RISKING IT
Book 2 in the new Stolen Moments romantic comedy series by Angela Quarles
500-mile road trip! Mission? Get over the guy you kinda-sorta hooked up with. Problem? He's your new road-trip companion.
To Play…
So, yeah. Here’s me heading out on this stupid soul-searching road trip to get over The Turd, and here he is leaning against my car, all easy charm, batting his ridiculously long eyelashes, and asking for a ride. Explaining why he can't come along would be admitting my struggle to purge him from my thoughts. The universe is laughing at me. I can't fall for a short-term playboy. But tell that to my body, which up and goes hey there as soon as his pheromones get within sniffing distance.
Or Not to Play…
My reputation as a player isn’t just smoke and mirrors. I play the field. Constantly. No strings sex? Perfect. But ever since a certain shy book nerd slipped under my skin, I haven't wanted anyone but her. The kicker? She blew me off the next morning. Now that I'm stranded and she's my only ride, maybe I can find out why our awesome night together turned into her ghosting me.
Chapter 1
Jane
“A dildo?” The offending object slips from my fingers and plops onto the carpet floor with a hard, rubbery bounce. I slap my hands over my mouth to stifle my shriek. The smell of plastic coats my fingers which—ack—reminds me what my hands were touching, so I shove them away. I may even be flapping them in the air.
A few library patrons stare quizzically.
“Did I shout that out? Please tell me I didn’t shout that out.” The Reference Desk where I work is on the second floor, and those staring are on the far side, but still. The Selby Public Library has a vaulted ceiling capping the center, which rises two stories. Voices carry.
My bestie Claire smirks. “You didn’t shout it out.” She stoops, picks up the…thing, and holds it out as if she’s passing an innocuous baton. But it’s not an innocuous baton. It’s a dang dildo.
A bright red one too.
Jeez-oh-man.
“Put that away,” I whisper fiercely and wipe my hands on my shirt.
I’m not a prude, but this is a family library, for Pete’s sake. Where I work.
Okay, maybe I’m a smidge of a prude, because honestly?—I stare at what she’s holding—that’s the first time I’ve ever touched one. Sure, I’ve read about them in my racier books, but, you know, my fingers get the job done well enough, thank you very much.
She laughs and drops it back into the liquor box she packed so prettily for me. Complete with red metallic paper and a white fabric bow.
The thing lands with a dull thunk.
“Claire, what the hell?” I snatch up The Rules—also pulled from the box—because there’d been no mention of a dildo. Or even getting off. I think I’d remember that. I flip to the second page of the printout. I mean, she’s my bestie and all, but this is ridiculous.
I don’t know why I’m shocked though—Claire’s never held back. She’s tough, and she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Like right now, she’s wearing her workout clothes, her hair up in a messy ponytail. Because I know her schedule, I know she’s come straight from the Sarasota Sailing Squadron where she works.
“That’s your symbolic prop.” She met me at the end of my shift and presented me with this Box of Doom. Inside, I found a blank journal, a box of colored pens, a map, and a vintage Polaroid camera. There’s even a package of Polaroid film.
“My what?” I lower the pages.
She pushes her fingers onto the top of the The Rules. “Under rule number one. Part b.”
I go back and read that subsection again. And groan.
She leans against the Reference Desk and crosses her arms. “You need to get over him.”
“Who?” I say with as much nonchalance as I can muster. There’s got to be a loophole.
“Don’t play dumb. This whole road trip, with all the stops, has two purposes: one.” She holds up a finger. “To push you out of your shell—”
“My shell?” I toss The Rules into the box.
She waves a hand in front of me, seeming to encompass my cream skirt with ruffles on the hem and sky blue top. “You’re hiding behind a stereotype.”
“What?”
“The introverted librarian? C’mon, Jane.”
I cross my arms. “There’s a reason we introverted book nerds flock to these jobs.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t live a little.”
The replacement for my Tuesday half-shift strolls up, and I grab the box. Yes, the embarrassing item’s in there. Whew.
“Yep. So you’re going on this road trip, my friend.”
I crumple the wrapping paper and ribbon and toss it in the trash can. Then I grab my messenger bag and the box and nod to the break room. Claire’s met me enough times at the end of my shift to understand. I have no choice. If I want her to reconcile with her mom, I have to do this. That was the pact.
Made one night after too many cocktails.
Ugh. For my first-ever vacation from my first adult job, I’d pick five days of binge-reading in my porch hammock. Not a road trip from Sarasota to Atlanta. With stops at cheesy tourist spots along the way. Just sayin’.
“And two.” Up goes another finger as we push into the empty break room.
Oh, right. There were two purposes to this trip.
She rounds on me, her finger still up. She points it at me. “To get over The Turd.”
My steps falter. “I’m not hung up on The Turd.” I slide the box onto the counter, pushing aside the new literary posters, and open my locker.
The Turd.
That was our nickname so I wouldn’t have to say his name. Just thinking about that night together has me flushing with heat. And not the good, sexy kind of heat. Nope. This is the heat of unadulterated embarrassment. Though, to be fair, it was Claire who dubbed him The Turd.
Claire gives me her get-real look.
“Look. I’m fine,” I say. “It was one night, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting more.” Liar. “And I don’t need to do all this soul-searching stuff.” I yank the list from the box and wave it to emphasize my point. Yes, I’d been mortified by how much significance I’d given that one night. Even a bit pissed at myself for falling for another charmer. I got over it. Mostly. But… Gawd. The sexual chemistry… I shake off the memories and go back to stuffing some personal items into my bag for this trip she’s determined I take.
Honestly, Claire’s more upset about that night. She’s projecting big time, but I can’t prod her about Conor—that hunky Irishman she’s totally in denial about—without her clamming up.
“Okay.” Claire sits at one of the tables and crosses her legs. “Then I don’t need to do my soul-searching trip.” She clasps her hands and rests them on her knee, her sneaker-clad foot arcing back and forth. Looking smug. Damn her.
I snatch The Rules off the counter. How bad can it be?
The worst parts are the stipulations—be at such-n-such spots on such-n-such days. No speeding through and then curling up with a hunky lord in a historical romance.
Then there’s documenting the trip in the journal. To, quote, find myself. I roll my eyes. “Can’t you pick something different?”
“Hell no.” Her foot’s now jouncing rapidly. “If I’m taking time out of my life to see that woman”—she makes air quotes—“for my own good, then you have to go through hell too. For your own good.”
What she has planned, well, except for 1b, would be no sweat for most people. For me, I’d rather… Well, I’d rather be humiliated by The Turd again.
She’s set this up brilliantly—made this so unlike me that I’ll back out.
But I won’t. She really needs to reconcile with her mom. I glance at 1b again,
then curl a finger around the edge of the box and tip it closer. I peer inside at the Red Thing.
“Don’t worry. He won’t be there.”
I look at her over my shoulder. “How do you know?”
“I’m captain of the women’s team, remember? The men’s team is flying out in about an hour.”
I can just imagine the impact a plane full of hot male athletes will have on the women flying. I loop my messenger bag over my shoulder and lift the box. “I thought their game wasn’t until Saturday?” Dang it. Because that didn’t reveal anything. Stupid, stupid Jane.
Claire, of course, notices my slip, because she smirks and takes the box from me. “It’s not, but they’re heading up early. Something about team-building time with their new goalie.”
Okay. I take a deep breath. The 1b Rule is now closer to the tolerable end of the scale. I open the door and lead the way out.
I can do this.
Aiden
Goddammit.
I open the metal panel housing the condenser motor and stare at the fan. The one that should be turning. How can something so simple fuck up everything? Because right now, it’s not running the glycol pump. Which means—no tap beer. And we open in forty-five minutes.
Yep. Fucked.
I can’t be dealing with this shit right now. I have—I glance at my cell phone on the floor next to the wrench, bolts, and vise grips—less than an hour, tops, before I have to catch a Lyft to the airport. Our hurling team’s first, and possibly only, shot at going to the GAA championship in Chicago has it’s first hurdle this Saturday in Atlanta—the southeastern division playoffs.
My duffel bag’s all packed, sitting in my office, but if I don’t get the beer flowing and the bar in the hands of my brand new manager, Stuart, I’m hosed.
Stuart gives me that kind of grin that’s like yeah, we’re fucked, laced with a wobbly I hope I don’t get canned for this. Even though I think he warned me that the fan was acting wonky.
“Told ya it was making a noise every time it turned off,” he says, and now I want to throat punch him.
Which is a strange enough reaction that I slump forward, elbows on my knees. I blow out a sharp breath and grip my hair, hoping the sting will clear my head.
The truth is, my brain’s basically mush at this point. Has been for a couple of weeks now. Sleep deprivation will do that to you.
That and a case of blue balls I can’t seem to wank away.
I need to get laid. Badly.
Normally, not a problem.
But my body’s only wanting one person. Believe me, I’ve tried. I own a goddamn bar, for fuck’s sake. But since that party with Galway New York, when a certain shy book nerd slipped under my skin, it’s been pointless.
Which is insane on so many levels. My reputation as a player isn’t just smoke and mirrors. I play the field. Constantly. And I love it.
Well, except until recently.
Focus.
I grab my cell again and pull up the Lyft app so it’ll be handy.
Fan. I need a new fan. And no time to wait for an electrician. Two years ago, cashing out my share in a San Francisco tech startup, kissing it all goodbye, and using the Florida liquor license I’d won in a poker game to open a bar felt fucking fantastic. Freeing. Too many memories there. Fresh ones to make here in Sarasota. And a chance to fulfill a dream of mine.
Now that dream smells like stale hops, and my palms are sticky from whatever coats the floor in the back of the bar.
I blink dry, scratchy eyes and wipe my palms with a towel. Like any hands-on bar owner, I have vendors on speed dial. I punch the icon for the appliance store over on Orange, leaving a sticky smear on my screen.
“Pete, Aiden here,” I say by way of greeting, but I don’t have time for niceties, and I’m super-positive most restaurant and bar owners are assholes on a regular basis.
“What’s up?” Pete’s no-nonsense voice is calming. I tried to get him to play on our hurling team, but he said, being in his forties, he was “getting too old for that shit.”
“Need a new condenser fan.”
“We close in twelve.”
Adrenaline finally—hallelujah—kicks in, clearing away my mental fog. “Can you wait for me? I can switch the fan out myself, but—”
“You gotta open tonight, and you need that fan,” he finishes. “I’ll wait, but don’t lollygag. My little girl has a summer camp thing tonight, and I need to be there.”
Relief chases the adrenaline. “Thanks. On my way.” I’m already standing, palming my keys, and hoofing it to the back door when it dawns on me. I make a fist against the metal door and stare up at the ceiling. “Fuck!”
“What?” Stuart, who’d been squatting looking at the fan, jumps upright. “Did he not have the part?”
I look at him over my shoulder. How much more can I fuck myself over? “I loaned my goddamn car to Randy.”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than Stuart’s tossing me his keys. Maybe this guy’ll work out. Besides honesty, knowledge, and experience, the other asset I value in a bar manager is the ability to keep one’s cool in a crisis.
Because there’s always a crisis, right? And you don’t need a manager freaking out, or worse, creating them when there aren’t any. You’d be surprised by the number of pot-stirrers in the restaurant industry.
“Be right back.” I toss his keys in the air and catch them. I point to the mess on the floor. “While I’m gone, have that fan unscrewed and out.”
Stuart nods. “You got it, boss.”
I shove open the door. And kiss my flight goodbye.
Dammit. I fish out my cell to start searching for alternate ways to get to Atlanta.
Chapter 2
Jane
I drum my fingers on my car’s steering wheel, scanning the sidewalk along Lemon, watching everything and everyone like some kind of stalker-freak. Not that there’s a crowd out there or anything—it’s only five o’clock on a Tuesday.
To complete my stalker-freak ensemble, I’m wearing a cotton beach cover-up with a hood. I timed the frequency with which people wander past this parking lot—odds are I can do this without attracting notice. Not perfect odds, which, yeah, is why I’m stalling, with a hood tugged low over my head.
And I’m clutching the Red Thing as if it’s some kind of talisman that will save me.
Trust me. The symbolism is not lost on me.
I rehearse movements so I can keep the visibility of the dildo to a minimum.
How the heck did I get to this point? I’m a friggin’ librarian. Our tribe doesn’t…doesn’t do outrageous stuff like this in public. I know it’s a cliché that librarians don’t like to socialize, but c’mon—what I said to Claire earlier is true. People like me flock to jobs like that. We’d rather be nose deep in a book than at a party.
Which is what got me to this point. Ugh.
Claire invited me to some after-party for her Irish team sport-thing. I’d blocked out that night to binge-read the latest urban fantasy book in my favorite series, but I’d put her off too many times last month. So I went. Mainly because that would give me credit for going.
It was sooo not my scene. A crowded bar. Jocks everywhere. Girls all primped and pretty with shiny lip gloss. Brought it crashingly home that I’m an odd duck, ya know?
And then The Turd approached. We got to chatting. I only had two beers, so I can’t blame the alcohol, but as I stared up at this hot guy, the urge to do something completely out of character animated me.
Like find out what my ex-boyfriend found so compelling last year about sleeping with people he had no feelings for.
Sounds great, right? Very pro female, owning my sexual self kind of thing. Go me.
Ha ha.
Yeah.
Fresh humiliation washes through me—how pathetic that I’d set out to play with a player and he didn’t even want to play.
I wanted to shrivel up and die that morning.
“Maybe you were right, Claire,�
�� I whisper. Maybe I am more hurt about that night than I thought.
I shove the dildo into a brown paper bag I unearthed in the mess of my back seat.
Rule 1b doesn’t specify what I have to do, but it must be symbolic and make a statement. And be done at The Turd’s parking lot.
Let’s do this. I grab the Bic and lighter fluid I bought at the Walgreens on the way here. What suspiciously feels like glee trips through me. What the heck?
Okay, maybe I do need to get out more.
Whatever. But dang, it sure feels like I’m in the middle of a Bridget Jones book.
I snag the bag with the rest of my supplies and slip out of the car. I waited until his flight left before heading over. Just to be sure. He’s the last person I want to see. Especially with what I plan.
I scurry across The Alligator’s Butt parking lot, my heart beating as furtively as my movements. I choose a section near the dumpster, because this excursion is all about The Symbolism, right? Screw Claire.
So anyway, I head there and plop my butt onto the cement curb in front of an empty parking spot near enough to my chosen spot.
I pull out all my supplies—except the dildo—so they’re readily accessible.
The film’s already loaded, and I tested the camera. It works. Yay.
Not.
I scribble a soul-searching passage in the journal about what I’m doing, and why, and what I hope to gain from it.
Burning the dildo in effigy. Looking forward to seeing it burn.
Hey, she neglected to specify length of entries, okay? Also, there’s a godawful stench coming from the dumpster. I want to keep this short.
Not that I’d have expounded otherwise. It’s a convenient excuse, though, in case Claire quibbles. As a token effort of getting into the spirit of the journey, I fish out the red pen and draw some hearts around the journal entry.
I hold the journal out, tilt my head, and nod. Looks good. I stuff the journal into my messenger bag, along with the pens.
A couple walks past, but they’re so lovey-dovey, they don’t notice me. Honestly, someone sitting by a bar dumpster is probably not a weird sight in downtown Sarasota, so I have that going for me.
Risking It Page 1
