Those sharp, assessing eyes of his met hers again, softer now. “You lonely, Zoe?”
“Nope.” At least not that she was going to admit. “I have Oreo.”
They both looked at the dog, snoring away.
“What about you?” she asked.
“What about me?”
“You know what,” she said. “You’ve learned a lot about me in a short time. My job, where I live, my story . . .” Plus other things like how she’d been stood up, that she couldn’t bake or fix anything to save her life, that she cried watching Friends . . . “And yet I know next to nothing about you.”
He smiled, like that was good with him, and actually got up to leave.
“Are you serious?” she asked his back, feeling brave and daring thanks to the alcohol. “Give me something more than you’re here for a vacation, in the middle of Nowhere, Idaho. Which, by the way, I don’t believe at all. Time to fill in some blanks, Mr. Mysterious.”
Eight
Zoe watched as Parker slowly turned to face her, his mouth twitching at the corners, no doubt amused by her curiosity.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
Just about everything. “Where did you grow up, do you have family, how would they describe you, where do you live, what’s your job like . . .” She trailed off, not wanting to scare him away.
“I’m not sure I imbibed enough vodka for all of that.”
“I can fix that,” she said, and offered him the bottle.
He came close again and took it slowly. Zoe got the feeling that in his world not a lot of people challenged him. And yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself from doing that at every turn. She wanted to know more about him.
“My life’s not all that exciting,” he warned.
“I bet otherwise,” she said, and added what she hoped was an enticing smile.
Again she got the almost-smile, but no words.
Was he being evasive on purpose, she wondered, or was he simply not into talking about himself? The alcohol hadn’t changed him at all. Even though he’d had his share, his eyes were still sharp and assessing.
Evasive, she decided. Which put her on guard because unlike most red-blooded women, Zoe didn’t like evasive, mysterious men. Or at least she didn’t like evasive, mysterious men anymore. And honestly, this was almost a relief because it gave her yet another fail-safe reason not to get involved with him.
Not that she’d ever planned to in the first place.
“I grew up in a small copper mining town in northern Arizona,” he said, surprising her. “If you’re born there, you live and die there, working in the mines in between.”
“Not you, though,” she said.
“Not me.” He paused, as if hoping that’d be enough for her.
Poor, delusional man; that had only served to make her more curious. At her go on gesture, he shook his head.
“My parents would tell you that I’m stubborn, too,” he said. “And they’d add that I’m also an unfeeling, selfish son of a bitch.”
“Because you didn’t stay?” she asked, her smile fading. “But that’s not a crime. Everyone deserves to live the life they want.”
“The Jameses have always been miners,” Parker said. “It’s what we do, and tradition is tradition. My parents worked all the time; it was all they ever did. It was what was expected of everyone, me included, even though I never wanted to be a miner.”
“So you left,” she said, fascinated by the unexpected glimpse of what had created Parker the man.“The day after I graduated high school, I hitchhiked to New York and bartended while putting myself through college,” he said.
She thought that sounded incredibly brave. “What was your major?” she asked softly, wanting him to keep talking forever. They were in a little bubble here in the warm, cozy living room with Oreo snoring on the other end of the couch and the rest of the world asleep.
“Criminology,” he said, and surprised her again.
“Impressive.”
“Not really,” he said. “I did it because it was the opposite of everything I knew, and I wanted to piss off my parents. Turns out I liked it so it stuck.” He’d settled his long body into the leather recliner next to the couch and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Now he leaned back, like maybe he was as exhausted as she was.
Suddenly she felt bad about waking him up and keeping him up. “You don’t have to babysit me,” she said. “I’m fine down here by myself.”
He didn’t say anything.
Or move.
“Seriously,” she said quietly. “Go back to bed. I’ll keep it down.”
“The sobbing, you mean?” he asked.
“Hey,” she said. “It was a touching ending to ten seasons, okay? And I’ll have you know, I never cry. Or very rarely,” she corrected. “I can’t even remember the last time I did.”
But actually that was a lie because she did remember. It had been when Darcy had moved out three months ago, right on the heels of Wyatt doing the same. She’d been alone for the first time since she and her siblings had taken over their grandparents’ family home.
That night she’d accidentally blown up her microwave while making popcorn. She’d gone outside to fumble through the electrical box to replace the fuse and had—in the space of five minutes—locked herself out of the house and sliced open her finger trying to pry open the breaker panel.
She’d sat on the front porch in the dark, head to her knees, and cried from loneliness. She’d allowed the pity party until she’d spent herself and that was that.
She got over it.
It was what she did.
And now she wasn’t alone anymore—at least for as long as Parker stayed—and she didn’t know how she felt about that. Suddenly chilled, she hugged herself and wondered how cold her bed was going to be.
“I could build you a fire,” Parker said.
Did he notice everything? “Not until I get the fireplace fixed,” she said.
“I could—”
“No,” she said. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.”
He looked at her for a long beat, saying nothing.
“What?”
“Just trying to figure out if you’re an exceptionally stubborn person or if you’ve been badly burned.”
“I’ve never burned myself on that fireplace.”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” he said quietly.
Yeah, but she’d thought maybe he’d be a good guy and let her change the subject, but she should’ve known better. One thing she knew about him already was that he didn’t let much slide. She stood up, not all that happy to find herself a little wobbly on her feet.
Parker stood, too, and she found herself disconcertingly close to him. He was tall and had a way of moving that made her think of a big cat.
A feral one.
She told herself that he was irritating and not at all sexy, but she was a big, fat liar. Or at least drunk Zoe was. “I’m working on getting myself a life,” she heard herself say. “Learning to bake, going out on dates, not getting burned . . .” Dammit, Zoe, this is why you don’t drink, shut up. “I think I should put myself to bed now,” she said, and turned to leave.