Chapter 6
PARIS
M y phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I turned it on half an hour ago. Dread coils in the pit of my stomach like a lead weight. I wring my hands together and dig my bare feet into the hardwood floor. My hair falls in my face as I hunch over, and I absently blow it away.
Staring at the screen doesn’t make it stop, but for a second, I pretend it might. The bright display shows fifteen missed calls, each one from the same number that makes my skin crawl.
My heart pounds like a fist on a drum. The article was due two days ago. I haven’t even touched my laptop. Hell, I haven’t touched a coherent thought in forty-eight hours, unless you count the endless stream of ‘oh God, oh God, oh God’ running through my head.
The phone buzzes again.
Taking a deep breath, I answer on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Ah, there she is. Paris Page. Alive and apparently reachable.” Brad’s voice oozes that oily sarcasm I’ve come to loathe. He’s my boss, yes, but he doesn’t deserve an ounce of respect. In fact, no one in the office respects him. That’s a fact. “I was starting to think you’d run away.”
Silence stretches. I try to find words, but how the hell can I tell him I’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday ever since Parker found me in the field?
“Let me guess, no internet? Your laptop lost some juice, and you forgot the charger? Or you’re still researching?
It was one fucking article, and you missed a deadline, Page.
Again. And unless you want your next assignment to be updating our classifieds for cat-sitter ads, I suggest you open that laptop today and send me the damn article before sunset . ”
“I—”
“And don’t even try to make excuses. You had one simple job, and you’re still failing.”
Then, with the sugar-slick poison only he can pull off: “Maybe if you’d had that coffee with me back in March, you’d get more grace.”
I don’t even realize I have the phone on speaker until I feel the shift in the air. Every hair on my body lifts in awareness as I end the call.
That heat .
That pressure .
Like a thunderstorm gathering strength, ready to devour everything in its path.
Parker’s behind me. I don’t even need visual confirmation. The sheer force of his anger radiates off him in waves that make the summer air feel arctic in comparison. The weight of his presence is thick, coiled, furious.
The last time I felt this kind of tension, thunder cracked the sky in half.
I turn slightly, and his jaw is locked so tight I’m surprised his teeth don’t shatter.
He heard everything. And judging by the way he’s staring at the phone like he’s seconds from hunting this man down and shoving it through his skull, I don’t think he’s about to give a polite speech.
I clear my throat. “What would you do if you had a boss like him?”
Parker turns that intense gaze to me and says in a flat voice, “I’d tell him to go fuck himself after wringing his neck.”
I reach for his arm and gently tug until he looks at me. Then I rise on my toes and kiss him, soft and slow.
It works instantly.
His body eases under my touch, the tension melting away as he exhales against my lips.
When I pull back, he searches my face like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m okay. Warmth threads through my chest and body at the way he looks at me. It’s always as though I’m the only girl he sees.
I don’t lie and say I’m okay. Instead, I just wrap my arms around his waist and press my cheek to his chest. My God, this man is pure muscle. Even so, he touches me with the kind of gentleness that melts my heart.
We sit down on the two chairs by the porch, still warm from the morning sun. The view stretches endlessly—golden fields, the rustle of the corn in the breeze, distant clucks and moos from the barn. It’s the kind of sound that would have annoyed me months ago.
Now it makes me breathe easier. I feel lighter, as though I went on vacation in the Bahamas and never planned to come back.
“I used to hate silence,” I say, watching a pair of chickens dart across the grass. “It made the nightmares louder.”
He turns his head slightly, listening, and reaches for my hand with his.
“But the first night I slept here, you know, with you in your bed…” I glance down at our interlaced hands, then back up at the fields. “It was the first time I slept without waking up in sweat or jolting awake from a dream. I slept peacefully that first night and last night too.”
“When did your nightmares start?”
Good question. For which I have no answer to. I wondered about it myself. “I have no idea. All I remember is I never sleep for more than five hours at a time. I always, always woke up at midnight, a scream in my throat, sweat soaking my sheets.”
Silence settles over us for a few minutes until Parker raises my hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over my knuckles.
“You know, I studied college in the city. Four years of hell. I could barely sleep; when I did, it was never peaceful. I was restless, and I had no idea why. After graduation, I came back to tend to my grandparents’ farm, and everything just … quieted.”
Something lights up within me, and I twist my waist to face him. “That’s exactly how I feel right now. I used to take comfort in the noise and the busyness of the city. Now I’m here, I feel like I could breathe freely and cleanly for the first time in years.”
Parker leans forward and presses his lips to my temple, making my breath hitch. “I don’t want to be that guy who forces you to choose, but you should know, this home is yours now, too.”
Tears well in my eyes. I’m not a crier. I don’t even cry watching sad movies or reading sad books or listening to sad music. But there’s something in this moment, something beautiful and profound that makes my chest ache and expand at the same time.
“You barely know me, Parker.”
“My cows and goats love you. That’s enough reason for me to think you’re not here to murder me while I sleep.”
A single tear slides down my cheek as I chuckle, and Parker wipes it with his thumb. “What’s your middle name?”
“Keith. You?”
“Elle.”
“Hmm.”
“You wanna know why?” I can’t resist rolling my eyes.
“My parents had their honeymoon in Paris and London. Elle as in similar sounding to the letter L. My dad wanted to name me Paris London Page, but Mom said that was the kind of name kids get bullied for. They compromised and used Elle, spelled E-L-L-E, instead of London. As if Paris is any better. Do you know how many times I had to hear ‘Oh, like Paris, France?’ growing up? If I had a dollar for every question, I’d have enough money to buy your entire farm. ”
Parker’s face splits into a smile. “Well, Elle spelled E-L-L-E, we’d love for you to stay on the farm. No pressure, obviously, but I also wouldn’t mind going with you to the city and introducing my fist to your boss’s face.”
I laugh out loud. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Wanna bet?”
I open my mouth to answer, but he wraps a hand around the back of my head and presses his lips to mine. Just like that, I forget what I was thinking.