31. Adair
Adair
I wake to an empty bed and the sound of Parker’s voice in the other room. It's low and controlled but not angry-sounding. Just very matter-of-fact.
It takes me a second to register where I am. His room. His sheets. The faint scent of him on the pillow beside me.
My chest tightens.
I sit up slowly, blanket clutched around me. He’s outside the door, pacing. I can hear the creak of the floorboards and the scrape of his palm over his morning stubble.
I listen closely to try to make out what he’s saying.
“Alright,” he says, voice quieter now. “Understood. How soon?”
A moment passes, and then he says, “I can be there tonight, if I can get a ticket. I’ll have to see if Adair can leave work on such short notice.”
Silence again.
“No, it’s fine. I’ve got a few days.”
I slip out of bed and pull on the long-sleeved shirt he left draped over a chair. It hits mid-thigh, but I don’t care. I pad to the doorway.
He turns as I get there. His eyes soften.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Everything okay?” My voice is still raspy from sleep, and my eyes are adjusting to the light.
He nods. “That was Anders. He wants us to come to Vermont today if possible.”
“What’s going on?”
“He didn’t say. All he said is that it’s important and he needs us there.”
My brows lift. “Me, too?”
Parker runs a hand through his hair. “I told him I took a few days off to go to DC, so I’ve got time. But if you can’t?—”
“I can.” The answer comes out before I even think. “I think between Sue and Bets, I can make sure the store is covered. I can work on office stuff on the go. It’ll be fine.”
His shoulders drop slightly, like he wasn’t sure I’d say yes.
“Thank you.”
I cross the space between us. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m in this with you. Whatever this is.”
Something shifts in his face. Not a smile, not quite. But something unguarded. Something almost tender.
He nods once. “We should pack.”
Parker drives toward the airport while I stare out the window, watching the palm trees rush by. I sense his gaze flickering toward me every few seconds.
It's not awkward, but the air in the car is charged, like we’re both tiptoeing around the fact that everything feels different now. Neither of us knows what to do with it.
Parker adjusts the air, then drums his fingers on the wheel. I glance over.
“You think Anders is flying us to Vermont to cut us out face-to-face?”
He shoots me a look. “You always start with the sunniest option, don’t you?”
“I’m saying. If I were about to drop a financial guillotine, I’d probably make the other person fly to me.”
He snorts. “If they were gonna cut us loose, they’d have done it by certified mail. And even if they try, we’ve got options.”
“Leeland’s shady little backdoor clause?” I ask.
“Looks like. And now that he’s issued a full retraction and apology, that article shouldn't be proof of anything except a jealous and controlling brother.”
I bark out a dry laugh. “Still can’t believe that part. A public apology? From the man who thinks humility is a communicable disease?”
“Technically, he blamed his assistant. Claimed she submitted the article without clearance.”
“Of course he would technically blame it on someone else,” I mutter. “But that doesn’t explain why he issued the retraction at all. You had him cornered. With what?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but I notice his left leg is jumping slightly.
“Parker.”
His eyes close for a second, and he puts one hand on the gear shift, like he's trying to look casual, but so isn't. “Roger showed me something the last time I saw him, back in New Orleans. Said it was important I understood a few things about my father.”
I glance at him. “What kind of things? ”
His jaw flexes. “Things I didn’t want to believe at the time, things that seemed weird that my uncle would share with me about his brother. I didn’t ask questions or poke. I tucked it away.”
“And now?”
“Now I get why he showed me. It came in handy.”
I want to ask more. But whatever this is, it’s not gossip or ammo, it’s personal. And it's upsetting him, based on his worrying jaw and flared nostrils. So I rest my hand on his leg instead, letting the silence settle.
I’ll wait until he’s ready to tell me the whole story.
"If this isn’t about the article, what is it?”
“No clue,” he says. “But we're in this together.”
We. The implication wraps around me like a hug. I twist in my seat to face him.
“So, we’re a team now?”
His mouth lifts at the corner. “We have been from the beginning. I mean, there's no denying that, even with all of the shit that's come our way. We always came together when we had to.”
I nod, trying to ignore the part of me that aches a little at what he's saying. Team. I want it to mean more than logistics and contracts. I want it to mean him and me.
Real.
Not transactional, not temporary.
His hand finds mine on his leg and squeezes it. My thumb gently rubs his. We don’t say anything else. We don’t need to.
“I don’t care about the inheritance,” Parker says out of the blue. “I don’t care if we get a dime. I care about you. I want to be with you, Adair. For real. No games. No contract marriages.”
The sincerity in his eyes is undeniable, and it sends a warmth through me I haven’t felt in years. This isn’t the smooth, sarcastic Parker I first met. This is a man laying his heart on the line.
For me.
I swallow hard, my walls crumbling under the weight of his words. “I want that too,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
A slow smile spreads across his face, one that makes my heart ache in the best way. “You mean it? You want to be my real girlfriend?”
I nod, unable to hold back a small smile of my own. “I do.”
He reaches across the console, taking my hand in his. His touch is warm, grounding, and I squeeze his fingers lightly.
For the first time, the uncertainty I’ve been carrying feels lighter. Whatever happens in Vermont, whatever happens with the inheritance—it doesn’t matter.
Because this, right here, is real.
We board in silence, still buzzing from the conversation in the car. I meant what I said—I want to be with him. And judging by the way his hand brushes mine every chance he gets, he’s not taking that lightly.
Security. Gate. Boarding. All of it blurs.
First class is mostly empty. Quiet. Dim lights. A red-eye flight to Vermont with chilled wine, warm towels, and the perfect amount of space between passengers to forget they exist.
We get our seats—two wide, leather recliners side by side. A flight attendant offers sparkling water or champagne. Parker asks for both.
“Celebrating something?” she asks with a polite smile .
He glances at me. “Hopefully.”
I shoot him a warning look, but the corner of my mouth twitches.
The cabin door closes. The hum of the engine grows. We buckle in. Phones go into airplane mode. And then the familiar rumble of the runway builds beneath us. I clench the armrest.
He doesn’t say anything, he simply covers my hand with his.
We take off.
It’s smooth. Easy. Like everything about this flight is conspiring to lower my guard.
Half an hour later, the cabin dims further. Most of the other passengers have reclined their seats. Headphones on. Eyes closed. The lull of altitude settles over the plane like a warm drug.
We have one of those blue fleece blankets over our laps. I was chilly earlier, so we shared one. Now I’m burning up.
He leans closer, voice low. “You okay?”
I nod, but my breath’s already dropped somewhere lower—because his hand is on my thigh.
The touch is light. Testing. Every nerve in my body goes on high alert. His fingers wander up until they find the center of me.
“I was thinking,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear, “we’ve never consummated becoming official.”
I turn to him, arching a brow. “Is this your subtle way of proposing sex at 35,000 feet?”
“I wouldn’t call it subtle.” His fingers drift higher, slipping beneath the hem of my dress. “But I’d call it a proposal.”
My breath catches. I glance down the aisle and see that no one’s looking. Everyone’s half-asleep or lost in their tablets.
“And if I say no?”
He shrugs, lazy and unbothered. “Then I’ll spend the rest of the flight imagining how good it’d feel to make you come in this seat.”
I squeeze my thighs together, and he feels it. Oh, he feels it.
“Jesus, Parker…”
He grins, eyes gleaming in the low light. “That a yes?”
I don’t answer.
I simply place his hand exactly where I want it.
Between my legs. Right where I’m already soaked for him.
“You tell me,” I whisper.
The car pulls up to a charming Victorian building perched on a small hill.
Its white exterior is bordered by tall, pointed windows and a wraparound porch, reminiscent of something out of a storybook. Yet as we step out, the modern touches come into view—security cameras discreetly tucked into corners and glass doors that shimmer against the ornate wooden facade.
Parker squeezes my hand as we walk up the steps. “Well, this is it,” he murmurs, his voice tight.
I nod, trying to suppress the uneasy flutter in my stomach.
Inside, the contrast is even more striking. The original woodwork of the building gleams under modern pendant lights. The floors creak slightly beneath our feet, but holographic monitors and sleek, wall-mounted screens remind me we’re in the twenty-first century.
A polished young woman in a crisp blazer greets us at the reception desk, offering us a professional yet warm smile. “Dr. Matthews, Ms. Carpenter,” she says. “Mr. Blankenship is expecting you. Please follow me.”
We exchange a glance before following her down a hallway lined with antique prints. My pulse quickens with each step, the weight of the moment weighing on my chest.
The room she leads us to is unexpectedly cozy, its high ceilings balanced by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and leather armchairs.