Chapter 5 Parker
PARKER
The yoga leggings fit perfectly—smooth and high-waisted, hugging every curve like they were made for me.
So does the black crop top, and the sneakers that squeak faintly on the marble floor of the hotel shop.
The air is cool and dry here, over-perfumed with citrus cleaner and the faint salt of the sea drifting in from outside.
My skin, still slick from Carolina humidity and a morning spent half-sweating, half-running late, prickles against the air conditioning.
The shop clerk had smiled at me like she knew exactly who I was—or at least whose name had covered my tab.
Courtesy of Callum Voss, she said, her tone just shy of teasing, like there was some unspoken joke I was supposed to get.
So I did what any emotionally frayed woman would do: I leaned into the privilege.
I added a butter-yellow sundress that made my skin look sun-kissed, strappy stilettos I’d probably regret, gold hoops, and a delicate chain that shimmered when it caught the light.
Nothing major. Just enough to make a statement. Something that would either piss him off or make him laugh. I hoped for both.
By the afternoon, heat and humidity cling to me like a second skin.
My muscles hum with fatigue as I make my way to the rehearsal space—a ballroom converted into a studio, the kind that smells faintly of lemon polish, sweat, and the ghost of old perfume.
Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line the walls, reflecting back a hundred versions of the bridal party, all of us with flushed skin, many laughing, and our hair coming loose in curls that stick to the napes of our necks.
The wooden floor creaks beneath our sneakers as Rochelle syncs her phone to the sound system and fills the room with the low, sinful pulse of Rihanna’s Skin.
The first run-through feels like play. By the seventh, it’s penance.
Every movement burns. My thighs tremble.
My skin feels slick and tight beneath the cling of my top.
The mirrors catch everything—the way my chest rises and falls, the arch of my back when the choreography demands it, the roll of my hips as I match the rhythm.
Each reflection is a reminder that this isn’t the same body that left six years ago; it’s stronger, curvier, unashamed.
The chair section is the worst—or the best, depending on how you define sin.
We’re supposed to bring men up from the audience, sit them down, dance for them, around them.
The kind of choreography that straddles the line between confidence and confession.
The air smells of vanilla lotion and salt, hot breath and hairspray.
Every time we hit the downbeat, the mirrors shake with laughter.
Sienna’s using Charles, of course. Her smile says she’s planning to give him a heart attack before he even says I do.
“One more time from the top!” Rochelle shouts over the bass, sweat glistening on her collarbone as she demonstrates the hip roll again. “And remember—this is about confidence. Own it. Make them question every bad decision that got them here.”
The room fills with whoops and laughter. We run it again. My lungs ache, my heartbeat pounds in my ears, and when we finally stop, the air tastes like salt and exhaustion. I drain half my water bottle in one gulp, the cold cutting through the heat like mercy.
The girls collapse into conversation and teasing.
“I’m calling dibs on one of the groomsmen,” Madison says, tugging at her ponytail.
“Tall, dark hair, tattoos. Kyle? Kevin?”
“Pretty sure he’s married,” Jen replies, grinning.
“Damn.”
“What about the Best Men?” someone asks, and just like that, the air shifts—electric, knowing.
Rochelle grins, fanning herself dramatically. “Silas looks like he knows exactly how to ruin your night in the best way possible. And Cal…” Her smile curves wickedly. “Cal looks like the kind of man who would ruin your life and make you say thank you for it.”
Laughter breaks out, sharp and breathless.
“God, right?” Madison sighs. “That stare. The kind that makes you feel like he’s reading your thoughts and undressing your conscience at the same time.”
“What about Jace?” Jen says. “He’s too serious. He looks like he’d break you in half.”
“Not in a good way,” Madison says. “In a ‘you’ll never find the body’ way.”
The laughter is bright and mean and fleeting.
“Parker,” Jen calls, eyebrows raised, “you grew up with them. Any advice?”
“I already asked her,” Rochelle laughs. “She’s no help. Total vault.”
The words land harder than they should. My smile stays, even though something tightens behind it. “She’s right. You’ll have to figure them out on your own. I can’t help you there.”
It’s not a lie. I don’t know who they are anymore. The boys I grew up with became men who built an empire out of smoke and saltwater. Dangerous. Untouchable. The kind of men other women whisper about but don’t approach unless they want to burn.
What do I know about getting their attention? Nothing.
Except for the way Jace looked at me last night, voice low and rough: Little Parker’s all grown up now.
Except for Silas’s hand at my elbow, the rasp of his voice against my skin.
Except that I haven’t even seen Cal up close yet, and I’m already remembering the way he used to tilt his head when he wanted to read you like code.
I’m so screwed.
Rochelle claps, her voice cutting through the fog of sweat and laughter. “Alright, ladies—hair, makeup, costumes. Be back at seven. Let’s make them remember us.”
Cheers rise. Music fades. The mirrors are empty.
I grab the garment bag from the corner and try not to think about what’s inside. It’s less costume, more lingerie—sparkling, red, and barely-there. The thought of walking out on that stage, of them watching me in it, sends a slow pulse through my veins.
Let them look. Let them see who I am now. Let them deal with it.
The elevator hums on the ride up, cool air washing over overheated skin. My reflection in the brass doors looks flushed and wild—hair falling in loose curls, top clinging, cheeks stained pink. I smell like salt, perfume, and adrenaline.
All I want is a shower. Or better, a bath.
A long soak in steaming water until the heat wrings me out and silence takes whatever’s left.
The hallway greets me with quiet, thick carpet, air-freshener crispness, and the muted hum of central air. My body aches as I dig for the key card. Click. Green light.
The suite is sunlight and serenity. Whitewashed walls. Blue accents that mimic the sea. The faint hum of the harbor below, gulls calling somewhere in the distance. It’s the kind of room that’s meant for resting—somewhere I could finally stop performing.
And then I see him.
Callum Voss.
Sitting in the armchair by the window like he’s been waiting.
He looks out of place and perfectly at home all at once.
One leg crossed over the other, ankle resting on a knee.
Dark jeans that fit too well, a black henley rolled up to his elbows.
His forearms are tanned and veined, hands loose, confident.
His sandy blond hair falls in waves that brush his collar, and the afternoon light sharpens the amber in his eyes until they look like molten glass.
He’s beautiful in the way storms are beautiful.
And he’s holding one of my toys.
My open suitcase lies beside him, clothes spilling out in a cascade of fabric, the zipper pushed down. In his hand, between long fingers, he holds the smooth, dark-violet vibrator from my client’s upcoming line, turning it slowly, inspecting it like art.
My stomach drops. The air goes thin. His mouth curves, slow and deliberate.
“Now what,” he says, his voice low and rich enough to taste, “would you be doing with this in your luggage, angel?”
I freeze. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my palms.
He tilts his head, studying me the way he used to when he wanted to see if I’d lie. His gaze travels—hair damp, skin flushed, leggings glued to my thighs—and lands somewhere that makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Cat got your tongue?” His thumb traces the toy’s curve, lazy, teasing. “Or should I guess?”
My cheeks blaze. “That’s—” My voice catches, the word thin and breathless. “That’s mine.”
“I gathered.” He turns it toward the window so it gleams. “The question is why Parker Carter—marketing intern, Charles’s sweet little sister—travels with something like this.”
“I don’t blush when people say sex.”
“You’re blushing now.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” He sets the toy down on the chair arm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to make me squirm. “So. Explanation?”
“It’s for work.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Work.”
“Yes. Marketing for a—” I stop myself, words tangling. How do I explain BDSM magazine while my pulse is racing and my body is half-melting? “It’s complicated.”
“I’ve got time.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Maybe not.” His mouth curves. “But since I tracked down your luggage and had it delivered personally, I think you owe me at least a little conversation.”
I’m sorry, what? “You—what?”
“The airline found it this morning. I expedited delivery. You’re welcome.”
“You went through my things.”
“I did. And since you charged half the shop to my room, I’d say we’re even.”
My mouth opens, closes. “That’s a violation of privacy!”
“Is it?” He stands, and the room seems to shrink around him. Broad shoulders. Calm posture. Quiet control. “Because from where I’m standing, angel, it looks like you packed for something far more interesting than a wedding.”
He steps closer, the scent of him—a mix of cedar, salt, and expensive restraint—curling through my senses until the air feels heavy.
“So,” he says softly, gaze flicking to the chair, “tell me. What kind of work requires this kind of inventory?”
I should move. Should grab the garment bag and run.
But I don’t. My feet stay planted, my breath caught somewhere between outrage and something far more dangerous.
Cal keeps walking toward me, slow, deliberate, like he already knows I’m not going anywhere.
And I have absolutely no idea how to answer that question without making this entire situation so much worse.