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.
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.