Deserving It
Page 3
For fuck’s sake—I think he wants all of his employees to be mindless, no-life drones. He let me reschedule, though, so there’s that. I rinse the last of the soap off my body, wrench the taps shut, and yank the towel off the shower door where I’d left it. It’s while I’m drying off in vigorous strokes and dressing that my mind spins with how I might be able to salvage this arseways situation. Dressed, I drape the towel around my neck and step out of the bathroom. Only to see Claire, her change of clothes gripped in her hand, her gaze averted.
Feeling every inch of my bulk—inches from her delectable but off-limits body—I slip past her and flip on the telly, running a towel over my damp hair, my mind now latched onto Claire and how we’re stuck in Atlanta.
Shite. Because of the call to my boss, I forgot to look for another room. I tap around various sites, searching. Nothing.
I glance around the impersonal room. If we’re stuck here much longer, I’ll need a laundrette. I’ve been in Atlanta for a week, and no girl wants a stinky gouger sharing their room. That is, if she’ll let me stay. She’s already barely tolerating me.
The shower turns on. Bleedin’ deadly. She’s in there, stepping into the sleek stall, naked. The water sluicing over her curves. Fuck.
I collapse onto the couch and surf through the channels, stopping at the broadcast of the Summer Olympics. It’s track and field day, and I settle in to be watching the 100-metre dash.
In front of me, there’s a dark red footstool. Or ottoman? It’s the same height as the couch seat, but it’s covered in pleather. Footstool then. I hike my feet up and stretch back.
The bathroom door clicks open. I can’t be helping myself. I glance up. Claire steps out, her hair wrapped in a towel, her robe closed tight around her, her bare legs peeking out below, which, yeah, I’ve seen on the field, but it’s different this time. Like I’m seeing a warrior without her armor.
Fuck. I’m starting to think more about her than my presentation.
She gives me a sheepish curve of the lips, one that acknowledges that we’ve landed in a hella-awkward situation. Her gaze lands on the telly, and she sharply turns away and heads into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. A distinct chill settles over the room.
In other words, more of the same in the story of our prickly interactions, yeah.
Chapter 4
Claire
Hands shaking, I close the door.
Crap. Already it’s hard dealing with Conor sharing my space, but seeing the Summer Olympics on the TV? Ugh. I grab a brush and pull it methodically through my wet hair.
I have no desire to see the visuals or hear the commentary that is the Summer Olympics. I can’t always avoid it, but when I can, I will.
I take my time going through my clothes and selecting what to wear. It’s not because Conor is here, but because doing so will mean less time seeing the games. It’s a reminder of the most painful part of my life. When my mom rode preteen me hard to train for the Olympics. I loved sailing and showed promise, but that’s all. I had no desire to make the US sailing team. But did I express my wishes and trample my mom’s? No.
Because those forces you hear about on TV—those stage moms who live vicariously through their kid? Yep. That was my mom. The pressure to please and perform messed with my head. And having to wear a swimsuit all the time as I was going into puberty? Hello, fresh hell. Especially when I compared my body with my mom’s lithe, model-thin one. I have no idea what my dad looks like, but I’m guessing I took after his side of the family.
I slip on a functional pair of shorts and a T-shirt. The first time I forced myself to throw up was a quick solution to overeating one day when I realized how that would make my body even more unlike my mom’s. Had learned the “trick” from a friend. And then…
And then I became overly familiar with the stalls at the Sailing Squadron in Pensacola where I trained, throwing up when no one could hear. The sick thing is, it was working, sort of. Until it didn’t.
I made my body so unhealthy that I failed the Olympic trials. My mom and my boyfriend at the time were disappointed. And because I’m empathetic and hadn’t yet learned to distinguish someone else’s emotions from my own, I felt every drop of it.
Somehow, hitting that low point was my salvation. Because I sought help.
But I’ve never forgiven my mother, or myself, for having to break off with her completely to heal. That’s why I won’t visit her now, despite my stupid bargain with Jane. Going back would be like revisiting my old, sick, less secure self, and who needs that? I’ve remade myself, from the ground up. Maybe if I told Jane about my mother, she’d let up on the pressure to visit her. It’s just that…it’s so hard admitting that weak part of me. Admitting that there was a time in my life when I wasn’t the strong person I am now.
When I close a drawer after unpacking my whole suitcase and look around for something else to do, I pause. Whoa.
I’m hiding in my room.
The unpacking can be kinda-sorta excused because I’ll be here for a few days, but, yeah, I’m hiding. This is not me.
I roll my eyes and step into the living room. Conor is splayed out on the couch, his large frame taking up a good chunk, his muscled forearms stretched along the back. Thank God he’ll be in his own room soon. That is…
“Any luck finding a room?”
He looks up and hits the remote on the TV, shutting it off.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me—that is, if you’ve a mind to keep letting me crash here?”
Crap. Crap. Crap. But I can’t kick him out. “Sure. That’s fine.” I look away. “You hungry?”
“I’ve a mouth on me, yeah.” He stands, and we silently head out the door, down the hall, and to the breakfast buffet area. All the while, his presence is like a warm pressure behind me.
How the hell am I going to get through a full day and another night with him and not expose my feelings?
To distract myself on the way, I text Jane: Make it okay?
Almost immediately comes her reply: Yes. You?
I tap out a quick update on what’s happened, and by then we reach the lobby. Like most mid-priced hotels, the breakfast area is a room off here. It’s half full, with most people on the phone as they eat, trying to contact relatives about the storm. The scent of breakfast goodness greets me. Man, I’m hungry. The buffet has a little of everything, and I thread down the line with my plate and pick whatever speaks to me. No judgment. I also snag a glass of OJ and a hot tea.
Back at my table, I spread a napkin in my lap, cut a hunk of melon in half, and bring it to my mouth. I close my eyes as my tongue touches the cool surface and my teeth bite down. The flavor bursts on my tongue like the freshest sunrise. My taste buds sing. I slowly chew it, noting its different flavors, letting them seep into me.
Conor settles across from me, his plate loaded with bacon, eggs, fruit, and a lone sausage patty.
The Olympics are being shown on all the flat screens, of course, but now the bottom third is plastered with updates on Hurricane Claire’s strength and trajectory.
“What did your work say?” I ask.
“Was able to get my presentation rescheduled, yeah. Yourself?”
“This week I wasn’t scheduled for camp, so that made it easier.”
He bites off a piece of bacon and chews, looking at me with an interest that makes me squirm. “What is it you do?”
“Office manager for the Sarasota Sailing Squadron, but I also teach sailing classes during the summer.”
His eyebrows rise. “Huh. Sounds the business. I’ve never been sailing.”
“Seriously?” Excitement percolates through me. Excitement I should not be feeling, dammit.
He shakes his head.
“Well, that’s a shame, but you can easily fix that when you get back. We have a great bay for sailing.” I take another bite, this time of my eggs, savoring them even though they’re not the best.
Conor squints at the flat screen in his line of sig
ht. “You know, despite living in Sarasota, I’ve not experienced a hurricane.”
“Lucky.” I chuckle. “Ironic it’s when you’re in Atlanta, more than two hundred miles from the coast.”
He turns his face to mine and smiles, completely transforming his face from a good-looking but serious guy to a warm, approachable, hot guy. “And it’s named Claire.”
Ha-ha. Yeah. To distract myself from all the sexy beamed right at me, I say, “I was six when Hurricane Opal hit Pensacola.”
His fork stops halfway to his mouth, and his green eyes latch onto mine.
I laugh and sample some of the other fruit. “I take it you didn’t have hurricanes where you grew up?”
“Not as often as your country, though we can be getting some fierce winds off the Irish coast. What’s it like?”
I wave a fork. “Every year during hurricane season, we kept a grid map of the Southeastern US, plus a good chunk of the Atlantic, taped to the fridge, and we tracked every storm. Opal was my first hurricane, and I remember it vividly, including where it ended up. We evacuated to some of Mom’s relatives in Biloxi, whom I never saw again, so I didn’t actually experience it. I remember the prep—mom hiring some guy to board up the house, getting everything movable out of the yard and off the porch, that kind of thing.”
“So you’ve never weathered one as it hit?”
“Nope. Though I’ve been in my share of tropical storms.” I sit back in my chair and take in the flat screen and all of its warnings. “One hit us without warning. The day before it was squalling. I was maybe fourteen? Our sailing instructor didn’t cancel lessons that day, saying it’d be good foul weather practice.”
“Jaysus.” He sets his fork down. “What happened?”
“Well, we all got in our boats to trek across the bay and back. At first it was just a lot of rain. But then, yep, it got bad. Wind scouring us, choppy water, that kind of thing. I was learning to sail a hulled craft, so I and my other two classmates were the safest. The poor kids in their prams had it the worst.”
“Their prams?” He laughs. “This is one of those language things, because there’s no feckin’ way you’ll have me believing the poor buggers were in baby carriages out on the water, yeah.”
I laugh, though even I can hear the nervous thread in it. This is the longest we’ve talked in one stretch, and my heart’s going bam-bam-bam like it’s hopped up on caffeine. “No. Prams are a small type of boat. Super small. Made of wood and seat one. Their tiny masts were snapping like sticks when we were about halfway across, and the instructor had his hands full running around in his speedboat picking up the poor kids. The guys in their lasers helped.”
“Lasers?”
“Yep. Another type of boat, sorry. Fiberglass, one-person boat. Super-fast.”
“Did you help as well?”
I give a rueful laugh. “Nope. Our mast snapped too. We had an anchor, unlike the others, but the boats were new and the clamps weren’t installed yet. So I held onto the anchor line, trying like hell to keep us attached to it, while the wind and waves pushed our boat.” I rub my hands down my thighs, the memory still sharp of my palms being rubbed raw by the anchor line.
“Sounds like you handled it well enough.”
“Actually, one of the others in the boat was terrified and curled up in the corner crying for his mom, leaving me and the other guy to keep us from tipping.” I ended up dating that guy all through high school, that experience bonding us. “It was scary, but the instructor kept zipping by to check on us while he rescued the others. The whole bay was chopping gray waters and shrouded sky.”
“Came out of it looking shook, did they?”
My stomach signals it’s full, and I push my plate away. “It all ended well, though I don’t know how the instructor fared later. Probably got an earful from all the parents. That night it turned into a tropical storm, which became known for a while as the No Name Storm. Lots of folks had boats and belongings ripped away and washing up on shore.”
For days afterward, the bay was brimming with jellyfish, making a great incentive for not tipping our boats when we were able to sail again. Since our boat was disabled, I sailed a laser, which is a lot harder to keep from tipping in a strong wind. I was barely able to make the weight for sailing one—a hundred pounds. It was also my first time getting stung by jellyfish, because, yep, I couldn’t keep it upright. The memory of leaning out is still vivid, my back arched over the water, my boat almost vertical, and me staring down at the sea of jellyfish and going, oh shit.
Conor wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back. “We didn’t live directly on the coast, but Galway gets hit with some fierce weather. There’s always reports of a fisherman getting himself lost, trees down, and rivers flooding.”
Yeah, sailing and living in Pensacola gave me a healthy respect for Mother Nature. “And speaking of storms, we need to prep for this one. Looks like it will hit us some time tonight.”
“What are you suggesting?”
I pull out my cell and search. “There’s a Piggly Wiggly nearby. Let’s request a Lyft. There’s also a laundromat in the same complex. If the power goes out, we’ll be glad we washed the clothes we have.”
He nods and stands. “Sounds grand.”
Chapter 5
Claire
Good Lord, it’s a friggin’ madhouse at the Piggly Wiggly in East Point, Georgia. Everyone’s panicked, filling up shopping buggies like the Apocalypse is coming, getting those milk sandwiches we Southerners are so famous for. We loaded up the washing machines at the laundromat a couple of doors down, and while they’re doing their thing, we ducked in here.
I push the buggy down the bread aisle and grab one of the last loaves. “No sense getting perishables past today in case the power goes out. Can’t rely on the hotel having a generator. After that, non-perishable.”
Conor keeps pace beside me. “How long are you thinking we’ll be stuck here?”
“Who knows? Probably only for a day, but better to be prepared. We can donate what’s left to a shelter.”
Conor nabs a frozen pizza. Meat and Veggie Lovers. He holds it up by his face with a grin. “For lunch. I say since we’re stuck in a hotel room with a hurricane coming at us, we might as well be having some fun with our food choices.”
I poke him in the chest as I pass by him. “I like how you think, Mr. McDaid.”
He smirks and tosses it into our buggy. In the produce section, I grab some apples. The crunch and juiciness of biting into one calls. In they go.
Food is fuel. Something that took me a while to see.
We tool down the canned food aisle, and Conor grabs some Le Sueur green peas. He reads the label. “Very young small early peas.” He snorts. “How many adjectives is it needing to get the point across?”
We banter like this, our choices in sync sometimes with what we pick, but always by method—we’re picking things because we want them.
Last time I grocery-shopped with a guy was soooo not this. At all. This I’m actually enjoying. My boyfriend during my sick time was also training to make the Olympic sailing team, and our trips to the grocery store were fraught with decisions regarding calories and whether it had trans fat or high fructose corn syrup, or whatever chemical was obsessing us at the moment. Not a fun experience. No. Instead, anxiety clogged me up, worrying about whether I was choosing the right thing or how much fat it might add to my thighs.
I don’t remember much of that time other than flashes of forcing myself to throw up—secretly and full of shame—but I do remember our shopping trips because it was one of our “couple” things.
Basically, my teenage years were a haze. A haze of me trying to please my mom and my boyfriend, and letting my own wishes and desires be steamrolled by those stronger.
Thank God that’s behind me. It took a while to toughen up, to not see others’ wishes as superseding mine. Learning to recognize and respect my own emotions.
No one will control me like that again.
“Definitely.” I grab a lighter so I can look away. I spot a pack of cards and throw them in too.
I have to admit, though, working together to prep for this big storm is fun.
Conor
Never thought shopping could be great craic, but there it is. Claire’s shed some of her awkwardness around me, and I catch myself reacting to her, messing around just for her.
Jaysus. I’m flirting. With Claire.
Huh.
But not only am I feeling…playful around her, there’s this strange weight missing that’s normally hanging on my shoulders. As if being stuck here is giving me the space to relax and have a savage time. As if I’m some kind of prisoner let loose for a whale of a time on an unsuspecting town.
I grab the silver container of Jiffy Pop popcorn and toss it in the trolley, and Claire laughs. Christ, American supermarkets are banjaxed. Popcorn in a tinfoil pouch. The novelty’s worn mostly off, though, from the first time I walked into one. There’s just so much of everything. So many choices for every little thing too. But, yeah, I don’t care since I’m bunking off work and having myself some unexpected fun.
Proof of how much I’m farting around?
Claire makes a goofy face while reading a label on a can, and I laugh out loud. Like full on, everyone’s-looking-at-me laugh.
Claire stops, and her breath catches. Her eyes slowly lift to mine.
I shift on my feet. “What? Do you think I’m touched?”
“Touched?”
“Crazy.”
“I haven’t heard you laugh too often. And never like that.”
I stare at her. She’s right, I know. I’m not one for laughing much. Aiden’s the gallery-entertainer on our team, and no one’s ever accused me of laughing my cacks off. But I’m also not some emo sap that’s as useless as tits on a bull.