Chapters (32)
- Cover
- Praise for Adriana Herrera
- Also by Adriana Herrera
- Dedication
- Prologue
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Epilogue
- BPA
- Chapter One
There were so many things I didn’t see for so long. But the one glaring at me right now was that I’d never stopped to think about what it cost Alba to be strong all the time.
“We can do the interview together then. That way no one needs to be in an awkward situation,” I conceded.
“Fine.” She said it all pissy, and my body reacted to that sweet little growl in her voice almost involuntarily. “I don’t know why you’re so into this idea,” she snapped, sidestepping me to open the door. “They’re probably going to ask us personal questions about each other and you’re just going to look like a clown.”
Why did this woman calling me a clown feel like foreplay?
“It’s physically impossible for me to look anything other than hot and brilliant,” I replied, hot on her heels as we headed back to the living room. My co-host only scoffed.
“Didn’t you hear the hard-on Chase has about us ‘having a history’?” Her whisper echoed across the hallway. “The moment they ask you something about me, you’re going to show your whole ass on that video.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said. “You know a lot less about me than you think you do, Alba Fantasia.”
“I know that I know a lot more about you than you do about me,” she informed me over her shoulder.
“You don’t know where my Olympics tattoo is.” There was no keeping the satisfied smile off my face when she stumbled and drops of creamy coffee splattered all over the floor in front of her.
“Motherfucker, I’m wearing white jeans!” She spun on me so fast I had to step back and the scent of that fake hazelnut and vanilla with a bit of her nervous sweat got me a little hard. “You’re making up fake tattoos now?”
“I’m not making it up.” I could tell she was pissed that she had to look up to glare at me, so I stepped close enough to make her crane her neck a full ninety degrees.
“You are making it up,” she bit out, cocking her head to the side. Ready to debunk the fake news of my tattoo. “I saw you get out of a pool half naked five days a week for three years and you don’t think I’d notice an Olympic ring tattoo on your body?”