?” I lift my brows. “That’s really what’s happening here?”
“I’m not sexually harassing you,” he insists. “In fact, you’re sexually harassing me.”
“How’s that, exactly?”
“You just looked at my crotch.”
Completely baffled by his accusation, I involuntarily drop my gaze to said nether region — oh, boy, someone’s a leftie — and find my cheeks are suddenly on fire. “I most certainly did not look at your crotch!” I hiss, trying to get the uncharacteristic blush under control.
“You’re looking at it right now,” he points out.
“Only because you said—” I screech in frustration and tear my eyes away. “Ugh! You’re more than annoying. You’re a manipulative, self-entitled chauvinist.”
“Would it shock you to know that’s not the worst thing I’ve been called on a first date?” His eyes get warm. “We’re doing pretty well, by comparison.”
“D-date?” I splutter, staring at him like his head is about to explode. “I’m working. You’re bothering me. This is not a date. This is the exact opposite of a date.”
He adopts a thoughtful look as he glances around the room. “Ambient lighting. Dark corner. Intimate conversation. Discrete examination of my anatomy.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Sounds like a date to me.”
“I pity the women forced to actually go out with you.”
“Darling, I don’t have to force them,” he says, flashing a grin that makes me believe him. “Are you sure we haven’t met before? You seem familiar.”
We haven’t met — not exactly. And he couldn’t possibly remember…
Last spring, I helped his sister Phoebe out of a rather sticky situation. I called her phone once, to warn her of trouble… and her brother happened to be in the room at the time. But neither of them knows my name. He just heard my voice. And that was months ago.
“No,” I say, shaking my head firmly. “We’ve definitely never met.”
“Huh.” His eyes scan my features curiously. “Strange. I feel like I know you.”
“Well, you don’t. Now, if you’ll let me by…”
“I’m Parker, by the way.” He grins again. “And you are?”
“Not interested,” I return, wishing it were true as my heart pounds too fast inside my chest.