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?
“Got it,” he says, but his laughter does not make me feel like he’s taking me seriously.
“I’m serious.” I look away from Quinton and aim my attention at our new bearded friend. “Tell him I’m serious. This cannot end with him losing a finger.”
“We haven’t lost any fingers yet, and I’ll make sure it stays that way,” he says, but also looking like he’s going to laugh.
We’re throwing freaking axes, for goodness’ sakes! I can’t be the only person who sees this going very, very badly!
I narrow my eyes at both of them before focusing on the man who works here. “I didn’t get your name yet.”
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I’m Brett.”
“Alright then, Brett.” I move my finger between the two of them. “It is literally my job to spin stories in my favor. If this goes wrong, you and this guy”—I point to Quinton—“are going to be the only names mentioned. I was never even here.”
“I promise that nothing will happen.” Brett holds up three fingers in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
“Oh great.” I roll my eyes as I start filling out the waiver form. “Like I haven’t heard that before.”
Thirty-two
“That was bullshit and you know it.” I glare at Quinton from the passenger seat as he drives under the streetlight-lined highway.
“How so?” He laughs like he’s been laughing since we got our total scores from axe throwing. “You’re the one who made the bet, not me.”
“Then you should’ve let me win and then lied about letting me win.” I don’t even know what I’m saying at this point. Losing brings out the worst in me.
“I don’t think I’m wired to do that.” He drops a hand from the steering wheel and rubs my leg. “Even for someone who looks as distracting in leggings as you did.”
“I appreciate your attempt to distract me by implying that my butt looks good in leggings. I’ll let it go . . . for now.” Between the compliment and the way his hand is steadily moving north up my leg, he has discovered the only way to lick my wounds. “Just know that the next time we have a competition I get to pick the event and there will be no throwing involved.”
“Fine by me,” he says. “Just remember that I also lettered in track and swimming.”
“Swimming?” I feel like I know a lot about him, but this is a total shock. “I would’ve assumed you played basketball.”