Chapters (48)
- Cover
- PRAISE FOR ALEXA MARTIN’S PLAYBOOK SERIES
- Titles by Alexa Martin
- Dedication
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Epilogue
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
The plastic gas station bag holding the plethora of sugar coma–inducing treats bounces off my thigh with every step I take. I might have a Ben & Jerry’s-sized bruise tomorrow and I’m honestly okay with that. It will be the most on-brand injury in the history of injuries.
In the kitchen, I empty the bag on the white countertops I had installed right after I moved in. The pint of peanut butter cup ice cream rolls off the counter and hits the ground with a plop. The lid pops off and white droplets of melted ice cream splatter across the hardwood floor that I’m still not sure how to properly take care of. I pick up the ice cream, not bothering to put it in the freezer, and wipe up the splatter art with a paper towel. I’ll find a wood cleaner later, right now I’m in a race against room temperature to eat my ice cream.
I leave the rest of the candy sprawled out on the counter. There are a lot of perks to living alone, but the main one is that nobody will steal your snacks.
I grab a spoon out of my drawer and push it closed with my butt as I make my way straight toward my couch. If anything can ease the pain of the last twenty-four hours, it’s reality TV and ice cream . . . and I plan on indulging in both.
But before my butt can meet the comfort it’s yearning for and I can stuff my feelings down with the calorie-dense, only momentarily effective ice cream, there’s a knock at the door.
“Fuck.” I hiss, not wanting to talk about Quinton or Mrs. Rafter or anything actually, with Liv or Marie or whoever else followed me home. These women are relentless and the only reason I even open the door for them is because of the built-up guilt they aren’t letting me repress.
“I’m out of wine and I’m not sharing my ice cream, so don’t even ask.” I swing open the door and then slam it shut when Quinton’s stupid handsome face greets me on the other side.
What the fuck?! Can’t this day just be over already?
“Ummm, Elle?” Quinton knocks on the door again. “If I promise not to ask for some of your ice cream, will you open the door again?”
I wonder how much it would hurt if I jumped out of my bedroom window? I’m only on the second floor. I doubt I’d die or anything. A pair of snapped ankles maybe?
But, as appealing as broken bones sound at the moment, I do the thing Brynn talked about in quadrant four on the whiteboard. I act like an adult and open the door.