Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Parker
I approached the swing set in the park across from Bowen’s condo, a flutter of excitement building in my chest. The summer sun bathed the area in midday light, making the playground equipment gleam and casting stark shadows across the grass. Bowen stood off to the side, leaning casually against the pole of the swing set, unaware of my presence as he looked in the wrong direction. I slowed my pace, savoring a moment to admire him.
He looked like he belonged in a magazine spread, a stunning blend of rugged masculinity and effortless grace. His short, dark hair, slightly tousled, caught the sun, gleaming with rich, deep tones. The playoff beard added a rough edge to his strong jawline. His Ray-Bans shielded the whiskey-brown eyes that drew me in, but they couldn’t hide the rest of his chiseled features—his straight nose and the full lower lip that always seemed to draw my attention.
My gaze traveled down his body, taking in the way his black T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders, straining over his powerful biceps. The fabric tucked into his jeans, which highlighted his narrow hips and long legs. There was an easy confidence in his stance, the kind that came naturally. My heart skipped a beat, and a swell of possessiveness rose within me. I wanted to shout to the mothers glancing his way, “Mine!”
I quickened my stride, and as I approached, Bowen turned his head toward me. His lips tugged up at the corners, a subtle yet powerful expression that sent a thrill racing through me. His smile, though just a twitch, felt like a secret shared only between us, a connection that no one else in the park could see or understand. I returned it, my lips curving into a wide, beaming smile that matched the warmth bubbling up inside me.
Without hesitation, I stepped close, standing on my tiptoes to place a soft, chaste kiss on his cheek. “Hi!” I imbued the word with all the happiness I felt just being near him.
“Hi, yourself,” he replied in a deep, comforting rumble that vibrated through me. He reached out, his large hand enveloping mine with a gentle, secure grip.
For a reserved man, the simple act of holding my hand spoke volumes. It was a gesture of intimacy, of claiming, that made my heart swell with appreciation. I squeezed his hand lightly, letting him know that the feeling was mutual. “Want to find a spot in the shade?” I asked, glancing around at the crowd of people scattered throughout the park. “A private spot?”
Bowen nodded, his grip on my hand never faltering as he bent to pick up the insulated bag at his feet. “Over there,” he said, jerking his chin toward a large oak tree on the far side of the park, its expansive canopy offering a cool, shaded retreat.
We walked together across the grass, the heat of the sun tempered by the breeze. Just as we neared the tree, I stumbled over a hidden root. Bowen caught me around the waist, steadying me.
“Careful,” he murmured, his tone a mix of concern and amusement.
“Thanks.” Once I regained my balance, he released me, focusing on unzipping the bag as I stood by, feeling a little clumsy.
He pulled out a bright white sheet, crisply folded.
“Can I do anything?”
He handed me two corners of the sheet. “Help me spread this. Please.”
Together, we shook out the sheet and carefully laid it on the ground. The high-thread-count fabric was luxurious, a stark contrast to the rough grass and dirt beneath it. I cringed inwardly, hoping the inevitable grass stains would wash out. To keep it clean, I slipped off my sandals before stepping onto the sheet and sitting, crossing my legs beneath me.
Bowen settled down beside me and pulled out the contents of the bag. Methodically arranging a selection of sandwiches, his movements were efficient and unhurried. He handed me a can of lemon-flavored sparkling water, and I smiled at his thoughtfulness. He’d remembered my favorite drink.
“Wasn’t sure what to make for lunch,” he said as he continued to unpack the bag. “I’ve got turkey, ham and Swiss, and roast beef sandwiches.”
“Wow, you went to a lot of work.” He made it sound like nothing, but the effort was obvious. My eyes widened at the sheer number of sandwiches he’d prepared.
Blushing, he glanced at me. “I’ll eat the leftovers for dinner.”
I chuckled softly. “You’ll have plenty of leftovers.” After a moment’s thought, I decided. “I’ll take a ham and Swiss. Thanks.”
He passed me the sandwich, neatly wrapped in plastic, and placed it on a paper plate along with a folded paper towel for a napkin. Unwrapping it, I found the sandwich piled high with slices of ham and thick layers of Swiss cheese. My stomach rumbled in anticipation, and I took a bite. The distinct flavors hit every spot on my palate—the savory ham, the creamy Swiss, and a sharp kick from the spicy brown mustard. I couldn’t suppress a small moan of delight. “Mmm.”
Bowen’s eyebrow arched. “Good?”
My cheeks heated. I nodded, swallowing the delicious bite. “You make a mean sandwich.”
He grunted in response, a sound that somehow conveyed both humility and satisfaction. But I noticed the slight upward hitch of his lips, a hint of pride.
Removing grapes, chips, and cookies from the cooler, he added to the spread. He tucked into his roast beef sandwich, and we ate in comfortable silence.
Birds chirped in the trees above us and a child laughed as he slid down the slide. Nearby, two teens kicked a soccer ball back and forth with thwacks and pops . The fresh scent of newly mown grass wafted on the warm breeze, mingling with the earthy aroma of the park. A sense of peace settled over me. “This is nice. I’ve never been on a picnic before.”
Bowen paused with a chip halfway to his mouth and frowned. “Never?”
I shook my head, a twinge of sadness creeping in. We never had simple pleasures while I was growing up. Everything had to be a big production.
Bowen’s frown deepened, concern etching lines into his face. “Even my mother took me to the park for picnics, and she worked two jobs. What the fu—heck did you and your family do when you were a kid?”
I hesitated, biting my lip as I tried to decide how much to reveal. If we were going to continue seeing each other, I knew I needed to start opening up. But the idea of sharing my past, of blowing my cover, still terrified me. Maybe I could ease him into it, give him a glimpse without revealing too much.
“We…went boating,” I said cautiously, the understatement almost laughable. In reality, our version of boating involved a luxury super yacht, complete with a pool, speedboat, and gourmet kitchen staff. “And skiing.” Again, a far cry from the truth, where skiing meant jetting off to the Alps in our private plane and staying in a slope-side villa.
“How about you?” I asked, shifting the focus back to him.
He shrugged. “Never been skiing.”
I raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Even with Tahoe a short drive away?”
He gave a casual shrug. “Hockey season overlaps with ski season.”
“Oh yeah. That makes sense.” I plucked a grape from the bunch and popped it into my mouth. The tart, sweet juice spurted when I bit into it, a refreshing contrast to the savory sandwich.
As Bowen’s gaze wandered the park, his posture stiffened, and his brows drew together. His eyes narrowed, focused on something in the distance.
Alarmed, I followed his line of sight, scanning the park. All I saw were families, joggers, and kids enjoying the afternoon sunshine. “What’s wrong?”
Bowen hesitated before shaking his head. “I thought I saw…never mind. It was probably just a fan.”
Despite his attempt to brush it off, a chill ran down my spine. The fear that had been simmering beneath the surface since my mother’s phone call spiked. Was my father having me followed? Or was Bowen right—was it just a fan of his? I scanned the park again, but everything appeared normal. No one seemed to pay us any attention.
But then, that was the thing about being watched—those doing the watching were often discreet, invisible. My father’s network of eyes would be so subtle I’d never see them.
Slowly, the tension in Bowen’s shoulders eased, and I forced myself to relax with him, pushing the fear back down.
Bowen pried open the plastic clamshell package of grocery-store chocolate chunk cookies with a crack, the scent of vanilla and chocolate immediately wafting into the air. I debated for a moment, but the temptation was too great, and I reached in to draw one out. I took a bite, savoring the sweetness as the rich chocolate melted on my tongue.
Bowen watched me with a thoughtful expression as he chewed his own cookie. He broke the amicable silence between us when he asked, “Who are you rooting for in the playoffs?”
The question caught me off guard, and I frowned, a ripple of confusion crossing my mind. Why would he ask that? Wasn’t it obvious? “The Blazers, of course,” I said, wondering if I had missed something.
Bowen’s brows lowered slightly, a shadow of doubt crossing his handsome features. “Well, you’re from the East Coast,” he pointed out. There was a subtle edge of curiosity behind the statement, and I could tell he was fishing for details. “And you have a tinge of New England in your accent. You could be a Boston fan.”
His words hung in the air between us, heavy with implications. I felt a jolt of panic as my heart raced, the fear that he might piece together the truth eating at the edges of my carefully constructed facade. I hadn’t expected him to pick up on my mild accent—or to make the connection to Boston. “Oh. No. It’s not like that.” My voice was steadier than I felt, but the fluttering in my chest was hard to ignore. I decided to give him a small piece of the truth, hoping it would be enough to satisfy his curiosity. “I…I did grow up in Boston.”
Bowen froze mid-chew, his brows lifting.
His reaction sent a wave of anxiety crashing over me. Had he figured it out? Surely, he wouldn’t connect the dots between me and Parker Brevos from Boston so easily. I rushed on, trying to divert his thoughts. “But I wasn’t a hockey fan until I came to San Jose.”
Bowen slowly swallowed, his gaze narrowing. “Why not?”
I shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant, though my heart still pounded in my chest. “My parents thought hockey was all about fighting.” I tried to inject a bit of lightness into my tone, hoping to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory.
Bowen’s expression darkened, and he let out a growl deep in his throat, a sound that made my grin widen. His reaction seemed to confirm the stereotype my parents held. “But I learned that hockey is a game of skill, and even the fights have nuance.”
“Damn straight,” he grunted. “Pardon my language.”
“No offense taken,” I said with a small laugh.
He shifted on the blanket, his intense gaze locking onto mine. “So, Parker…Smith…of Boston…” He trailed off as his brows knitted together.
The way he said my last name sent a cold shiver down my spine. Was he suspicious of me? I cursed myself inwardly for choosing such a generic, yet oddly conspicuous, alias.
“What brings you to San Jose? You could have been a waitress in Boston.” He toyed with a chip, not meeting my eyes. His tone was deceptively casual.
His inquiry was a direct hit, and I felt the walls I’d carefully built around my past tremble. My mind raced, searching for a plausible answer that would satisfy him without revealing too much. The truth was that I had come to San Jose to distance myself from my father and his manipulations. From the scandal that had rocked his company and the resulting media circus that had threatened to engulf me. From the constant scrutiny of being Benjamin Brevos’s daughter. I wanted to live a life away from the public eye, to experience normalcy, even if it meant hiding who I really was. But how could I make Bowen understand that without sounding like a spoiled, whiny, poor little rich girl?
I wasn’t ready to expose myself completely, not yet. My freedom—and my sanity—depended on keeping my true identity hidden. So, I opted for a simple response. “A change of scenery,” I said with conviction, hoping it camouflaged the turmoil churning within me. “Besides, I won’t always be a waitress.” The words were a promise to myself, though I wasn’t sure I believed them anymore.
I’d shared enough for one day—maybe more than I should have. Eager to shift the focus away from myself, I asked, “Enough about me. Tell me about your family.” I sipped my sparkling water.
Bowen’s expression closed off almost instantly, his face hardening as he grunted in response. “Not much to tell.” He averted his gaze, and he closed the lid on the cookies with a snap , as if slamming the door on a painful memory. “My mother did the best she could as a single mom. I…once I made it to the NHL, I paid for her to go to college.” His cheeks colored as if the admission embarrassed him. “She hasn’t found her ideal job yet.” He shook his head. “But I can’t help her with that.”
“My father…” His affect turned flat, devoid of emotion. But when he looked at me, his eyes were piercing, filled with a deep, simmering anger. “My father was a lying bas—waste of space.” His fists clenched, the knuckles whitening.
His raw confession hit me like a punch to the gut, and I sputtered, choking on the water I had just sipped. Goosebumps rose on my arms as a chill of fear washed over me. I was lying—by omission—to Bowen, too.
I wanted to see where things could go with him. I needed to tell him the truth—the whole truth—soon. But the fear of his reaction, the possibility that he might walk away, made my stomach twist in knots. How could I risk that?
Before I could say anything, Bowen’s large, warm hand landed on my knee. “Sorry,” he murmured, his tone softening. “We were having fun, and I ruined it.”
I shook my head, desperately trying to reassure him—and myself—that everything was okay. “We’re fine,” I said, forcing a smile even as I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping that was true. I needed to steer us back to safer waters, to something familiar and comforting.
“But just to make sure,” I said, “do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow night? I have the evening off. I’m not much of a cook, but I can make spaghetti and meatballs.” The words tumbled out of me in a rush, as if the promise of a simple meal could somehow mend whatever had sprung up between us.
Never mind that my idea of cooking involved frozen meatballs and a jar of ready-made sauce. It wasn’t gourmet by any means, nothing like the extravagant dishes prepared by my family’s chef. But it would do.
Bowen hesitated, and I wanted to sink into the ground. Was I moving too fast? “It’s okay if you don’t?—”
Bowen’s lips tugged up at the corner. “Six o’clock?”
I nodded as a thrill ran through me. I hadn’t wrecked our budding relationship.
Yet.