The Off Limits Rule (It Happened in Nashville, #1)

by Sarah Adams

“Look at you. Your face is covered in chocolate, and you smell.” “Rude. I never stink. I can go weeks without deodorant and still—” I lift my arm and wince when I get a whiff of myself. “Oh yeah, shoot, that’s bad.”

Just the feel of the warm matte cover between my fingers helps me relax. Yes, this is good. I can bury

my nose in the pages like I normally do and let the story carry me to a different place.

She didn’t want me, so I’ll prove just how many women do.

Those two seconds of heart-in-my-throat free fall made me realize something: I don’t push myself enough. Somewhere along the line in my life, I stopped jumping. It’s time to start again.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that in a room full of J.Crews, I’ll always be a Target. I love Target. Let’s see J.Crew try to sell delicious soft pretzels in their store.

I turn to face Cooper and nearly fall over when I realize his eyes were on me that whole time, a soft grin tilting the side of his mouth, an indiscernible look in his eyes. Reserved and intrigued. Sort of like he either wants to pin me against the wall and kiss me into oblivion or help me do my taxes.

How is it even fair that grown men are allowed to still play video games, but if he walked in on me playing with my old Barbies, he would send me to therapy?

I don’t think everyone is meant to have careers that change the world. Sometimes you’ve just gotta pay the bills and then clock out so you can get to the life you love the most, which, for me, is being with Levi.

Even so, I do think all those years of pining after a man who didn’t want me back scarred me in a deeper way than I realized at the time. Because now, no matter how hard I try to believe in myself, there’s still a voice that whispers, You don’t have anything to offer.

Being a mom is kind of weird. One minute, you’re begging a sitter to take your terrible/snotty/sleepless kid off your hands, and then five minutes after they’re gone, you find yourself misty-eyed, staring at pictures you took yesterday of that darling/angelic/precious child and wondering if it’s too soon to go pick them up.

Because here’s the thing about people you admire speaking into your life: sometimes you trust their opinion of yourself more than your own. But just because they say it, doesn’t make it true, and I’m done letting him tell me who I am.

His hand flexes like the sexiest scene ever filmed (aka the Darcy hand flex from Pride and Prejudice…you know what I’m talking about)