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?
Everything is going so well that I forget about what a clusterfuck I’ve turned my life into. When I’m in the zone, nothing else matters. Football players have helmets to protect them, I have an abundance of emails. Same thing.
Then my alarm goes off and I’m snapped back to reality that means my afternoon is about to take a turn for the wild.
Lucky for me, my Uber driver seems to read my mood when I climb into the back of his car and doesn’t say anything to me for the entire fortyish-minute drive downtown. I think about going to the Rue to see if Jen is there but then I remember the thing with her and Donny and decide not to press my—already bad—luck. Seeing Quinton would be bad. Seeing Donny would be worse.
When I get into my car, I contemplate ditching everyone at HERS and instead buying myself a dozen donuts and renting myself a hotel room until all of this blows over. But that seems extreme . . . even for me. So instead, I ignore the little voice in the back of my head telling me that a bacon and maple donut will solve all of my problems and crank my steering wheel in the direction of the interrogation I’m sure is waiting for me.
When I pull up to HERS just after noon, it’s suspiciously empty. I parallel park right in front of the entrance and see the closed sign hanging on the door. I don’t let myself get too excited. I might not know Brynn and Vonnie well, but I do know they wouldn’t not tell me if they were canceling plans. So even though I want to accept this blessing and go get my donut, I know without a doubt this is terrible news for me.
I lean into the backseat to get my phone out of my purse. I signed Oprah’s pledge not to text while I drive and I take that shit serious. I might disappoint myself on a daily basis, but my promise to Oprah is not something I take lightly. One of her tips was to keep your phone out of reach, and now, ten years later, it’s just become a habit.
I find my phone at the bottom of my purse and see two missed calls and three text messages from Quinton. I know I deleted the one earlier, but I do work with him and I know I’m going to have to respond at some point. Might as well get it over with before I walk into a bar full of good booze and better people. But in a stroke of luck I’ve come to never expect, there’s a loud bang on my window before I open my messages.