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?
“Yes.” My phone buzzes in my cupholder, telling me I’ve arrived at HERS. “I have a feeling drinks will be mandatory after this.”
“Yay! Best Monday ever!”
At least for one of us.
—
IF I HADN’T sat in traffic for half of my life (only a slight exaggeration) to meet the man who holds my dream job in his hands, I’d be stoked to get an afternoon, work-sponsored trip to HERS. I don’t like the term “guilty pleasure,” because if I’ve learned anything the past couple of years, it’s to not feel guilt over things that bring me joy. But if I had to label one thing as a guilty pleasure, it would be my love of reality television. And Love the Player is at the top of my reality TV obsession. Not only does it take place in my city, but it’s based on my favorite football team! It’s the only reality show my dad actually liked watching with me. I’ve wanted to go to HERS for the longest time, since so much of the show is filmed there. It’s too bad that my first time going might also coincide with the fiery crash of my career.
I luck out and find a parking spot on the street in front of HERS. But as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I don’t want to move. So many conflicting thoughts run through my mind. I want to prove to Mr. Mahler that I’m the best person for this job. I worked my ass off for this job and I didn’t get it by running from a challenge. But on the other hand, I’m having a hard time sorting out my thoughts about Quinton Howard Junior. I completely respect the stance he’s taking. It’s brave and admirable. But on a personal—and selfish—level, I hate that I feel like I’m being forced to choose between two parts of myself . . . again. This is my dream job. It’s been my rainbow after the darkest, worst year of my life. I refuse to just walk away. There has to be a way I can keep everyone happy and I guess it’s my job to figure it out.
With that thought, I pull back my shoulders, plaster a smile onto my face, and open the door to HERS like I own the place.
Even on a Monday, the place is far from empty. Music drifts from the speakers just over the rumbling of conversations taking place and glasses clinking. The wall by the front door is covered in flowers and a pink neon HERS sign that I know for a fact is used as the background for many an Instagram post.
“Welcome to HERS,” a woman with the thickest, blackest, most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen greets me. “Would you like a table or are you going to the bar?”