Now Or Never (Irresistible Book 5) Read online

  Now Or Never

  Stella Rhys

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  The Irresistible Series

  CONTACT STELLA

  HOTHEAD

  NOW OR NEVER

  Copyright © 2020 by Stella Rhys

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Vivian Monir

  Editing: The Passionate Proofreader

  Dedicated to Ratula

  For putting up with me and being generally amazing

  1

  IAIN

  Fuck me if that’s her.

  A single upward glance and just like that my night was screwed.

  In an instant, my pulse doubled, and I could feel my jaw ticking tighter and tighter under my palm as I ran my hand over my face, my eyes devouring her body in ways I told myself had strictly to do with the shock.

  Because what the hell was she doing here?

  And for Christ’s sake, what the hell was she wearing?

  My shoulders tensed under my suit and my grip tightened around the lowball of Scotch I suddenly wanted to pound like a shot, because now that I’d looked up—now that I’d seen her—I had a face to the match to all the filthy, vulgar shit my clients had spent the past two minutes groaning about, and it wasn’t just any face.

  It was one I’d known since she was only thirteen years old.

  “Jesus fuck. How do we trade our waitress for that Playboy bunny-lookin’ thing?”

  My jaw clenched at Watt’s description.

  It wasn’t far off. In fact, it was surprisingly fucking accurate, but still—I was failing to reconcile what I was seeing with what I was remembering, because the last time I saw her she was a sweet, innocent little thing. This shy little girl wearing a powder blue backpack and braided pigtails—who I made it my job to protect because her own brother had no instinct whatsoever.

  But now… for Christ’s sake, now there was no trace of that shy little girl as she flitted from table to table in a tight little dress, holding a tray of drinks up high and arching her back so taut I wanted to clench my teeth out of my skull.

  “Goddamn, when she bends over in that thing…” Ty growled into his fist.

  “Do it again, baby. Come on,” Watt willed her, licking his grinning lips and forcing me to exhaust every muscle in my body to keep myself from knocking him the fuck out right there. “See the new waitress?” he turned to ask me, shaking his head and sucking in a sharp breath between his teeth—his way of emphasizing just how badly he wanted to fuck her.

  It made me picture my forearm digging into his neck as I pinned him to the wall and detailed exactly why he’d never lay a finger on her.

  But despite the vivid image, I managed a nod and a smirk to remain outwardly calm, casual. Sitting forward, I adjusted my onyx cufflinks, throwing in a “very nice” that sounded so convincingly disinterested that Watt rolled his eyes and gave a pfft before turning his hungry stare back to her—and that tiny little skirt that had her legs so close to naked I had to look away.

  Fucking hell.

  I white-knuckled my drink, silently wracking my brain for a plan while reminding myself that no agent had ever put his own clients on the injured list, so I shouldn’t aim to be the first. Shane Watt was a top reliever in the league and Ty Damon was one of the best sluggers in baseball. They were two of the best players on the New York Empires, two of the highest-earning contracts on my all-star roster of clients, and I really couldn’t afford to kill them right now.

  So I opted instead to shut their fucking mouths.

  “Enough,” I cut in sharply, interrupting their debate about whether or not she was wearing a goddamned push-up bra.

  I could feel my eyes on fire, and my blood fucking boiling, but by the time my clients turned to face me, all they saw was an easy smirk on my lips that made them grin sheepishly, because they knew this look—the one I wore right before I set their asses straight.

  “Gentlemen, we’re here tonight to talk about the Under Armour deal, but if you want to waste my time drooling over some waitress, then you’re welcome to find a different agent to negotiate your contract for a third of the price,” I said, leaning back in my seat. “But in that case, Watt, you’d have to tell your wife that the new beach house is a no-go. Is that something you’re interested in?”

  “No! No, no, no,” Watt laughed in a panic before socking Ty in he arm. “Come on, asshole. Pay attention.”

  “What! Me?”

  And just like that, we were back on topic.

  But as I returned to discussing business with my clients—even with my eyes fixed directly on them—I had my attention sharply trained on her.

  Little Holland Maxwell.

  My best friend’s kid sister who was clearly all grown up, and about to make my night a living hell.

  2

  HOLLAND

  “Did you see him yet?”

  Mia grinned as I practically slammed my tray onto service bar, rushing to skewer cherries for all the Manhattans she was stirring for my latest table. I processed her question at a three-second delay because I was desperately trying to remember what my giant party of businessmen had just asked me for.

  “Nuts!” I snapped my fingers when I finally remembered. Off the weird look Mia shot me, I giggled. “I’m sorry—did I see who?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Mr. Ass.”

  “Mr. Ass?”

  “Mr. Angry Sex In A Suit.”

  I squinted at her. “Shouldn’t that be Mr. Asis? Or A…sias?”

  “Don’t ask me, your fellow waitstaff made it up,” Mia laughed, stirring the amber mixture of whiskey and vermouth with a long metal spoon. “I just go with it because he is one absurdly fine piece of ass.”

  “I thought you weren’t into the suit-wearing type. In fact, I distinctly remember you saying that men aren’t attractive unless they’re sweating through a dirty T-shirt while chopping firewood.”

  “And I stand by that, but Mr. Ass is an exception because he is criminally hot, and he always looks so stern and serious and… mean.” Mia’s stirring slowed as she bit her lip and squ
inted wistfully into the distance. “I’m into it.”

  I burst out laughing. “Well, I’m not really into mean guys, so he’s all yours.”

  “Actually, he’s nobody’s,” Mia corrected, snapping right out of her dream state. “He’s been coming here for years now, and none of the girls have been able to get him to look at them for more than the second it takes to order his drink,” she said, smirking as Lana marched over. “Not even Tits McGee over here.”

  Lana huffed and stuck her nose in the air.

  “Funny you mention that, since it’s all changing tonight,” she said, pushing me aside to grab some napkins off the bar. “He’s different tonight and I’m pouncing, so get ready to pay up, bitches.”

  As soon as she came, she went, and when I cocked an eyebrow at Mia, she gave a snort.

  “There’s an ongoing bet about which of the girls is gonna finally get his attention,” she explained, pouring my drinks into their cute little glasses. “My money’s on Jasmine the hostess. Mostly because she isn’t a raging bitch.”

  “Well, in that case I’m Team Jasmine too,” I laughed before taking off with my drinks to my section.

  I was pretty much Team Whoever Mia Likes since she was the only reason I landed this killer side gig a couple weeks back. Aside from being my roommate she was the head bartender here, and basically my tall, gorgeous, potty-mouthed guardian angel since I arrived in New York. Five weeks in and I was still thanking my lucky stars that I found her with that extremely sketchy-looking apartment listing she put up on Craigslist. It had just been a two-sentence description with no pictures at all, which gave it “big time serial killer vibes,” according to my friend A.J, but I still went for it.

  Because for me, it was a risk worth taking to execute The Great Escape—which was what my brother Adam nicknamed my plan to finally move away from home.

  I’d started hatching it senior year of high school, since the day I pled—literally on my knees—for Mom to let me dorm at college. To let me have just the tiniest taste of independence. She was the town’s most notorious helicopter mom and at seventeen, she still dictated what I wore out of the house, what I watched on TV, how I decorated my room.

  For the record, it was all pinks and pastels.

  Because all my life, I served as nothing but her precious little doll. Her do-over child who was raised to be perfectly quiet, polite, obedient—basically everything Adam wasn’t. He was unmanageably wild, I was exceptionally docile, and that was just how it was in our family.

  Which was why I wound up commuting daily from our home in Jersey to my classes at Parsons School of Design. Three hours back and forth every day with a 9PM curfew—just to ensure that I wasn’t out drinking or partying like every other kid my age. And if I ever caught anything later than the 8PM bus home from Port Authority, Mom would grill me for hours, search my purse, smell my breath, and if it was an extra special night, change the WiFi password before reminding me in a fit of tears about the torture she went through raising Adam, and how she refused to let “another Adam” happen again.

  So… yeah.

  I love my mom—I swear I do—but I was more than ready to move by the time I graduated college, which meant I was more than happy to chance it on Mia’s super-sketchy listing.

  And thank God I did.

  Because now, after four years of secretly busting my ass by working two, sometimes three jobs during school to save up and move out, I was finally, finally my own woman. An adult who made my own decisions, paid my own bills and had my own rush hour commute to a job at a company I’d wanted to work for since I was fourteen years old. I was—at long last—living the life I’d been dreaming up and plotting out in a little notebook since I was that painfully sheltered, over-protected child constantly holed up in her bedroom.

  And it all started with Mia Zamora choosing me to live with her at her bomb-ass apartment in the East Village—which was why I was still, on pretty much a daily basis, thanking God Almighty for her.

  “Hey, babe?” she called to get my attention, whistling me back to service bar once I finished dropping off the Manhattans at my table twelve. “These are the IPAs for your table ten but before you drop them, will you drop this check real quick at Mr. Ass’s table? Lana was supposed to like twenty minutes ago, but she’s too busy trying to seduce him right now.”

  “Got it,” I nodded dutifully, stacking my tray with the beers before grabbing Mr. Ass’s check and narrowing playful eyes at Mia. “Is he really that hot?”

  “Girl.” She shot me a very serious look. “My thong melted off my ass the first time I looked at him, but if you don’t believe me, you’re about to see for yourself,” she said, making me snort as she reached over service bar to fluff my hair and yank my neckline down a couple inches. “Just try not to have heat stroke and die, okay? ‘Cause I can’t afford to pay rent on my own.”

  “Oh, thanks, but I think I’ll survive,” I laughed as I made my way to Lana’s section, a smirk already curling on my lips.

  I had trouble believing anyone was as hot as Mia described Mr. Ass, but considering how much drama and fighting I’d witnessed among the staff in just my first few weeks here, I was excited to see the one thing in the world they could all agree on—this alleged panty-scorcher of a mystery babe.

  It was probably about time, anyway, that I start letting myself look at men again. I didn’t ever during college because it was just a bunch of pointless torture. I’d had some cute guys hit on me before, but there was no sense in talking for long because once it came to being officially asked for my number, I had to explain that I didn’t actually have time to meet, because not only did I still live at home with my parents, I had a bus to catch and a very early curfew to make.

  Pretty much all it took was one crush-worthy guy laughing in my face and saying “yikes” for me to just shut up about my curfew and stop talking to boys altogether.

  Besides, I had my fellow freakshow in Brendan.

  He was a sweet, soft-spoken family friend whose mom was best friends with mine. Since he grew up similarly smothered, he commuted home with me every day after his classes at NYU, and we wound up dating junior and senior year because, well, we were each other’s only options.

  We fumbled through our first kisses together, clumsily lost our virginities to one another, and while I held onto hope that it would start to feel good at some point—like that hot, breathless, passionate sex I saw in movies—we never came anywhere close to finding our rhythm. Partly because doing it in his classmate’s dorm room during the twenty-minute window that we could afford to meet up wasn’t the most romantic thing in the world.

  But mostly because he never lasted more than two minutes.

  And I’d never been genuinely attracted to him in the first place, so I tried to break it off senior year, but then he cried very loudly on the bus and reminded me that this would upset our moms, which he was absolutely right about, so I stayed with him till exactly five weeks ago—when I pulled off the The Great Escape.

  And now you’re free, I exhaled with a minty fresh wave of gratitude as my heeled feet weaved through the candlelit tables in Lana’s section. Free to talk to all the boys you want, go on all the dates you want… free to have all the real, non-dorm-room sex you want with hot guys like Mr. Ass.

  I smirked to myself.

  Assuming he’s really that hot.

  I had to suppress my amusement as I closed in on his booth, because our resident flirt, Lana, was being even sultrier than usual while standing in front of the table—one hand holding her tray up high and the other placed on her very dramatically cocked hip.

  Come on, lady, way to block my whole view, I snorted inwardly as I came up behind her, though just as the thought crossed my mind she lowered her tray.

  And bam.

  The world’s greenest eyes locked on mine, and I nearly dropped all my beer because holy.

  Fucking.

  Shit.

  3

  HOLLAND

 
My heart slammed so hard in my chest that I swore my whole body careened forward. In my mind, I’d just gasped so hard I lost my footing, dropped my tray and toppled beer-soaked onto the table.

  But in reality, I was frozen.

  Completely still and barely breathing because sitting before me in that booth was a sex god in a suit—an absurdly expensive-looking, dark grey suit wrapped around that long, muscled, achingly perfect body I’d once memorized by heart, because I wasn’t staring at just some hot regular my coworkers were obsessed with.

  I was staring at Iain.

  As in Iain Thorn.

  As in my brother’s best friend, my childhood crush and the devastatingly beautiful man I’d loved since the day I laid eyes on him. Who used to help me with my homework. Who took me to my first baseball game, and picked me up from my first sleepover because I couldn't make it through the night.

  He wasn’t just the sexy, bad boy object of my every teenage fantasy, he was the sole bright spot of my lonely adolescence. The warm, protective big brother I never had in Adam.

  But right now he was staring at me with his green eyes steely. Hard on me.

  Like he was… mad at me?

  Wait. What?

  “Holland, the check?”

  I blinked as Lana’s tart question broke through my daze. She had her hand held out, and judging from the what’s your problem tone of her voice, she’d already asked me more than once.

  “Oh! I’m sorry,” I blurted as I grabbed the check off my tray. But my fingers were clumsy and my pulse was hammering out of control because holy hell, was this really happening?

  The last time I saw Iain Thorn, he was twenty-seven, and I was seventeen. Still painfully shy. Still Mommy’s little angel. For the love of God, the last time I saw him, I was trying to sneak a sip of his beer as he and Adam fixed my parents’ deck, and I still remembered that peering side-eye and irresistible smirk on his gorgeous face when he caught me. I remembered the way he ambled over to me, wiping the sweat off his brow before dropping his gaze to my mouth and gently twisting the bottle out from my lips with a clean, wet pop.