From Emma Hart, the New York Times bestselling author of the Game series, comes a brand new series where the game is realer, the tension is tighter, the sex is hotter, and the stakes are the highest of all…
Two people. Two agendas. Two games.
What happens when the out-there It-Boy of football meets the secret It-Girl of fashion?
As the daughter of Hollywood’s sweetheart, Leah Veronica can’t even buy a coffee without finding her face on a magazine stand, so it’s no wonder she’s launching her first fashion line in secret. With it debuting at New York Fashion Week in just under a month, extra time in the spotlight is the last thing she needs.
The son of the best quarterback the league has ever seen, filling legendary shoes as the L.A. Vipers’ quarterback was inevitable for Corey Jackson. So was meeting Leah Veronica—the first girl to hand him his ass without putting a hair out of place.
Getting the handsome, prickly blonde into his bed becomes his number one goal. But getting the sexy, over-confident footballer the hell away from her becomes Leah’s—at least until she realizes the best way to do that is to give him what he wants.
If only it was that simple.
When Corey discovers who she is, and private photos of Hollywood’s finest find their way online, everything they thought they knew is thrown into disarray.
And when secrets are exposed and hearts are shattered, they have to figure out if they’ve been blindsided by love or reality, and if it’s worth running the extra yard to win the game they never meant to play.
“My feet are killing me,” I groan, leaning against the bar. “This is why I don’t wear heels!”
“Nah, you’re fine. You just need another drink.” Ryann raps her knuckles against the top of the bar and flicks her hair. The bartender shoots down to us like a baby after candy. “Three tequila shots please.”
“Aw, shit,” Macey mutters. “Not tequila. Anything but the devil drink! That should only be drunk in the safety of my apartment.”
I hold the tiny glass in front of my face. “It’ll stop my feet hurting. I don’t give a shit.”
“I’ll remind you that you said that when you call me tomorrow with a hangover.”
“I promise I’ll drink some water before I go to bed. My mom will kill me if I’m hungover tomorrow.” I bring the glass to my lips and tip it back. “Holy shit.” The tequila lights a fiery trail from my throat to my stomach. “Another.”
“Fuck off.” I click my tongue. “It’s my birthday, which, by the way, I’ve spent working and watching my half-assed football team almost throw a game. If I say another tequila, I want another tequila.”
“Okay.” Ryann shrugs, waving the bartender over again. “Three more, and three margaritas.”
He nods and fixes the drinks. A few minutes later, they appear in front of us, and I grab my purse.
“This is my round.”
“Hell no!” Macey cries. “It’s illegal to buy your own drinks on your birthday.”
“She’s right,” a smooth voice with a hint of a Texas accent says from behind me. “At least it is in Texas.”
I spin on my seat and look into the devastatingly blue-green eyes of Corey Jackson. The very same man my seventy-five-year-old great-aunt was ogling on the TV earlier. And, okay. I get it. I totally get it. His dark hair curls over his ears, and his bright eyes are sparkling with the same smile that’s twitching at his lips. And he has that jaw—you know, the kind of jaw that makes you want to rub your fingers over it repeatedly? Yeah, that jaw.
He’s hot. The, er, tequila said so.
Smart, that tequila.
“Is that right?” I reply.
“Sure is.” The twitch of his lips morphs into a slow, sexy smile.
“I hate to remind you, but this is California.”
“Oh, I know exactly where we are. Where else am I going to be lucky enough to buy a drink for a girl like you?”
“Are you hitting on me?”
He rests his elbow on the bar in front of me and hands the bartender forty dollars between his fingers. “Does it sound like I am?”
“Is it supposed to? Because I’m sure Corey Jackson, L.A. Vipers golden boy, can find a thousand girls like me just by turning around.” I nod my head over his shoulder. “Oh, look. I just found you a bunch of them.”
Seriously, half the girls in this bar are in fan-girl mode. Or panty-dropping mode. I think they’re synonymous where he’s concerned.
He takes his change from the bartender, his smirk turning cocky. “Finally, a girl who recognizes me for more than what is under my shirt. Is this my lucky night?”
“If this is a lucky night, clearly California isn’t doing much for you.” I throw the tequila shot back.
By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies - usually wine - and writes books.
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.
She likes to be busy - unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.