The Wrong Play (The Wrong Player, #2)

by C.R. Jane

For the ones who were told to stay quiet, who were kept in the shadows, who were made to feel like secrets instead of something sacred. This is for you⁠— You deserve a Jace Thatcher.

Jagger-meister.

I nodded solemnly. “I can’t cut it. It’s part of the deal.” She barked out a laugh. “What deal?” “The one where I keep it long and, in return, I remain devastatingly handsome, irresistible, and completely undefeated in every battle.” She tilted her head. “You’re comparing yourself to…what, Samson?” “Brad Pitt in Troy,” I corrected.

“You’re stalking me,” I accused. Jace’s smirk grew impossibly wider. “That depends,” he said, his voice low…intimate. “Would you be into that?”

“Now I’ve got your number. And you’ve got mine too. Buckle up, buttercup, because it’s about to get fun.”

Parker: You’re stalking her, aren’t you? Me: I prefer to call it strategically placing myself in her orbit.

Wearing some of her blood around your neck.

Me: Relaaaax. I’m just making sure she’s doing okay. Me: You know, looking out for her. Hacking into her medical records. Paying off her credit card. Things like that. Matty: YOU PAID OFF HER CREDIT CARD?! Me: Fiscal responsibility is important, sir. Matty: OMG! Me: See. Not a stalker. More like a benefactor who secretly watches over her. Parker: Matty: Me: Parkie-Poo gets me. Parker: Of course I do. A man protects what’s his. Me: Exactly. Me: I’m making sure she’s taken care of. Matty: This is all EXACTLY what a stalker would say. Me: It’s called being a devoted boyfriend. Matty: You’re not her boyfriend. Me: Yet. Parker: Yet.

I was a shower, not a grower, so lil’ Jace, aka The Anaconda, aka Sir-Humps-A-Lot, hung down low.

He was going in my burn book.

Checkmate, baby llama.

my voice coming out far too breathy considering my girds were supposed to be loined—or whatever the correct way to say that was.

Fortunately, I had Matty, and a very precise, three-step plan. One that definitely showcased my big brain. Step one: Get him to entertain her creepy-ass roommate. Step two: Slip into Riley’s room unnoticed. Step three: Sleep under her bed like a psycho, as nature intended.

I was being hunted. By clowns. Of fucking course.

“You cannot keep me like this,” she muttered. I shrugged. “Sure, I can.” “This is kidnapping.” I pressed a finger to her lips. “It’s temporary containment.”

Ari blinked. “Blake was giving me the look. You try concentrating in the midst of such perfection. I’m just a man, Disney.”