DESERVING IT
Book 3 in the new Stolen Moments romantic comedy series by Angela Quarles
Stranded by a hurricane. Check. Hotel secured. Check. Hot guy to share it with. Check. No, wait. Not him!
A tough girl with an awkward flirt-game, Claire has long ago given up on catching the eye of Irish hottie Conor and she refuses to change. If he doesn't like her as is, then screw him.
A loner workaholic too busy to notice, Conor isn't looking to nail the next chick--even one as hot as Claire--just his next bonus-earning presentation. But when a hurricane strands them in Atlanta and they're forced to shack up in the same hotel room for several days, things tend to get…exposed.
DESERVING IT is a steamy, standalone romantic comedy from RITA Winning and USA Today bestselling author Angela Quarles with a happy-ever-after and no cheating or cliffhangers.
Contents
DESERVING IT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
Conor
“Fuck my arse, but this is deadly, yeah.”
This lovely sentiment greets me as I round the corner into the Atlanta hotel’s continental breakfast area. The speaker? Patrick, the only other Irishman on the hurling team besides myself.
“Family hotel,” I mutter.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee, browning waffle batter, and maple syrup is so thick, I might as well be swimming through the lot of it.
“Well, ya haven’t had a taste of these, have ya?” Patrick lifts a half-eaten cinnamon roll.
I survey the room. Except for one family on the far side, the men’s and women’s teams have claimed all the tables. Everyone’s knackered but wired from our epic win in yesterday’s playoffs. Some even won their girl—Aiden strolls in with a woman who, if the fast-flying rumors are true, he’s head over arse about. Jane, I think.
And the too-pale bowser moving like an old man on his last painkiller? That’s Paolo. One of the lads pulls out a chair for the sorry bugger with an exaggerated by-your-leave wave. The loud scrape of the chair legs makes more than one of them wince. “Shoulda stuck to beer, man. Jager isn’t for pussies.”
“Fuck you,” Paolo growls, but he gingerly sits and cradles his forehead as if his head’s made of glass.
Jaysus. Being captain of this team can be a trial sometimes, yeah. “Come here to me, lads. The van’ll be arriving in thirty to cart you to the airport. Be out front, mind. I’ll not be here rounding you up like a bunch of dossers now.”
Aiden, who was nuzzling Jane’s neck as he pulled a chair out for her, looks up. “You’re not flying out with the team?” He grabs a plate and begins loading up.
I shake my head and grab a plate myself. “Taking a later flight to avoid being with you lot.” There’s roughly four hours I have before I’m needing to be finding my way to the Atlanta airport, and I’m making the most of it. I wasn’t caring for the hint of worry in my sister’s voice during yesterday’s phone call, which is giving me extra incentive for my presentation tomorrow.
“Ah, Conor, ya redheaded bastard. We’re after taking showers, yeah,” Patrick yells.
I roll my eyes and load my plate with protein and carbs. “Be out there in thirty.”
“You got it, captain.” Aiden plunks down with a massive helping of scrambled eggs. The lad smothered his entire plate with the mushy mess. Two slices of American bacon lie on the top.
Plate full and tea in hand, I walk past them. “Enjoy your lax day, lads. We’ll be hitting the pitch at the end of the week, mind.”
We have the championships to be training for. Amazing this ragged bunch of mostly Americans and Irish-Americans formed a decent hurling team. Their willingness to work hard has paid off something brilliant. The Sarasota Wolfe Tones will be representing the Southeast Division at the championships in Chicago in a bit over a month. Considering how I couldn’t leave Ireland fast enough, my fondness for the sport might come as a surprise. But it’s the only memory of growing up in the arse-end of Ireland that’s keeping me warm.
With a final scold, I turn back for the lift, breakfast in hand. Now, to be working on the Bakerfield presentation. It’s the reason I booked a later flight—my peak performance window is late morning and early afternoon, and I don’t want to be wasting it with a bunch of raucous, hungover mates when I could be fine-tuning the presentation. And nailing that? Fifteen quid yearly bonus and a surefire path to a promotion. Which ensures my sister never has to be worrying about her farm. Never has to be worrying she doesn’t have someone there for her.
Working hard, playing hard, wouldn’t that about sum me up? Nothing much else to me.
If I’m avoiding a certain female teammate in the process, that’s all gravy, yeah.
Claire
“I’m sorry, what was our bargain again?” I pick at the seam of the car seat in front of me as the Lyft driver creeps forward another few feet in the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the I-75/I-85 Connector to the Atlanta airport.
The two-hour recommended arrival time passed ten minutes ago. I’m on the phone with my bestie Jane, who was holed up with The Turd after the playoff game, so I didn’t get a chance to catch up.
I know perfectly well what our bargain is.
Yeah, I’m stalling.
A frustrated huff comes over the phone. “I did what you asked. I burned a dildo as an effigy, for Pete’s sake.” Jane’s in her car several hours south, heading back to our hometown, Sarasota, Florida.
A male voice laughs, so The Turd must have gone with her instead of flying back with the team.
I snicker. Yeah, the dildo burning had been funny to picture. Jane’s the stereotypical librarian you wouldn’t think actually exists, but does. I couldn’t resist putting that on her list of things she had to do to “break out of her shell” on her trip up here in order to get over The Turd—I mean, Aiden.
I sigh. I really gotta stop thinking of him by that nickname. I saw enough of their interaction yesterday to admit that, yeah, I might’ve misjudged him.
But while it was fun to put that on her list, I didn’t think she’d actually do it. I mean, Jesus—it’s why I put it on there. And all the other stipulations. Because she wants me to visit my mom, and I said I would if she did something for me in return.
And since I reallllly don’t want to visit my mom, I made the list impossible for a recluse like Jane to fulfill.
Yeah, that backfired. Plus she ended up getting together with Aiden instead of getting over him.
“I’m holding you to it, Claire.”
I trace a star pattern on the window as the Midtown Atlanta skyline inches past. “Yeah, yeah, okay.” My voice is all whatever, but hah, not my insides. They’re all fuck-shit-no with a big fat dollop of guilt and shame.
“Where are you? I thought your flight left an hour ago?” she continues.
“I didn’t fly out with the team. Booked a later flight.” I didn’t go down to breakfast for the same reason I booked this later flight—Conor. Instead, I got up early and met a college friend for brunch in Gwinnett County. Which…now looks as if it was a stupid move as another minute passes and we haven’t mooooved.
Stupid Atl
anta traffic. I pull up my Delta app and check in.
“Oh. Okay. See you later this week?”
“It’s a date.” Thankfully Jane doesn’t probe about my later flight—which is so Jane—but lately she seems to be more perceptive about my secret.
That secret?
Oh, just that I have the unhealthiest crush on the men’s team captain, one hunky Irish ginger named Conor. With me as the captain of the women’s team. Yeah, yeah, cliché. I get that. It’s just painful. And downright pitiful. Sometimes I’m sick of myself, because I’ve had it bad for him ever since the women’s team was formed. He walks onto our practice field in those short Irish shorts, thigh muscles bunching and flexing during the drills, and I swear to God my back straightens, my heart beats in a giddy rhythm, and I’m super aware of where he is at all times. And so I’m acutely conscious of where his attention is not directed.
I’m the tough jock captain of the women’s team in all her unfeminine glory, with grass stains on my knees instead of the latest fashionable stain on pouty lips. Which doesn’t do it for him. Which is fine. Sort of. But I refuse to change to appeal to him, so if it’s just lusting after him from afar, then so be it.
Ages later, the Lyft driver drops me at Departures. With no bag to check, I head straight to security, and after getting the pat-down, I hustle to the people mover. Alternating between watching the minutes tick by on my phone and the sign indicators on the mover, the doors finally swish open onto C Terminal, and I jog through the crowd to the Up escalators. All but one is packed, so I dash to the one where people are standing along the side. My flight’s boarding, and despite being in great shape, my calves are burning as I power up the moving steps. Also, the exhibition games yesterday did a number on my ankles, and there might possibly be a blister forming on the ball of my foot. Dammit.
I ignore my body’s complaints, and when I get to the top of the escalator, of course the airport is following the rules by having anyone in a hurry assigned to the last gate. I swerve and dodge, my rolling suitcase bobbing and weaving with me on its little wheels. I’m the only one running, and navigating through the crowd—anticipating their trajectories and adjusting my path—is kinda like how it is on a long run down the field when you’ve got the sliotar and are aiming for the goal.
Finally, I reach the end. My gate doesn’t have a long line. In fact, no one is in line to board. Shit.
I collapse my upper body against the check-in gate’s countertop. “Have you closed off boarding?” I get out between gasps.
“No, ma’am.”
Ma’am? I’m only friggin’ twenty-six.
The overly made-up woman smiles. “Your flight’s been delayed forty-five minutes. Weather in Savannah is holding up the plane. The hurricane’s weather system is affecting a lot of flights on the Eastern Seaboard.”
“Oh good. Okay.”
Now I can catch up with myself. I’d forgotten about the hurricane, though. Which, ha-ha, is named Claire.
I limp off. Damn. I really need to tape my ankles. I stroll down the concourse, searching for a nook, corner, unused room, anything to give me the space and relative privacy to shuck off my socks and shoes.
While I don’t care what people think of me, I don’t want to be rude, and I guarantee you no one wants to see the blisters or what could possibly be a blackened toenail, courtesy of a particularly nasty play yesterday.
Up ahead is a snack vendor, and a banana nut muffin catches my eye. I get in line.
While there, I see the perfect spot for the foot inspection. Some might just use a bathroom, but I make it a point to only use a bathroom for, well, going to the bathroom. Nothing else. Not anymore anyway. It’s also why I’m getting the muffin—as a former bulimic, I’ve learned to listen to my body. When it wants something, I get it. With no judgment.
I hand over my money, nab my muffin, and scoot around the partial wall. The closest people are enough of a distance away, and in front of me is a floor-to-ceiling glass wall with a lovely view of asphalt and planes and clear blue skies.
I plop down on the carpeted floor, set my muffin to the side, zip open my carry-on, and fish around for my tape. The first couple of away games, I didn’t bring anything other than the standard travel supplies—clothes, shoes, toiletries. Now I pack a small sports first-aid kit, with tape, Bengay, and other items I, or my teammates, might need.
I yank my shoes and socks off. The nail on my big toe glares back at me, black and purple.
I find the end of the tape and pull, winding it round and round both ankles to support them better. Okay, next—blister investigation. I pull my left foot up to my face. Yep, a blister’s forming but hasn’t popped. No need for Neosporin. Which, of course, I have too. Just a Band-Aid then.
A startled noise has me looking up, my foot still right up in my face as if I’m smelling it. The one with the black toe. And my heart does a weird squeeze-drop.
Yeah, I said I didn’t care what people thought of me or what I was doing. And I don’t.
Except for him.
Because standing right there with his duffel and a computer bag slung over his shoulder is Conor.
A full body flush of embarrassment and desire washes over my skin.
Which I quickly tamp, because WTF? So what if I look like an unfeminine lump with ugly feet. One of which—dammit—I’m still holding right up in my face.
I let my foot drop with a clunk.
Conor, Conor, Conor. He was supposed to be on the earlier flight with the rest of the team.
He looks baffled for a second, rooted to the ground, staring at me and my legs sprawled out on the carpeted floor. I suppress a sigh because he’s the unattainable one. Over six feet of muscle, broad shoulders, and dark red hair against his pale skin, complete with a sprinkling of friggin’ freckles. His hair is sticking up in curly waves, and just like the first time I ever saw him, I want to run my fingers through them. His delicious red hair can’t be contained on the top of his head, though—Conor has a nice trim beard. Not one of those hipster beards—just full enough to be manly but soft, and not all mountain-man-I-can-hide-a-squirrel-in-here.
Straight nose, strong jaw. Aaaaand that nose and part of his lip just wrinkled. Yep, just caught sight of my feet. Lovely.
“What’s news?” he asks. Oh, and I mentioned he’s Irish, right? Cuz, yeah, his accent doesn’t do it for me at all.
Ugh. It totally does. Lilts right up to my lady parts and gives ’em a little tingle.
“Taping my ankles, what does it look like?” Okay. That came out more harshly than I’d have liked, but c’mon.
He puts his hands up in a whoa-Nelly move, his gaze darting to my legs and away. And back. And away—like a car wreck he knows he shouldn’t gawk at but can’t help it. He backs up. Leaving me alone with my ugly feet.
Chapter 2
Conor
“Delta flight 4815 to Sarasota has been canceled,” a feminine voice squawks over the speaker.
Bloody hell. I slap the lid down on my laptop and shove it into my messenger bag. Finally I’d found a spot away from screaming kids and other passengers hollering into their mobiles.
My first attempt at finding a quiet corner was a feckin’ disaster—the last thing I needed was the image of Claire all…bendy to be plaguing my thoughts while I worked on the presentation. Which is done. It is. I’ve been obsessing on it most of the day at a nearby Starbucks. I should be letting it go, but I can’t. So much is riding on nailing it that I can’t stop crawling through every line and slide to ensure I made the most of what I’ve got. When I arrived at the airport, I was that glad of a delay. But canceled?
I hoof it over to the gate desk, which is absolutely mobbed. When it’s my turn, the agent patiently explains Hurricane Claire touching down on the South Carolina coast, and there’s not another plane to Sarasota that’ll be ready tonight.
Shite. “What’s the earliest flight you can be getting me on?”
After some rapid clicking, she hands me back a
new boarding pass. “First flight at 8:44 a.m.”
I readjust my rucksack and push away from the counter. Since the flight’s only a little over an hour, I’ll still make my presentation. Walking past the others in line, it’s Claire I spot. “What a mess, yeah?”
She nods and returns to her mobile.
What else should I be expecting? She’s always self-contained and low on the drama, even with the fuckton of barbs she has guarding her. When I first met her, she crowded my head with fantasies of her, but at our league’s first away game in Chicago, she made it clear she wasn’t looking at me that way and I shut that shite down. I don’t go in much for relationships and definitely not for pushing if she’s giving me back-off signals. And the look on her face earlier? A clear go away with your hairy eyebrows. Being smart, I did.
I whip out my mobile because it’s a place to crash I’m needing. I do not want to be resting my head at the airport.
Claire
I give an I’m-cool nod to Conor as he walks by. His hair’s even spikier than usual, as if he’s been yanking on it, proving he’s as frustrated as the rest of those around me.
I quickly push accept on my phone app for a room close by—as soon as the cancellation was announced, I started searching. The choices were few, especially at a price I could afford near the airport.
“Your boarding pass, please?”
I glance up at the gate agent who, despite the chaos, has every hair in place and maintains her professional poise. After a few moments, she hands me a new one. “You’re on the 8:44 a.m. flight.”
“Thank you. No vouchers for a hotel stay?”
“I’m sorry. We’re not giving them out tonight.”
Well, dang. I tuck everything into my purse and roll my carry-on down the concourse. Apparently ours wasn’t the only flight canceled, because the hall is already filling up with people propping up against the wall, or even lying down.
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