Page 48 of The Publicity Stunt

“I’m gonna stop you right there.”

Battling a smirk, he steps in front of me, blocking my way. “I let your little Bar Friend stick needles in my arm. The least you can do is have a drink with me.”

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t let anyone stick needles in your arm. And second of all, he’s not my friend.”

Parker looks unfazed. “Well, then I let a complete stranger stick needles in my arm.”

I look away and fiddle with the sleeves of my coat.

“Come on, Chere. I just want to talk.” He nudges my foot with his, then leans forward to level with my forehead. “Don’t make me beg.”

“Maybe you should,” I quip.

He frowns, and uses his finger to motion the space between us. “Is this … are we flirting right now?”

I roll my eyes and he moves back, laughing. “Okay, one drink,” he bargains. “That’s it. It doesn’t even have to be alcohol. You can sip water and I’ll just get drunk looking at you.”

I cringe. “Were you always this bad at flirting?”

“Depends. Were you always this easy on the eyes?”

“Ugh, just stop talking.”

He cracks another smile. “So, drinks? Seven p.m.?”

I don’t know whether this is a good idea or not, but Parker isn’t going to back off until I say yes. That much, I do know. Placing one hand on my hip, I take a step back. “One drink.”

He takes a step forward. “One drink.”

“Then we go home.”

“Then we go home,” he parrots.

“Our respective homes.” It’s always better to clarify.

“We’ll see.”

“I’m serious, Parker. We drink, we talk, we go home. This is not a date.”

“Tell you what. I won’t even pick you up. I’ll just text you the address like some Neanderthal.”

“You’re pathetic,” I say flatly.

He chuckles. “C’mon, let me drop you home.”

We walk to his motorcycle parked in the distance. He hands me the spare helmet and gets on the seat.

It’s right about then when I notice something on the front portion of the helmet. My fingers move over something small. Something specific.

Parker looks back as my smile slowly morphs into a tight frown. “April?”

I pulls my gaze up to meet his, a distinct knot in between my eyebrows. “What’s this?”

His eyes skate down to the helmet and I turn it around for him to see. “This,” I repeat. “What’s this?”

A ginormous wave of panic sweeps over his face. “Oh.”

Oh?