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Chapters (48)
  1. Cover
  2. PRAISE FOR ALEXA MARTIN’S PLAYBOOK SERIES
  3. Titles by Alexa Martin
  4. Dedication
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. Prologue
  7. One
  8. Two
  9. Three
  10. Four
  11. Five
  12. Six
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Twelve
  19. Thirteen
  20. Fourteen
  21. Fifteen
  22. Sixteen
  23. Seventeen
  24. Eighteen
  25. Nineteen
  26. Twenty
  27. Twenty-one
  28. Twenty-two
  29. Twenty-three
  30. Twenty-four
  31. Twenty-five
  32. Twenty-six
  33. Twenty-seven
  34. Twenty-eight
  35. Twenty-nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-one
  38. Thirty-two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. Thirty-four
  41. Thirty-five
  42. Thirty-six
  43. Thirty-seven
  44. Thirty-eight
  45. Epilogue
  46. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  47. About the Author
  48. What’s next onyour reading list?

And I don’t stop until the door to my condo is closed and locked behind me. But even that’s not enough. I run to my bed and hide under my covers, hoping the tequila will at least let me forget that any of this ever happened.

When I said I had drunk mouth, this was not what I meant.

Eighteen

I don’t know what wakes me up first.

Ripping my dry tongue off the roof of my mouth, the constant pounding in my head, or the insistent sound of text messages flooding my phone.

I do know, however, what keeps me up—the constant reminder of the horror on Quinton’s face that plays on a loop every time I close my eyes. And the realization that not only did I kiss a guy who is not attracted to me, but I kissed a guy I work with. Like a fucking creep! If I was a man and drunk kissed a female employee I would be fired and publicly shamed . . . and rightfully so!

Ugh.

I’ve had moments where I wasn’t my biggest fan, but I think this might be my baseline for self-loathing.

I’m terrified to check my phone and see missed calls from work or worse . . . Quinton. I’d much rather hide under my comforter for the next one hundred years, but I also need to know if I’ve been fired and/or have a sexual harassment case being lodged against me.

But even though I don’t want to, I tap in my passcode. I’m not even going to attempt facial recognition with smeared makeup and a puffy hangover face. There are no missed calls. I’m taking that as a good sign that Quinton hasn’t filed a formal complaint . . . yet.

There are, however, four new text messages. All from Brynn, Liv, Marie, and even Vonnie. If I wasn’t mortified and in the midst of hating myself, I’d be flipping out that communication with Vonnie, aka My New Best Friend™, has progressed to text, but I do hate myself, so I only get a tiny bit excited.

The messages almost mirror each other.

Brynn: Don’t think the balloons distracted me enough to not see you leave with Q! You bring the details, I’ll provide the whiskey.

I almost respond that while I appreciate the offer, she’d have a better chance of catching me with a hangover remedy and greasy burger.

Marie: Heard through the grapevine that you hitched a ride with Quinton. Thought you hated him? What is that about? Meet at HERS. Need deets ASAP!

Liv: Brynn told me that she saw your ass getting mighty comfy in Quinton’s car. I knew there was something more going on there! I’ll be at HERS at three. Be there or expect me to lead the gossip brigade to your front door.