Deserving It

by Angela Quarles

  Up ahead, Conor’s familiar frame and gorgeous hair are hunched over his phone, a scowl marring his forehead.

  I stop beside him, my fingers gripping the carry-on handle. “Did you find a room?”

  He glances up. “Everything’s booked solid as St. Peter’s Rock. Looks like we’re camping here.”

  He must see my guilty expression, because he straightens. “You bagged the last room, didn’t ya?”

  I swear to God, his Irish accent acts like some kind of aphrodisiac, rolling over me in seductive waves. His th’s come out as t’s, so everything is everyting with a little aspiration that’s like little happy sighs to my ears. Gah.

  “Yep. Looks like I got it just in time. Surely there’s some closer in to the city?”

  He frowns. “And why would I be wanting to venture out so far? What passes for motorways here would have the devil saying his Hail Marys, and I can’t be risking my morning flight.”

  “8:44?”

  “Yeah.” He surveys the concourse, the muscles in his jaw bunching. Which—gah—does some really hot things to the intensity of his manly face.

  I swallow, trying to work some moisture into my throat. “You might be able to rent a car. It’s about an eight-hour drive, so you’d get there about the same time.”

  He shakes his head. “You Americans always thinking it’s no bother driving to hell and back in a day. Tempting, as I’m not looking forward to my rucksack for a pillow, but it’s work tomorrow and I need some sleep.”

  “Can’t you call in? They’d understand, I’m sure.”

  His face is always set in serious lines, but it now it grows harder, fiercer. “Yeah, that’d be grand, what with me being the one who’s supposed to be giving a big presentation.”

  Yeah, that would make it tough. I’m fighting the pull to let him stay in my room despite it being only a double. His frustration—I can feel it push against me, begging me to make it better for him, but I straighten my spine.

  I learned the hard way to ignore my sensitive side, the one that wants to make everyone else comfortable and happy, even if it goes against my own wishes. But I also try not to be an asshole, so it’s a fine line to straddle.

  He scrubs his hand through his hair and locks his gaze on me.

  Shit. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

  “Listen. This presentation I’m making. It’s kind of a big deal. Can I crash with you? I’ll be a perfect gent, I swear by all that’s holy. I need a good night’s sleep is all.”

  My heartbeat goes all sluggish, and I dart my gaze around as if in search of escape. Shit.

  Being empathetic sucks. It makes it hard at times like this. But God. No way. Sharing a room with him is the last thing I want—pure torture. Can you imagine? Me. Trying to deal with all that masculine hotness in the same room?

  You might wonder what’s so bad about that. Well, let me tell you. I have these walls for a reason—that empathic, deep feeling shit? Makes it tough to be in a relationship without getting steamrolled. So you either get me with my armor, or not at all.

  And clearly he doesn’t like armor-me. We’ve played in the same league sport for three years now, and he’s never given the slightest hint that he’s interested. Knowing me, I won’t be able to hide my feelings, and one of two things will happen, both of them problematic.

  Either he’ll be like some guys and not turn down an opportunity for sex. Or he’ll reject the idea. I can’t do casual sex. Not with him. I just know I won’t be able to maintain my armor. I’ll start to feel. And I’ll start changing for him.

  And if he rejects the idea, I might feel the pull to change too.

  No. Just no.

  Don’t get me wrong—I can have casual sex. I don’t sleep around a ton or anything, but I have no trouble asking for what I want. When the stakes are low and my armor can stay in place.

  It’s easy when you don’t let yourself care.

  He steps forward, adjusting his bag’s shoulder strap, his green-eyed gaze locked onto mine like some Irish tractor beam, trying to pull me in to his will. “Really. A soft bed’s all I’m after. I’m not looking to get in your knickers. It’s conked I am.”

  See? He’s not interested.

  “I, um, can’t. I have…I have some nightly routines. Aaaand morning ones. Trust me, you don’t want to be in a room with me.”

  God, that was lame. His forehead wrinkles, and his eyes take on a confused, unfocused look. He glances up and down my body. Probably trying to picture what the hell my stupid routines could be. Heck if I know either, bud.

  I could cap it off with a reminder of my ugly feet, but there’s only so much I can do in the name of scaring him off.

  He leans back against the wall, his movements relaxed, though I still detect tension in his broad shoulders. His duffel drops to the floor. “Yeah, don’t be troubling yourself. Probably for the best and all.”

  Probably for the best? What does that mean?

  Claire

  Thirty minutes later, I tap my keycard against the box above the door handle. The green light blinks on my third try. God, I’m exhausted. The guilt riding shotgun with me on the short Lyft drive here doesn’t help either. Conor’s probably tossing and turning on the cold floor of Concourse C right now because my pansy ass couldn’t handle sharing a room with him. Ugh.

  I shove my bag inside and ease into the room, plopping my purse onto…a kitchen counter?

  I look around the room. High five. I scored an executive suite, complete with a galley kitchen and dining room table that doubles as a computer desk, with USB and Ethernet plugs handy.

  To the left, I step into a huge-ass bathroom. Seriously. The bathroom alone would be a studio apartment in New York. Beyond the kitchen is just a couch and flat screen TV. Huh? I wander farther in, and that’s when I see another room to my left, which has a king bed and another flat screen TV. Somehow I got upgraded.

  In the living room, I switch on the TV and head to the couch. A suspicion forms, and I almost don’t confirm it, because then I know what I’ll feel compelled to do.

  But apparently, I don’t know…curiosity? A suppressed desire to torture myself by having him over? Whatever it is, I step over to the sofa and lift the cushions.

  Shit.

  Yep. Sofa bed.

  Conor’s face as I walked away flashes across my mind, part lost, part resigned, and a whole lot tired.

  Jesus. He just wants a place to rest comfortably so he’ll be fresh for some big meeting. I’m being ridiculous. And selfish. I’m not weak-willed. Not anymore.

  Conor

  Fuck me. I punch my rucksack for the third time and switch to my other side, hip bone jarring against a floor that’s gone harder than a stone’s heart. I could be sharing a room right now with Claire. Rooms usually have some kind of chair, and that’s gotta be better than this poxy floor.

  Because I’d definitely take the chair. Not the bed with her in it. Not with her next to me. Laid out. Both of us comfortable. And it’d be one of those small doubles, and we’d accidentally bump into each other and murmur awkward apologies.

  Heat curls through me, and my mind’s conjuring Claire stretched out on her side, her arm resting over her hip, with one finger crooking and urging me closer. To her.

  I give a start and shut that shite down fast.

  She’s not interested, eejit. Claire is direct and not afraid of saying what she wants.

  At first, when I heard she had a room, all I could think about was the presentation and how badly I needed to do well so I can be helping my sister with the family farm. But then as her excuses piled up, it was a slap in the face, yeah—a reminder of every one of our prickly encounters. Gets me frustrated, it does, and then I’m saying stupid shite like, Probably for the best. Probably for the best doesn’t get a place for my head to be resting, now does it?

  My mobile beeps a text alert. I fish it out from the back pocket of my jeans. It’s from Claire: Room 151

  Triumph’s surging through myself, especi
ally when the mobile dings again, this time with the address of her hotel.

  Effin’ fantastic.

  I jump up and grab my rucksack. Now I’ll be having some decent sleep at last. We’ll both be so knackered, there’ll be no energy for our uneasy dancing.

  It doesn’t take but twenty minutes, and I’m knocking on Room 151. A minute passes, then the door opens and Claire appears. She’s draped in an oversized T-shirt and baggy men’s boxers.

  Well, that’s absolutely fantastic—such form-disguising clothes shouldn’t be a turn-on, but fuck if the lad in my trousers doesn’t twitch. Down, boyo.

  I’m knackered. That’s all it is. And seeing her in sleepwear is melding with my earlier fantasy of us sharing the same bed.

  “Hey. Well, thanks for letting me crash here.” I look past her, my gaze searching out my goal—my spot to sleep.

  “No problem. Come in.” She pads into the main part of the room and points. “Here’s the kitchen.”

  Who feckin’ cares? But I dutifully nod.

  A weird tautness permeates the air. With her standing there, vulnerable in her baggy clothes, I feel every bit of my six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound size. As if it’s pushing into her personal space. And that personal space is this whole room.

  Jaysus, I’m being a tool. If I hadn’t acted whiney as a two-year-old in wet nappies, she wouldn’t be bailing me out of a tight spot.

  She’s uncomfortable, that much is clear, pointing out each spot in the room when I just want to know—where am I going to be laying my head?

  Her increasing nervousness makes me study her for the first time in a while—she’s acting so not like her normal tough persona, and it’s making me curious. I’ve never worried about my size around her, while I do feel like some huge mong around other women. Especially shorter ones. But Claire’s never seemed to me to be all that intimidated.

  It was that strength in her that caught my eye the first time she walked up to me, saying she’d heard about the men’s hurling team and was wanting to start a women’s equivalent in Sarasota—camogie.

  Of course, me being a lad, I also noticed her fantastic tits—the right size for her tall frame, that athletic body of hers, and all those grippable curves. When she proved level-headed, I was caught enough to watch her closely, to see if she was giving the slightest clue that she was interested in me.

  Which she didn’t.

  This behavior, however? This is different.

  Chapter 3

  Claire

  Jesus. I’m channeling some flighty chick from a romcom, because here I am pointing to different spots around the suite as if it’s my own damn apartment and I’m giving him the grand tour and am nervous about having a hot guy over for a date.

  Except he is a hot guy, and I am nervous.

  But it’s definitely not a date.

  I keep going with the mouth diarrhea and hand flailing as if I have no control over this dorky woman who’s invaded my body, because I’m pointing again. “There’s the sofa bed. I checked. There are sheets and a pillow in the closet.” Aaand I point to the closet. “As well as an extra blanket. If you need it. You know, if you get cold.”

  The TV gets the finger treatment next. Then I start for the bedroom and pause.

  Nope.

  No need to have that pointed out. I pivot to go past him, but my sudden stop has him right behind me and I’m brushing against his large, hunky body. His strength, his heat, are like a wall up along my side. Zing. A bunch of dormant parts of me light up and wave.

  I clear my throat, the sound jarring in the quiet of the room.

  I wave behind him. “The bathroom’s next,” I squeak out. Seriously, who is this woman?

  He cocks an eyebrow but turns and heads there. My body relaxes by degrees as his steps take him from my side.

  When the bathroom light hits his gorgeous face, my breath catches. Not at his gorgeous face. That’s not a surprise. Nope, it’s because the light just reminded me what I left in there. Shit.

  I sprint forward and hip-check him as if we’re opposing players on the field. He grunts, but barely moves. That doesn’t stop me, though. I squeeze past his large frame and whip the undies I left hanging to dry over the glass shower wall.

  That would be embarrassing enough. But more embarrassing? These are boring white cotton panties.

  Maybe I am a dork.

  I quickly glance sideways at him. He’s got too much of the look of feigned concentration on some other part of the wall—yep, he saw.

  Oh well.

  One night. That’s all I have to get through without revealing my feelings for him.

  One. Damn. Night.

  Conor

  Bollocks. All I’m doing tonight is punching feckin’ pillows. First, it was my rucksack at the airport as I tried to make it and the floor into a bed for myself. Now, I have a goddamn real pillow and a surprisingly comfortable sofa bed and… I’m wide awake, staring into the darkened ceiling like a bloody muppet.

  I mean, what the fuck?

  Is it nerves for my presentation? Yeah, a bit of it, but that doesn’t usually prevent me from falling asleep, especially after playing hard over a weekend. I’ll get that bonus and secure my sister’s farm, yeah.

  But as I flip to my other side and picture Claire and how awkward it was when I arrived and we were both readying for bed, I think I know why. And I’m regretting coming here. Because a thread of unease is winding through me at the idea of getting with Claire.

  The bleeding truth is, I’m not one for long-term relationships. I left Ireland to escape the disaster of my personal life. When your only girlfriend is someone who knew you your whole life, and the entire village was thinking you were getting hitched, it fucking guts you when she finds you lacking, yeah. Up till that moment, I was telling myself that my mam leaving when I was a lad wasn’t on me. But it’s hard-going to convince yourself of that after being unceremoniously dumped. Hard-going not to question everything that’s happened to you leading up to that moment.

  Just the idea of opening myself up to Claire has me tied up in feckin’ knots.

  Jaysus. What a whiney man-child I’m after being. I’m spinning what-ifs in the air like it’s my life depending on it. My brain’s knackered to be thinking Claire has any interest in me for the long term, much less for some riding in the sheets.

  I’ve set the alarm for five a.m. When that alarm rings—and Mother Mary do I pray it snatches me from a deep sleep and doesn’t find me still staring at this dark ceiling—we’ll be gone away from each other and getting on with ourselves.

  Conor

  My mobile’s blaring an obnoxious, repetitive sound, waking me from sleep. I groan and lean over to the end table. The room, shrouded in the dark gray of pre-dawn, slowly swims into focus. Slapping my hand around the table finds me the hard shape of my mobile.

  “Enough with it, yokes,” I mumble at the sound, desperate to end the noise. Through the bedroom door, Claire’s mobile is making the same blaring sound.

  At least I’d fallen asleep.

  It’s an emergency alert. The words are staring up at me. The hurricane made landfall north of Savannah and is heading…to Atlanta?

  I have some text alerts too, one from Delta. I pull that one up first.

  “Fuck,” I groan. The airport is after shutting down all flights in and out. We’re stuck in Atlanta for the day at the least.

  Through the bedroom door, Claire grunts the same word of frustration. I smile. Just then my five o’clock alarm rings, and I shut it off.

  What the effin’ hell am I going to do now? I pull up the weather app. The whole Southeastern United States is covered in a big spiral. Well, there goes Idea Number One—it’s not a rental car we’ll be driving straight through a hurricane.

  We. My mind’s going straight to we.

  Christ bleeding on the cross.

  The bedroom door snicks open, light from her room bleeding in, and Claire pokes her head out, her brown hair sticking out in tangles.
She has a crease along one cheek. She blinks at me and rubs an eye. “Did you see the news?” Her voice is groggy, and she looks adorable in her sleep-rumpled state.

  I sit up. “Yeah.” I run my hand over my scalp. “I thought hurricanes only hit your coastal cities?”

  She leans against the doorframe. She doesn’t realize it, but the action pulls her baggy shirt up, exposing a sliver of smooth stomach. My dick chubs up a little.

  “Yeah, this is a little unusual. It’ll probably lose strength, but it’s happened once before that I know of—Hurricane Opal back in the 90s. Hit Atlanta just after being downgraded to a tropical storm, if I remember right.”

  “Ain’t that savage,” I say as I make sure my blanket is covering the important—growing—bits. I must have been out of my bleeding skull to be thinking last night that she was uncomfortable because she was attracted to me.

  “Yeah.” She looks back to her mobile and rubs the sleep from her eyes with her other hand. “I’m booking the room for two more nights just in case.”

  “Grand idea, that. I’ll see if some have opened up.”

  She looks relieved. That shouldn’t bother me, but it’s doing just that. It’s not that I’m thinking I’m some great catch or such a magnetic and fine personality that everyone wants to be near, but the usual lot just find me neutral, not repellent.

  “I’ll just be ringing work then. My boss’ll be needing as much time as possible to rearrange schedules.”

  I heave out of the bed and fold it up, setting the furniture to rights. I yank the curtains open. While it’s still dark out, I can see that it’s already bucketing down. The first squalls have hit us. I pull in a deep breath and hit the number on my mobile for my boss.

  Conor

  Too wired to go back to sleep after hashing things out with my boss, I hopped in the shower. He wasn’t all that pleased with me. While he certainly can’t blame me for the weather, he slipped in there an underlying current of blame—if I didn’t have this “sport hobby thing,” his words, not mine, I wouldn’t even be in Atlanta to be getting myself stranded.