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?
“Oh good!” I try to find some excitement that I don’t really feel. Fake it till you make it, am I right? “Are you in the mood for anything?”
“I’m fine with whatever. I’m still new to the city.” He looks along the building-lined streets of Downtown Denver, probably ready to shout out the name of the first restaurant he sees to get this over with. “I don’t know what’s good here.”
“Well, lucky for you, you’re with a Denver native and I grew up not far from here. I know a place and it’s never crowded.” I reach into my purse and grab my keys and phone. “I’ll text you the address. It’s not far.”
“Sounds good.” He taps on his watch when the text goes through. Technology is so wild. “I’ll see you there soon.”
“See ya.” I open my car door and slide into the seat, then, before I can close the door, he does it for me, like the old-school gentleman he’s most definitely not, then turns and walks away without a backward glance.
What an odd, odd man.
Ten
I didn’t think this plan through.
When my dad died, I made the decision to stay far away from the neighborhood that housed too many memories to face on a daily basis. And I’ve managed to do just that.
Until today.
Driving down the tree-lined roads, memories I’ve been avoiding like the plague hit me hard and fast. The corner where my dad helped me set up a lemonade stand every summer until I decided I was too cool to do it anymore. The street where he dropped me off for the bus each morning. The park where we would play basketball together. All of those amazing memories that should bring a smile to my face, but are chased away as I drive past the street where our house is.
Was.
Where our house was.
The hospice nurses setting up his bed. Watching the rise and fall of his chest until it stopped. The funeral home coming to take him away. Handing the keys to the house I was raised in to the real estate agent and walking out of the door for the last time. It all slams into me at once.
It’s been months. And it somehow hurts even more now.
The air in my car gets thicker, heavier. Inhaling and exhaling becomes a struggle as tears begin to cloud my vision. And I want to give in. I want to pull over and punch my steering wheel until my knuckles bleed, scream until my throat is raw about the unfairness of it all.