Chapter 6 Parker
SIX
PARKER
I couldn't stop shaking.
The blankets helped, so did the dry clothes and the cup of tea someone had pressed into my hands. But I couldn't stop replaying the moment when the safety line snapped and I'd hit the cold, churning water and it pulled me under.
And then, there was the wolf. A wolf that had appeared out of nowhere and dragged me to safety.
Isla had insisted I get checked out and we had a medic on staff. Physically I was fine. But the emotional turmoil would be my companion for a while.
"Parker, we need a statement." Isla stood in the doorway of the break room where I'd been sequestered. "Just thirty seconds, to let people know you're okay. But if you can't do it, I will."
I nodded, setting down the tea. My hands were steadier now. I could do this because I was a professional.
The statement took two minutes. I assured viewers I was fine, thanked the mysterious wolf that had saved my life and urged everyone to stay inside and stay safe. Then I was done, and the adrenaline that had been holding me together finally crashed.
Someone told me animal control was searching for the wolf. I hoped it was all right and I could one day put a medal around its neck. But that was ridiculous. It'd probably returned to the forest where it belonged.
Dawson was in the weather center. I could see him through the glass, hunched over his screens and deliberately not looking my way.
The fury hit me afresh. He'd torn into me minutes after I'd nearly died. He hadn't even asked if I was okay before launching into a lecture about how foolish I'd been.
Maybe that was true and the live shot had been a mistake. But I'd been trying to help people understand the danger, and instead of checking if I was hurt, Dawson had made sure I knew exactly how ridiculous he thought I was.
"Hey." Zara appeared beside me. "You doing okay? That was scary."
"I'm fine." The lie was automatic.
"He was worried about you. That's why he reacted like that though what he said and how he said it was inappropriate."
I didn't want to hear excuses for Dawson's behavior. "He has a funny way of showing concern."
"Yeah, well." Zara squeezed my shoulder. "People do silly things when they're scared, including alphas."
I went to my dressing room and tried to pull myself together. We still had hours of coverage ahead. The storm was making landfall now, and people needed information. I couldn't fall apart just because I'd had a close call and my bad-tempered meteorologist had decided to be even grumpier than usual.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on my door.
"Come in."
Dawson stood in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. "Can we talk?"
"We're in the middle of hurricane coverage. Unless it's about the storm, I don't think now is the time."
"Parker, please."
"I need to get back on set." I moved past him, making sure not to get too close.
The next few hours were professional torture. We did joint updates every thirty minutes, standing side by side, translating data and answering viewer questions. To anyone watching, we probably looked like the seamless team we'd been building toward.
But up close, the tension was suffocating.
Dawson tried twice more to talk to me. Both times, I found reasons to be somewhere else.
By 8 PM, Isla made the call. The storm was at its peak with winds howling outside with enough force to rattle even the reinforced walls. No one was leaving until it passed.
"We've got cots in the storage room," she announced. "And enough donuts, chips, nuts and bananas to last until morning. Everyone find a spot and hunker down. We'll keep broadcasting on a reduced schedule with updates every hour instead of every thirty minutes."
I claimed a corner of the break room, as far from the weather center as I could manage. Some of the crew were trying to sleep while others were on their phones, texting loved ones or scrolling through social media to see what people were saying about the storm.
I pulled up footage from the moments before I'd fallen. Someone had already posted it online. I shivered as the wind caught me, the line snapped, and I disappeared into the water. And then, barely visible through the rain and chaos, a large shape moved through the flood.
The wolf was huge with dark fur that was almost black. The footage was grainy as the rain and wind made it hard to see clearly, but there was no mistaking that a wolf had saved my life.
"Parker." Dawson's voice made me look up. He stood in the doorway with two cups of coffee in his hands. "Can I sit?"
"It's a free country."
He sat anyway, setting one of the cups in front of me. "I need to apologize."
"You don't need to do anything."
"Yes, I do." He ran a hand through his hair, looking more disheveled than I'd ever seen him. "I shouldn't have yelled at you. You nearly died, and instead of making sure you were okay, I tore into you. That was wrong."
I wanted to stay angry because it was easier than acknowledging the hurt underneath. "You made your opinion of my judgment pretty clear."
"I was scared." He looked up and there was fear in his eyes. "I watched you fall into that water, and I thought—" He paused and swallowed. "I thought you were going to die. And when you didn't, all that fear turned into anger, which isn't fair to you."
"No, it's not."
"I know." He stared down at his coffee. "You were doing your job. Trying to show people why this storm is dangerous. And yeah, maybe it was riskier than it should have been, but that doesn't excuse how I reacted."
Part of me wanted to accept the apology, to let this go. But the hurt was still too fresh. "I appreciate what you're saying but I think we should keep things professional from here on out."
He couldn't disguise the pain on his face before he looked away. "Okay. If that's what you want."
"It is."
He stood, leaving the untouched coffee in front of me. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're okay. The thought of you getting hurt..." He shook his head. "I'm glad the wolf found you."
Then he was gone, and I was alone with my coffee and an ache in my chest. I wanted to call him back and say I forgave him but he was an asshat and had to live with what he said.
The storm raged for another four hours. We did updates every hour like Isla had ordered with Dawson and I standing side by side with plenty of space between us. We were professional but distant which was exactly what I'd asked for.
So why did it feel so wrong?
By midnight, the worst had passed. The winds were dropping and the rain had eased to something merely heavy instead of torrential. By 2 AM, Isla gave the all-clear.
"Roads are still flooded in most areas," she warned. "But if you can get home safely, go. Everyone else, there are cots. We'll reconvene at eight for damage assessment coverage."
I pulled out my phone and checked the flooding maps. My apartment was in the red zone and completely inaccessible. The whole neighborhood was underwater.
"Looks like I'm staying," I said to no one in particular.
"You can crash at my place." One of the camera operators, Mike, clapped me on the shoulder. "My roommate's out of town. You can have his room."
"Thanks, that would be great."
"My house is closer." Dawson appeared beside us, and I tried not to notice how good he still managed to smell after nearly twenty-four hours of storm coverage. "And I have a spare room. Plus hot chocolate."
I stared at him. "Are you serious right now?"
"Dead serious. Mike lives forty minutes away in good conditions. In this weather, it could take over an hour. My place is fifteen minutes away."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not? We're colleagues. You need a place to stay and I have space." His expression was neutral, but something in his eyes made my stomach flip. "It's practical."
"Parker, honestly, Dawson's place does make more sense," Mike said. "My neighborhood might have flooding too. I wasn't thinking about that."
I wanted to argue and maintain my distance and anger and all the walls I'd carefully constructed over the past few hours. But I was exhausted, still shaken from nearly dying, and the thought of a long drive through flooded streets to a place that might not be accessible didn't appeal.
"Fine." I managed to get the one word out. "But just for tonight. As soon as the roads clear, I'm going to a hotel."
"Whatever you need." Dawson let out a long breath. "Let me grab my things."
Twenty minutes later, we were in his truck, driving through streets that looked like rivers. The city was dark with the power out in most areas and garbage littered the roads. Dawson navigated carefully with his hands steady on the wheel.
"Thank you," I said finally, breaking the silence. "For letting me stay."
"It's not a problem." He glanced at me briefly before returning his attention to the road. "I meant what I said earlier. I'm sorry for how I reacted."
"I know." And I did. But knowing didn't make the hurt disappear.
His house was small tucked at the edge of a residential neighborhood that had avoided the worst of the flooding. Inside, it was warm and surprisingly cozy with comfortable furniture, books on shelves, and everything was neat without being sterile.
"Spare room is upstairs, first door on the right." Dawson set his keys on the counter. "Bathroom is across the hall. I'll get you some towels and clothes to sleep in."
"Thanks."
I followed him upstairs, aware of his butt bobbing in front of me. This was a mistake. Being here, in his space, with all this history between us. It was too much, but I was too tired to care.
The spare room was simple with a bed, dresser and a small bookshelf. Dawson appeared with an armful of towels and what looked like an old college t-shirt and sweatpants.
"These should fit." He set them on the bed. "I'll make that hot chocolate. Come down when you're ready."
Then he left, closing the door behind him, and I was alone in Dawson's guest room, holding his clothes and about to drink his hot chocolate.
This was definitely a mistake.
After a welcome shower, I pulled the t-shirt over my head and immediately caught Dawson's scent of pine and rain and something more primal.
The fabric was soft from years of washing, and it felt intimate to be wearing something of his.
The sweatpants were too loose, and I had to tie the drawstring tight, but even they carried his scent.
I looked at myself in the small mirror above the dresser and studied Dawson's clothes on my body. The scent on his clothes mingled with my own and it struck me that we'd crossed a line, one I hadn't realized we'd been approaching.