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?
“Haven’t you heard?” The cocky smile I’m so familiar with from watching him play flashes across his face, his midnight eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’m always ready.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Then, in a move I’ve only seen executed in movies and just about every reality show on Bravo, I get up and leave without a goodbye.
Like a boss.
Quinton Howard Junior was right. He has met his match.
Five
It took until I got to my car before I remembered that I was supposed to stay at HERS to meet Liv for drinks.
And nothing ruins a boss-ass exit more than having to walk back in with your tail between your legs.
Which is exactly why I sit in my car until I see Quinton leave.
I mean, the guy shot me down with barely a glance. I wouldn’t consider myself a prideful person, but even I don’t want to be embarrassed twice in the span of a single afternoon.
Liv texts me while I’m hiding—I mean, waiting—that she’s stuck in traffic and running late, but to order her any drink that looks fancy and has gin. I’m more of a whiskey girl, myself. Call it an Irish thing . . . or being raised by an Irish-American single dad thing. But the only time I’ve had a drink anyone could refer to as fancy, it’s been ordered for me, not by me.
I walk back in just as two women are leaving the bar. It’s that awkward time after lunch, but before happy hour. I don’t think HERS is ever empty, but it’s far from crowded now. Which works for me because now I can rant to Liv as soon as she gets here and not worry about tons of strangers hearing.
From watching Love the Player, I recognize everyone behind the bar immediately. Especially Brynn Sterling (not Lewis—I swear, her not taking Maxwell Lewis’s name was an entire storyline last season). I don’t know why, but I assumed in real life, she wouldn’t be as pretty as she is on the show. Some of that had to be TV magic. You know, soft light, glam squad, something. But nope. Somehow, behind the bar with what looks like not even a scrap of makeup on her face and a messy bun on top of her head, she’s even prettier. And how unfair is that?
All of this to say that even though I want to play it cool, I’m pretty sure I have hearts in my eyes as she walks my way.