Page 29 of This Wild Heart

He sounded so pissy, I couldn’t help but smile.

“Where the hell have you been?” a feminine voice shouted.

My head snapped up.

“Oh, Louise, my darling, I was off getting married.”

I peered in the side mirror and saw a glimpse of a stout woman with a stern look on her face. “Quit yanking my chain, you had me worried half to death when you didn’t get home on time this morning. I thought your flight was landing at nine.”

She was easily in her sixties, with a no-nonsense bob in a silvery gray, and I ran my hands over my hair, feeling a quick flutter of nerves. Sympathy for how he must’ve felt showing up at my parents hit me like a battering ram.

When I pushed open my door and exited the car, Louise’s mouth hung open but snapped shut almost immediately. Her hands went to her generous hips. “And who do we have here?”

I smiled, moving toward her with my hand outstretched. “I’m Anya.”

Parker took my suitcase and a duffel bag out of the back of the Jeep. “Louise, meet my wife.”

At the way he said it, I gave him another narrow-eyed look. Parker winked.

Louise’s mouth dropped open, her eyes darting between me and Parker. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she breathed. “Does your mother know?”

Parker winced. “Eh. Not yet. I’m working on it.”

She eyed me up and down, then nodded decisively. “Come on. I’ll show you to?—”

“To the guest room,” Parker finished.

My head whipped in his direction.

“I beg your pardon, young man,” she said in an affronted tone.

Parker ignored her and locked eyes with me. “Remember when I said we could pull this off in front of my family?”

I nodded.

He hooked a thumb toward Louise. “I wouldn’t last five minutes against her. She could crack an entire army.”

Louise scoffed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. And tell me what? Why would you lie to me?”

Parker sighed, slinging my duffel bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go, my angel, I have a little story to tell you.”

By the time Louise left, I’d unpacked a few things in Parker’s guest room across the hall from his bedroom. The proximity to the big fucking bed where Parker slept was more nerve-wracking than I cared to admit.

As I wandered along the hallway and down the stairs toward the family room, I tried to figure out if the strong design aesthetic was Parker or if his sister Greer had a hand.

It was clear he favored neutrals—warm wood floors and trim, creamy white walls, black and white in all the artwork. Plants with glossy green leaves sat in various corners of the house and on bookshelves next to large windows that let in a surprising amount of light, given the trees around the property. The furniture was all ivory and leather, oversized in order to fit his big-ass body comfortably, and the clean, modern lines had me sighing like a little bitch because, gawd, I’d pick all of this for myself.

Maybe it was unfair that I expected some sterile bachelor pad complete with mirrors above the beds and drawers overflowing with condoms, but I found myself impressed that this was his. It felt like a home.

I found him in the kitchen, a towel slung over his shoulder as he slid a pan of food into the oven. Louise—the housekeeper and woman who kept him eating like an adult, according to him—lived a couple of streets over and helped him out as soon as the season picked back up again. In the offseason, she informed me, he had to do his own damn laundry.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he said. “She always makes enough for a family of four.”

“I could eat.” I crossed my arms and studied him from across the island separating us. “When are you going to call your mom?”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, and the scrape of bristles against his palm made me grit my teeth. “Soon,” he said, exhaustion clear on his face. “I’d rather do just about anything else.”

“Like what?”

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