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Cheesy, yes, but Chloe always had the ability to turn me into a marshmallow.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I realize that my palms are sweaty on the steering wheel. I climb out of the truck, trying to shake away thoughts of the past.
“Get a grip, Parker,” I mutter to myself as I walk up the stone path leading to my front door.
Inside, my house is quiet. I usually don’t mind, but today, it just gives me more of an opportunity to think. I make my way into the living room and the built-in bar I installed when I first moved in. I pour myself a stiff drink and settle onto my old, leather couch. The ice clicks against my glass as I take a generous gulp of whiskey, feeling the burn of the alcohol warm me from within.
I glance around my living room, focusing on the little things around me in an attempt to distract myself. The gleam of the polished mahogany floor under the dim light, the soft texture of the antique rug under my feet, the faint smell of leather from my worn couch. Tonight, though, none of these details can pull my thoughts away from Chloe.
The clear ring of her voice when she used to cheer for me at football games. The way her eyebrows furrowed when she was concentrating on solving a math problem. The light in her eyes when she found a book she loved. I try to stop the images flashing through my mind, but they relentlessly continue.
I down another mouthful of whiskey and wince at its biting sharpness.
“Just keep it together, Parker,” I whisper into the solitude, pulling my stubbled chin into my hand. I set down my empty glass with a clunk and lean back against the plush backrest of my couch.
Releasing a long breath, I shake my head and chuckle. I haven’t even seen her yet, and she’s already throwing me for a loop.
It’s going to be one hell of a summer.
Chapter three
Chloe
“Davis! Where’s my coffee?” the sharp voice cuts through the office noise like a whip.
I release a long breath and barely keep myself from rolling my eyes, my fingers instinctively reaching up to twirl the end of my hair.
“Coming right away, Mr. Holt,” I call back before hurrying to the coffee maker. It’s not how I imagined my first week as a realtor going. The coffee machine gurgles and spits, mirroring my frustration. I have yet to do any actual work with properties or clients. I’m really just a glorified secretary for Mr. Holt, and he’s one of the grumpiest and short-tempered men I’ve ever met.
I fill the heavy, ceramic mug with black liquid and swirl in a dollop of cream, just how he likes it. The rich aroma of coffee does little to soothe my nerves. Juggling multiple folders in one hand, I take one last glance at my reflection on the coffee maker’s silver surface—my hair tied back in a neat ponytail, check. Minimal makeup, check. Professional but chic outfit, check. I let out a small sigh, straightening my blazer. “You’ve got this, Chloe,” I whisper to myself, even if my confidence wavers slightly.
As I make my way to his office, balancing the steaming cup carefully to avoid spilling it, the copier jams, emitting a loud, grinding noise. I pause, biting my lip. The day just keeps getting better.
When I push the door open, the smell of antique paper and mahogany hits me. Mr. Holt is seated behind his broad desk, engrossed in some sort of paperwork.
“Here you are, sir,” I say, placing the mug onto a leather coaster next to him. His only acknowledgement of my presence is an absent-minded grunt as he reaches for his coffee without looking up from his documents.
Feeling dismissed, I spin around on my heel to head back to the reception area. It’s half-filled with people viewing property brochures and whispering quietly amongst themselves. My desk is nestled by the entrance, cluttered with papers and property listings that I need to organize.
What a drag. I thought this job would be a little more glamorous. Lauren made the connection for me because her family’s company always does business with Mr. Holt, but so far, he hasn’t given me a chance to prove myself at all.
I run a hand through my hair, taking a quick glance at the clock. It’s almost five o’clock. Thank God. If only the clock would move faster. A sigh slips past my lips as I stare at the pile of paperwork still waiting for my attention.
I start sorting through it again, and suddenly, a familiar name catches my eye from one of the property listings. Parker Thompson.
Pausing, I stare at the name for a long moment.
The intercom buzzes, snapping me out of my reverie and making me jump slightly in surprise.
“Chloe,” Mr. Holt's gruff voice echoes from the speaker, “I need the Henderson file on my desk before you leave for the day.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Henderson file is buried deep within a stack of folders across the room. As I slide it out carefully so as not to upset the precarious balance of paperwork, my eyes linger again on Parker’s name on that property listing.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I know he’s still in Newport. No way was he ever going to leave. I’ve thought about him throughout the years and was always curious about how he was doing, but I never had the courage to ask Lauren about him. I didn’t want her to know that I always had a crush on her brother. It was embarrassing because there was never any way that I’d stand a chance of dating him, and Lauren would probably be weirded out by it.
Once I’ve gotten the Henderson file free, I quickly make my way back to Mr. Holt’s office.
