9. Parker
PARKER
A strategy retreat. That’s what they’re calling it.
Three words spoken in a tone so casual I almost believed it was going to involve whiteboards and brainstorming sessions and maybe some kind of team-building exercise involving ropes.
It does not. It involves a flight on a private jet, followed by piling into a rented SUV with three men who’ve each had their hands on me at some point in the last ten days, driving into the goddamn mountains to “get some perspective.”
The road winds through the forest like something out of a postcard. Tall pines, golden sunlight slipping between branches, a silence so thick it makes my city-dulled ears ring. I haven’t been away from Levi and Lyra for more than twenty-four hours since they were born. It’s a lot.
But here I am. Three days. No kids. No Wi-Fi worth a damn, according to Jack. Just me and my bosses and the most complicated set of feelings I’ve ever tried to shove into a professional pencil skirt.
I told my mom it was a work trip. Technically true. But there’s nothing about this that feels like work, and it feels so far from the truth that I’m in liar territory.
They didn’t tell me much before we left. Just that it was time for a reset, they needed my help with logistics, and I should pack comfortable clothes and not ask too many questions.
That should’ve been my first clue. The second clue is the so-called “cabin.” What I’m looking at is not a cabin.
It’s a palatial lodge.
Three stories, stone and timber, with soaring windows and a wraparound porch overlooking a lake so still it looks fake. Even the grounds are perfect, as if this is a Disney vacation instead of a work retreat .
Inside, everything is wood and leather and clean lines.
The kitchen is bigger than my apartment.
The living room has a fireplace the size of a Volkswagen.
There are eight bedrooms upstairs, each with its own en suite bathroom, and a long hallway lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves like we’re in some luxury hunting retreat curated by a man who reads Thoreau and only drinks whiskey neat.
The place smells like cedar and heat. It’s warm, rustic, and somehow intimate without trying to be. And I’m the only woman here. It hits me hard as I drop my duffel in the guest room at the end of the hall. I close the door, lean against it, and take a long breath.
What the hell am I doing?
This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. I should’ve said no. Should’ve told them I had childcare issues or stomach flu or that I don’t do mountains. Instead, I agreed. Because I’m still new. Still trying to prove I belong. And I don’t want them to think I’m skating by on my back.
God. That’s the worst part.
I like this job. I like the company. I like feeling competent again—needed.
My old job at the water company was rote.
I could have done it in my sleep, and when the twins were little, I did.
The money was nothing compared to what I’m making now, and my boss’s favorite pastime was being inappropriate with me and every other woman younger than his daughters.
VT Global is more than a step up. It’s everything for me, professionally and financially. Yes, I’m a mother, but I’m more than that too. Without a job that challenges me, I feel useless. VT has changed that, and I need to do my job well. I have to keep this retreat legitimate.
But the second I remember the way Jack kissed me, the way Gavin held me in the elevator, the way Harrison manhandled me in that closet…
It all feels like a trap. A beautiful, devastating trap.
I walk to the window and stare out at the lake.
The sun’s starting to dip, painting the water in gold and rose.
I can see Jack down by the dock, bare forearms, sleeves rolled up.
Harrison’s dragging firewood from a shed near the edge of the property.
Gavin’s on the deck, phone to his ear, pacing like he’s still wearing the city.
They’re all so…put together. But not in the way men usually try to be. They don’t pretend for appearances. They are appearances.
Jack, tall and precise, with those intense green eyes and that permanent scowl that makes your stomach flip when he turns it into a smile.
Gavin, lean and regal like someone carved him out of stone and ego, his voice always calm but layered in control.
Harrison, solid and broad, a heat all his own, like the kind of man who lifts furniture for fun and doesn’t say much unless it matters.
I want them. All of them. That’s the problem. I want them in a way that has nothing to do with power or professionalism. It’s raw. Physical. My teenage crush has grown into an eight-headed monster that roars every time I think of stopping.
I don’t want to stop. And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
Especially not in a house with no locked doors and no escape routes and no kids to anchor me to reality. I change into leggings and a sweater, pin my hair back, and head downstairs. They’re all in the kitchen.
Jack’s pouring tequila. Harrison’s slicing limes. Gavin’s pulling small ceramic dishes from an overhead cabinet like he owns every inch of this place. Maybe he does.
“Strategy retreat,” I say, sliding onto a barstool. “This looks more like pregaming.”
“It’s both,” Jack says.
“Strategy via alcohol,” Harrison adds.
I eye the tequila. “This part of the company handbook?”
“Subsection C,” Gavin says smoothly. “Page sixty-nine.”
That gets a grin out of Jack. They pass me a shot glass. Harrison places the lime wedge just right. Gavin hands me the saltshaker. The ritual is strangely comforting. Salt. Shot. Lime. Warmth hits my stomach. Fast.
The second shot follows.
Soon we’re sitting on the plush sectional in the living room, tequila glasses resting on coasters, shoes kicked off, fire crackling like it’s listening in.
Jack starts it. “This whole thing with Vanessa is spiraling faster than I expected,” he says, elbow on the armrest, glass balanced in his hand. “Icon’s not even pretending to be subtle anymore.”
Harrison nods, stretched out on the opposite end of the couch. “They’ve shifted from sniping at press releases to straight-up client poaching.”
“She tried to poach Bryce Aoki,” Gavin adds, sitting across from me in one of the big leather chairs, ankles crossed. “Asked her if we were still the kind of firm that could protect high-profile talent.”
“She said that?” I ask.
Jack snorts. “Bryce recorded her. Played it for Harrison.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “She recorded her?”
“New liability policy,” Harrison explains. “We agreed to it after her Q4 panic last year.”
“She’s smarter than most of our board,” Jack mutters.
“So Bryce is staying?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral. Trying not to sound like I’m clinging to the one piece of good news we’ve got.
“For now,” Harrison says. “But she’s watching. Everyone is.”
I nod slowly, setting my glass on the coffee table. “Then we need to make sure we’re worth watching for the right reasons.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Gavin smiles. “That’s exactly what I said in this morning’s damage control memo.”
“Which Parker hasn’t read yet,” Jack says, glancing at me.
“I was getting to it,” I say, lifting a brow. “Eventually.”
“You’ve got an excuse,” Harrison says. “You’ve only been running the place behind the scenes for two weeks.”
“She’s been doing more than that,” Jack says, his voice going a little quieter. “You’ve been the only reason the gala has been running smooth.”
I glance at him. He’s serious. I open my mouth to deflect, to make a joke—but Gavin cuts in.
“You don’t have to downplay it,” he says. “We’re impressed.”
I blink. The fire pops behind us. I feel it in my chest—that warm, slow burn that has nothing to do with tequila. They’re all looking at me. And not like I’m a ticking time bomb or a problem to manage. They’re looking at me like I belong here.
“A gala is just a big party, and I’ve thrown plenty of those. No big deal.”
Jack glances over me. “Don’t ever talk about your contributions like that in front of us again. Especially when you look this good.”
I laugh, flush rising to my cheeks. “Pretty sure saying that kind of thing is against HR policy.”
Jack smirks. “We already broke policy. Twice.”
Gavin runs his finger along the rim of his shot glass. “Want to break policy again?”
My breath catches.
And then Harrison moves to stand behind me, warm hands resting lightly on my shoulders. “Missed you.”
The tequila buzz turns molten. So do I.
I look at all three of them, and realize I’ve already decided.
My heart is pounding. Not from the tequila—though that’s definitely humming in my blood—but from the heat in their eyes. It’s not imagined. Not polite curiosity. It’s want, open and sharp and unapologetic.
They’re circling me. Not physically, not yet—but with attention, with presence. I’m sinking into this, and even if a lifeline was thrown to me, I wouldn’t grab it.
Gavin is the first to break the tension. He lifts my empty shot glass from the table, fingers brushing mine. A light touch. Barely anything.
But I feel it everywhere.
“You didn’t have to say yes to this trip,” he says quietly.
I shrug. “I wanted to help.”
He leans in, his breath warm at my ear. “You wanted more than that.”
My cheeks flush. He’s not wrong. I hate how easily he reads me.
“I wanted to be useful,” I say, but the words feel thin.
Jack sets his glass down and closes the distance between us. His green eyes are darker now, heavy-lidded, and something in his expression softens just slightly—just enough to make my knees go weak. “You’ve always been more than useful,” he says. “You’ve been driving us fucking crazy.”
“Professionally or?—”
He cuts me off with a kiss.