Chapter Twenty-Eight
“So, you’re saying your bed broke.”
“Yup.”
“And we’re the ones who broke it.”
“Yup.”
“Because we had so much sex.”
“Yup.”
“Nice.” Parker lifts a hand for a high five.
I meet his hand in the air with a quick slap, but I don’t allow myself to be sidetracked for long. “It’s not funny, Parker. I had to chuck the old bed frame, and I’ve been sleeping like a frat boy ever since.”
I point to the mattress on the floor of my apartment, pitifully stranded on the hardwood.
There’d been a suspicious creak a few nights ago—deep in the bones of the frame, growing louder until it finally cracked down the middle.
As it collapsed, I went down with it, letting out a banshee scream loud enough to wake the neighbors.
Parker and I both left Silverpine on Sunday, with my flight from Portland International Airport departing in the morning and his in the afternoon.
As soon as he landed in New York, five hours after I’d touched down, he was at my apartment.
Since we’d agreed not to hook up under our parents’ roofs, we had some lost time to make up for.
I wasn’t too shocked to see him at my door, and he didn’t seem too startled by me jumping into his arms either.
After this reunion, he came over on Wednesday, as well as Friday and Saturday.
Evidently, we’ve had more quality time than my second-hand bed frame could endure.
“I can’t say I’m surprised. Doing it on that thing sounded like riding the world’s oldest rollercoaster.” I don’t want to agree with him, but that’s exactly what it sounded like. “Do you want to stay at my hotel until you get it fixed?”
“Already on it. This is where you come in.” I point to the bulky cardboard box in the corner of my studio, half-opened with wooden boards peeking out. Next-day delivery was a blessing, but I’d taken one look at the dismantled frame and decided I’d rather call Parker to help than risk a hernia.
“You want me to assemble your furniture?”
“I need an extra set of hands. I hate to admit it, but I can’t do it by myself. The instruction manual insists on two people. See?” I flip open the booklet and point to the two cartoon figures with their thumbs up. “Didn’t you read my text?”
“Yeah, it said, I need help. Come to my apartment. I thought you got trapped under your air purifier.” Parker rolls up his sleeves, providing a criminally enticing view of his forearms. “It’s fine. I’ll help you. I’m partially responsible, anyway.”
Because he’s a distant relative of the Green Giant, Parker makes light work of assembling the bed frame.
Aside from me handing him tools and reading the instructions aloud, he doesn’t require much assistance, and he even considers sending me away when I nearly take his head off trying to pass him a board.
It only takes him an hour to have the thing up and ready—half the time the manual recommends.
“Parker Tran, you are a godsend!” I sag onto the bed once my mattress has been fitted to the new frame.
He dusts off his shirt and walks over to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. “And you’re a fool. You could’ve been staying in a luxury suite for free instead of sleeping on the floor.”
I won’t pretend to be sanctimonious—the truth is, I’d rather be at the suite.
The chaise longue in the living room is softer than my bed, and the water pressure hits like it’s gently power-washing all your worries away.
But the St. Regis is where Parker sleeps, which means it won’t bode well for me to start feeling at home.
“It wouldn’t have been wise,” I say to him, adding, “The staff already think I’m an escort.”
“Is that why housekeeping is always giggling at me?”
I meet him at the couch, handing him a coaster while he goes over every encounter with the hotel staff in his head.
Color rises to his ears, prompting a laugh out of me.
Before Thanksgiving, I used to think a casual relationship meant we could only meet if sex was involved.
But ever since we returned from Silverpine, it’s as if that imaginary clause no longer exists.
Now, being in Parker’s company feels so natural—and a little too easy.
“We can hang out like this, right?” I pose the question like I’m sliding a contract across the table for his consideration.
“I don’t see why not. We’re friends, after all.”
“Right. No, I know that. And friends hang out. So, this is fine. We’re just hanging out, which is what friends do.”
“You’re in a loop.” He flicks my forehead gently.
“I’m trying to figure out the ground rules. I think they need to be updated.”
Parker sets his glass on the coaster. “It’s true that this isn’t the kind of casual I’m used to. But you and I are different. We were friends first.” He rubs his chin. “And then enemies for a blip, but that’s overcomplicating it. Anyway, we can definitely hang out without having sex.”
“Hanging out, no sex,” I repeat as I mentally revise the terms and conditions I’ve drafted in my head. “Because we’re fully capable of being around each other and keeping our hands to ourselves.”
“We’re literally doing that right now,” Parker says as he makes himself comfortable on the couch. “While we’re on the topic, do you have plans this weekend?”
I pick up my copy of The Survivalists from the lower shelf of the coffee table, holding it out for him to see.
“Okay, well, is it possible for you to reschedule that?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Do you want to come to a Nets game? I know it’s not really up your alley, but they’ve hooked me up with courtside seats. I was going to take Reggie, but I think you and I are better friends.”
He says the last sentence around an obnoxiously handsome grin, and I don’t tell him I’m already convinced. I pretend to ruminate. “Courtside? I’ve never even been to a basketball game before. Will I get to see a celebrity?”
“It’s likely, yeah. Not that I’d advise approaching them. Most of them don’t want to be bothered.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Meeting a celebrity is one of my biggest fears. I’m afraid of being so starstruck that I’ll come across as a bumbling, obsessed fan. Then every time I see them in a movie or TV show, I’ll have to relive the embarrassment all over again.”
Parker looks at me like that was exactly what he was expecting I’d say. “Before I lose you to another dramatic monologue, can I have an answer?”
“Okay, I’ll go with you.”
“Saturday at six, then.” He gives his watch a quick look. “I’ve got some time before I hit the gym. Do you think we can—you know?”
I follow his line of sight and blanch. “Not again.”
But he’s already got a Switch controller in his hand, and he’s booting up the console before I can say no. “One Grand Prix. I’m definitely going to beat you this time.”
Parker does not, in fact, beat me in Mario Kart.