A Favor for a Favor Read online

  PRAISE FOR HELENA HUNTING’S NOVELS

  “Perfect for fans of Helen Hoang’s The Kiss Quotient. A fun and steamy love story with high stakes and plenty of emotion.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on Meet Cute

  “Bestselling Hunting’s latest humorous and heartfelt love story . . . is another smartly plotted and perfectly executed rom-com with a spot-on sense of snarky wit and a generous helping of smoldering sexual chemistry.”

  —Booklist on Meet Cute

  “Entertaining, funny, and emotional.”

  —Harlequin Junkie on Meet Cute

  “Hunting is quickly making her way as one of the top voices in romance!”

  —RT Reviews

  “Sexy. Funny. Emotional. Steamy and tender and so much more than just a book. Hooking Up reminds me why I love reading romance.”

  —USA Today bestselling author L. J. Shen

  “Heartfelt, hilarious, hot, and so much sexiness!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Tijan on Shacking Up

  “Helena writes irresistible men. I loved this sexy, funny, and deliciously naughty story!”

  —USA Today bestselling author Liv Morris on Shacking Up

  “Fun, sexy, and full of heart . . . a laugh-out-loud love story with explosive chemistry and lovable characters. Helena Hunting has done it again!”

  —USA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow on Shacking Up

  “With that perfect Helena Hunting flair, Shacking Up is the perfect combination of sexy, sweet, and hilarious. A feel-good beach read you won’t want to miss!”

  —New York Times bestselling author K. Bromberg

  “A look into the world of tattoos and piercings, a dash of humor, and a feel-good ending that will delight fans and new readers alike.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Inked Armor

  “A unique, deliciously hot, endearingly sweet, laugh-out-loud, fantastically good-time romance!! . . . I loved every single page!!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Emma Chase on Pucked

  “Sigh-inducing swoony and fanning-myself sexy. All the stars!”

  —USA Today bestselling author Daisy Prescott on the Pucked series

  “A hot roller coaster of a ride!”

  —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent on Pucked Over

  “Pucked Over is Helena Hunting’s funniest and sexiest book yet. SCORCHING HOT with PEE-INDUCING LAUGHS. All hail the Beaver Queen.”

  —USA Today bestselling author T. M. Frazier

  “Characters that will touch your heart and a romance that will leave you breathless.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Tara Sue Me on Clipped Wings

  “Gut wrenching, sexy, twisted, dark, incredibly erotic, and a love story like no other. On my all-time favorites list.”

  —Alice Clayton, New York Times bestselling author of Wallbanger and the Redhead series on Clipped Wings

  OTHER TITLES BY HELENA HUNTING

  PUCKED SERIES

  Pucked (Pucked #1)

  Pucked Up (Pucked #2)

  Pucked Over (Pucked #3)

  Forever Pucked (Pucked #4)

  Pucked Under (Pucked #5)

  Pucked Off (Pucked #6)

  Pucked Love (Pucked #7)

  Area 51: Deleted Scenes & Outtakes

  Get Inked (crossover novella)

  Pucks & Penalties: Pucked Series

  Deleted Scenes & Outtakes

  THE CLIPPED WINGS SERIES

  Cupcakes and Ink

  Clipped Wings

  Between the Cracks

  Inked Armor

  Cracks in the Armor

  Fractures in Ink

  SHACKING UP SERIES

  Shacking Up

  Getting Down (novella)

  Hooking Up

  I Flipping Love You

  Making Up

  Handle with Care

  STAND-ALONE NOVELS

  The Librarian Principle

  The Good Luck Charm

  Meet Cute

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Helena Hunting

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542015202

  ISBN-10: 1542015200

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  Cover photography by Regina Wamba of MaeIDesign.com

  For anyone who’s ever stayed in the shadows so someone else’s light could have a chance to shine.

  CONTENTS

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  BAD DAY

  Stevie

  As far as bad days go, this is one of the worst I’ve had in a very long time. I can get over the four-hour flight delay from LA to Seattle and sitting beside a man who smelled like old cheese and three-day-old underwear on the plane. But add in one of my suitcases taking a detour to Alaska—or maybe it’s Nunavut; who the hell knows?—and the fact that my remaining suitcase now has a broken handle and is missing a wheel, and this day just keeps getting worse.

  The icing on this crap cake? Less than an hour ago I walked in on my boyfriend, Joey—now my ex—plowing into someone who wasn’t me on our brand-new living room couch. The one my brother bought for us as a housewarming gift. I guess that’s what I get for surprising Joey by arriving two days earlier than expected. On my birthday.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come to Seattle and beat this douche down? I can leave first thing in the morning.” My brother RJ is at his in-laws’ house for the weekend, which is an hour and a half outside the city. That he’s this fired up on my behalf makes me feel marginally better about the whole thing.

  However, my brother is an NHL player, and a father and a husband. Allowing him to beat up my ex for being a douche and a cheater may assuage my decimated ego and help heal my broken heart, but it’s not a great idea. For one, if RJ lays a beatdown, there’s a good chance he’ll wind up charged with assault. Then his face will be splashed all over the media, Joey will make a spectacle, and I’ll get dragged into it. The last thing I want is my face on social media in connection with my famous brother and my slimy ex. So as much as Joey might deserve a broken nose and black eye, I’ll say no thanks to the potential fallout. “I sincerely appreciate your willingness to engage in violence on my behalf, but I don’t think it’s worth the assault and battery charge.”

  “I hate that you’re dealing with this on your own, and on your birthday, Stevie. If
I’d known you were coming early, I would’ve planned for us to be around this weekend. What if I come get you and bring you back to Lainey’s parents’ for a few days?”

  “It was a last-minute change of plans.” And obviously not a great one. “And it’s nice of you to offer, but the fact that you’re setting me up with a place to crash is more than enough.” I sincerely love my brother, but I am definitely not interested in hanging out with his in-laws during my postbreakup moping phase. “Besides, I start work at the clinic on Monday, so that would be a lot of back-and-forth for no reason. I promise I’ll be fine.” I watch the numbers flip by as the elevator ascends. Soon I’ll be able to have a nice little meltdown after my craparific day. “I’m almost at the apartment. Why don’t I call you in the morning?”

  “Okay. I’ll be up for a while longer, so if you run into any problems getting in, send me a message. The lock system is tricky until you get the hang of it.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine; thanks again, RJ.”

  “Anytime, Stevie. You know that. I’m really sorry. Happy birthday, kiddo. We’ll have dinner, and I’ll get your favorite cake when we’re back in town, okay?”

  “Sure, sounds good. Thanks again. Love you, bro.” I end the call and tip my chin up to keep the tears from falling.

  The elevator chimes its arrival at the penthouse floor. I suppose the one plus to finding out my now ex-boyfriend is a cheater is that I get to stay in a much nicer place. At least until I can find a new apartment.

  I adjust the broken handle of my suitcase as the doors slide open and roll-drag it and myself out of the elevator. I’m exhausted times a million and looking forward to a cathartic snot sob session. A pint or five of ice cream would also be nice.

  I wish I could adequately appreciate the splendor of the open foyer, but my morose mood does not allow me that indulgence. As I step onto the soft, luxurious carpet, the broken wheel of my suitcase gets caught in that two-inch gap where the doors open.

  “Seriously?” I yank on it, struggling to dislodge the broken wheel while the doors start to close, bumping against my bag before they slide open again. I toss my purse on the floor so I can wrestle it free, but it’s jammed in there good and tight. The elevator beeps loudly, signaling that the doors have been open too long.

  It’s late, almost midnight, and I’m hoping these walls are soundproof because I’m causing quite a ruckus. My suitcase finally pulls free, and I stumble back, tripping over my purse and landing on my ass. At least the carpet is soft and the floor is clean. I lie there for a few seconds, waiting for a piano or a safe to fall from the ceiling and land on top of me, because it’s been that kind of a day.

  When nothing else bad happens—for now—I pick myself up off the floor and decide the best way to deal with my suitcase is to slide it across the carpet to avoid making more of a racket than I have already. Unlike in a regular apartment building, there is no long hallway on the penthouse floor. Instead there are four doors in the open foyer—two on the left and two on the right—making it easy to locate apartment 4004. I guess that means it’ll be quiet, if nothing else.

  In the middle of the foyer is a glass-topped table with an enormous arrangement of flowers, which accounts for the heavy perfume smell. I skirt the table as I slide my bag across the carpet toward my temporary new home, then remember my purse is still sitting on the floor by the elevators.

  The key card they issued at the front desk seems to have migrated to the bottom of my bag. I shift around the contents searching for it, but it’s like it belongs to Mary Poppins with how much crap I have in there. I use my suitcase as a chair, the flimsy plastic exterior cracking loudly as my ass hits it. Oh well; it was destined for the garbage anyway with how mangled it is. A jagged piece pokes me in the butt, but I’m too tired to move.

  The key card and my phone have both magically disappeared into a quarter-size hole in the lining of my purse. It takes me forever to fish them back out. I pull up the instructions on how to open the door, since apparently this building’s key system requires a step-by-step explanation. After dragging myself to my feet, I key in the six-digit code, swipe the card, and turn the handle, but all it does is beep at me.

  “I just want to lie down,” I mutter to the door. I give the code a second shot, but I get another longer, louder beep. “What the hell? Why won’t you open?” I whisper-yell. Each time I make an attempt to get in, the beep grows louder and longer while my patience wears thinner.

  I yank on the handle, frustrated. I don’t want to call RJ again because I should be able to open a damn door on my own. I’m probably missing something small. Also, it’s late, and he has a toddler who doesn’t always sleep through the night and loves to get up at ass o’clock in the morning. Kody is super adorable, though, so his rooster-level early rising is mostly tolerable.

  The door directly across the hall swings open. Awesome. Now I’ve woken my temporary neighbor. Talk about bad first impressions. I turn with the intention of issuing an apology, but my mouth is suddenly desert dry.

  A man stands in the open doorway. A very, very large man. My brother is a big guy; he towers over everyone with his six feet two inches. But this annoyed-looking man’s head barely clears the doorframe. He’s also broad. Excessively broad. He’s an excessive amount of man in general.

  Beyond being ridiculously tall and broad, and irritated based on his scowl, all he’s wearing is a pair of boxer briefs. I might be able to get over his overwhelming size and his insanely gorgeous dark-brown, sleep-tousled hair complemented by fiery hazel eyes, a rugged square jaw, and full lips. I can also deal with all that toned muscle and his rippling abs and bulging biceps, finished off with a nice dusting of hair that leads my eye from his navel—it’s an innie—down to his boxer briefs. But that’s where I get stuck, because his crotch has the phrase BEWARE OF FALLING ROCKS with a rockslide right where his peen should be. So now it looks as if I’m checking out his package. I kind of am.

  “What the hell is going on? It’s almost fucking midnight, and you’re out here making a goddamn racket. Some of us are trying to sleep.” His voice is deep, gritty, and loud. He crosses his bulky arms over his cut chest, which should help cover up some of the nakedness but only seems to draw attention to how thick his arms are.

  Also. Wow. Talk about hostile.

  “Sorry. I’m having some problems with my key card and my suitcase.” I flash the key card and motion to my destroyed bag. I’m suddenly super sweaty. Likely from embarrassment over getting chewed out by a hot guy in his underwear.

  Hot-underwear man scoffs. He doesn’t acknowledge my apology. Nor does he offer his assistance or tone down the dickbagness. “Where the fuck you get that key from?”

  “How is that any of your business?” I scroll through my messages, trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong with the key card and the code so I can get into the apartment and away from this grade A asshole extraordinaire.

  “It’s my business because you’re up here on my floor making an unnecessary amount of noise, and I’d put money on it that you paid someone off for that key card.”

  I pause my message scroll so I can glare at him more effectively. “Excuse me?” This guy takes the jerk cake with his asinine accusations. Such an epic waste of hotness.

  He tips his chiseled chin up, glares down at me, and jabs a finger in my direction. He really is intimidating. “Which one of the security guys did you pay off? Or were there other favors involved?”

  “Favors? What are you even talking about?” I’m super confused right now.

  Underpants a-hole leans against the doorjamb, smirking as his eyes move over me. I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a cartoon birthday cake on it. My hair is tucked into a beanie since I’ve been traveling all day and the humidity has not been kind to it. “You think I haven’t seen this a million times? Chicks are always bribing security for keys to get up here.”

  “I did not—”

  He cuts me off before I can put him in his place. �
�Look, sweet cheeks, I don’t know what you’ve been snorting or mainlining or whatever, but there’s no way you’re getting in there without a code. And even if you do, I’m gonna go ahead and say that this whole shitshow”—he points to his face and motions toward me—“is one hell of a boner-killer, so stop embarrassing yourself and take your broke-down ass back the way you came.”

  Did he just say my face is a boner-killer? I have so had it with assholes tonight.

  CHAPTER 2

  WHAT’S YOUR DAMAGE?

  Bishop

  Okay, so the boner-killer comment may have been unnecessary, but it’s midnight and I’m tired. I came out here thinking I would be confronting the dude who lives in 4001. Every time he’s in town he throws a party that lasts for days. And then it’s silence for at least a week, if not longer. Thankfully, he’s gone more than he’s here. Regardless, whenever he’s around, there are also numerous scantily clad, potentially venereal disease–carrying women hanging out in the elevator.

  Instead of the 4001 douchenozzle, I’m faced with this train wreck of a woman. Granted, as bad as she looks, she’s still hot, but she’s making all kinds of noise trying to get into my teammate’s penthouse. The one he hasn’t been staying in because he bought a house or something. With his wife and kid.

  My conversations with Rook Bowman have been short and not entirely pleasant. I’m not his biggest fan. Almost every time we’ve played against each other in past seasons, one of us has ended up with some kind of penalty or other for being chippy. But my loathing for him hit an all-time high when he waived his no-trade clause and joined the Seattle expansion team at the last minute. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but they also gave him the team-captain position that was supposed to be mine. His stupid fucking friendly “You can do it; we’re a team!” attitude, and being in the coach’s goddamn back pocket, only make me hate him more. I see through his do-gooder act. He also suggested that I be moved to defense, likely so I wouldn’t be competition for his coveted first-line center position. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

  And now it looks like he’s got some sidepiece using the team-issued penthouse. What an asshole.