“Thank you.”
“When you stop looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Thoroughly fuckable.”
“That’s not a word.”
“Thoroughly? Is, too.”
“I should have you charged with sexual harassment.”
“I’d deny it.”
“That’s the only reason I don’t.” She continued to gather the pages with quick, angry motions. Then she noticed the scar.
He wasn’t wearing socks, so his feet were bare inside a pair of docksiders that, sadly, looked new and unscuffed. The scar crossed the vamp of his right foot and crawled up his ankle to disappear inside the leg of his trousers. The flesh was raised and buckled.
“It only gets worse from there. In fact, that one is damn near beautiful compared to some of the others.”
She looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Parker.”
“No need to apologize. It’s human nature to be curious over something that grotesque. I’m accustomed to stares.”
“No. I meant I’m sorry for whatever it was that happened to you. It must’ve been incredibly painful.”
“At first.” He affected an indifference she knew was false. “But after a few years I learned to live with it. Eventually the pain dwindled to a familiar ache. Except in cold weather. Then it can hurt like a son of a bitch.”
“Is that why you moved to St. Anne? To escape harsh winters?”
“One of the reasons.” He wheeled his chair around. “I’m going to get more cobbler. Want some?”
With all the sheets now in hand, she came to her feet. “No, thanks. I need to get to bed. I left an early wake-up call with Mike.”
“Right.”
In a matter of seconds, his attitude had turned frosty. She’d seen his scars, internal ones as well as those on his legs, and he couldn’t tolerate that. He equated the scars to weakness, a limitation to his masculinity. Which was ridiculous.
Because, with the exception of those scarred legs, Parker defined maleness. He was broad through his shoulders and chest. As she had noticed the night they met, his arms were heavily muscled. Even his legs, what she could make out of them beneath his trousers, were muscular. In a private conversation with Mike, she had asked why Parker didn’t use a motorized chair. He’d said that Parker wanted to stay as fit as possible and wheeling himself around helped keep his muscles toned.
He wasn’t as classically handsome as Noah. There was a distinct asymmetry to Parker’s features, but the irregularities made his face arresting and interesting. The square jaw, stern visage, and a head of hair over which he exercised limited control, all contributed to an attractiveness that was altogether manly.
A manliness from which the safest distance for a married woman was full retreat.
“I’ll be in touch soon, Parker.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said flippantly.
“Write your heart out.”
“Yeah. Good-bye, Maris.” H
e wheeled himself into the kitchen, never looking back. He might just as well have sprinted away from her. The door swished shut behind him.
Left standing alone in the empty, dim room, Maris felt awkward and a bit deflated. She didn’t know what she had expected, but Parker’s desertion seemed anticlimactic. She had what she’d come for—an agreement with him to finish Envy. One more handshake to seal that agreement wouldn’t have killed him, would it? He hadn’t mentioned being around to see her off in the morning. She certainly hadn’t expected a protracted and syrupy good-bye; nevertheless, she felt a bit crestfallen.
Honestly? She was sad to be leaving. When she should be eager to return to her turf, where the accents and the cuisine and the night sounds were familiar, she realized she dreaded tomorrow’s departure.