Page 36 of The Wrong Play

I stood in the hallway for a moment, my heart pounding, debating whether I should request a room transfer.

But I knew how that would go.

What was I supposed to say?Hey, my roommate just exists too quietly,and I think she might be possessed by a Victorian ghost?

Yeah. That would go over well.

I shook my head, exhaling sharply.

I had bigger problems than my roommate from hell.

Like the fact that I had left my credit card at the bar.

And, oh yeah—the fact that I had slept with Jace Thatcher.

The fact that I hadunprotectedsex with Jace Fucking Thatcher. The birth control I was on would prevent a baby…but it wouldn’t stop anything else.

A guy who looked like that…aka the hottest man that I’d ever seen in my life.

Fuck. He could have any number of things on that giant dick of his.

If he could do that so easily—if he could pull me onto the dance floor, move with me like we’d been doing it forever, then drag me into that bathroom like he needed me more than his next breath—then how many times had he done it before?

Because it had felt effortless for him. Natural. Like a well-practiced routine.

I wasn’t special. I wasn’t different.

I groaned, rubbing my hands over my face.

I needed coffee. And a redo on life choices.

Maybe, if I was really lucky, I’d never have to see him again.

But who was I kidding? I wasneverlucky.

The campus eatery was mercifully mostly empty.

I stood in line, shifting from foot to foot, my head still pounding from last night’s questionable decisions. Coffee first. Shame spiral later.

The moment I had the large, scalding cup in my hands, I wrapped my fingers around it, willing the heat to burn away the memory of what I had done. OfwhoI had done.

I groaned internally.

I needed to forget that guy existed.

But my body had other plans.

Because despite my very real, very justified panic, my lady bits were still basking in the afterglow, completely unbothered by my emotional crisis. The traitors. They didn’t care that Jace Thatcher was probably the most reckless, insufferable, womanizing disaster to ever exist. They only cared about the way he had touched me—like he had every right to. Like he had been waiting. Like heknewme in a way no one else ever had.

My thighs clenched involuntarily, a deep, traitorous ache pulsing in my core.

No. No, no, no.

I squeezed my eyes shut and took a careful sip of my coffee, hoping the heat would shock some sense into me.

Turning toward the seating area, I scanned the room for an empty booth, when I spotted her—Tasha.

She was slumped at a table, wearing oversized sunglasses inside like a Z-list celebrity pretending to be avoiding the non-existent paparazzi following them. A barely touched croissant sat on a napkin next to her, and she had two iced coffees in front of her—one half-gone, the other untouched.

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