Page 39 of The Wrong Play

Iwas late.

Again.

I bolted down the hall, my bag slamming against my hip as I turned the corner toward my Intro to Ethics lecture. It wasn’t my favorite class, but it was an easy A—or it was supposed to be, if I wasn’t constantly behind and exhausted and too distracted by my own life crumbling around me to actually focus.

Tasha’s words were still running through my head as I reached the door.

Jace Thatcher doesn’t do relationships.

He could have anyone.

He was probably already onto the next girl.

I shook off the irrational stab of disappointment, pulling open the heavy wooden door as quietly as possible. The professor wasn’t here yet—thank God—but the lecture hall was already packed, students filling the rows, voices a low murmur as they whispered and gossiped about something I wasn’t paying attention to. I raced down an aisle, breathing a sigh of relief when I saw an empty chair and could put down my stuff.

“How do you tell the difference between a frog and a horny toad?”

My stomach dropped.

I turned my head slowly, my entire body locking up as my eyes met his.

Jace Thatcher.

In the daylight.

And holy hell, he still looked just as good—better—without the haze of alcohol and dim bar lighting softening the perfect angles of his face.

His long blond hair was slightly tousled, like he’d rolled out of bed looking that effortlessly flawless. His golden skin still held a lingering summer tan, his strong jawline sharp enough to cut glass. And then there were his brown eyes—piercing, mischievous—locked onto me with a smug intensity that sent heat rushing to my cheeks.

He was leaning back in the chair like he owned the place, one arm slung over the empty seat next to him, his legs spread wide like he didn’t have a single worry in the world.

And me?

I looked like I’d been dragged through a dumpster at the moment.

Oversized hoodie, leggings, tangled mess of hair that I hadn’t bothered to brush, last night’s makeup…and oh yeah, probably still smelling like him.

I was again regretting every decision I’d ever made up to now and hating my roommate for making me flee the room.

His smirk deepened. Why did he have to look so hot doing it? It was annoying.

“A frog says, ‘Ribbit, ribbit,’ and a horny toad says, ‘Rub it, rub it,’” he finished, looking absurdly proud of himself.

I gaped at him, and he beamed like I’d paid him some sort of huge compliment.

An embarrassing choking sound came out of my throat.

“The bartender thought you were my girlfriend.”

My eyes widened in confusion.

He tilted his head, studying me withwaytoo much interest.

“Are you?”

I choked. “What?”

He leaned in slightly, his cocky expression never wavering. “Are you my girlfriend,Riley?”

---