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T hank you for reading Turn Over! Check out my other books on my Amazon page .
Naughty Notes
Y ’all, Luke and Alexa’s story has been with me for so long I can’t believe I’m actually finished writing their HEA. Handing characters over is not the easiest thing to do. I get used to them. They become a part of my world—I’m not kidding. I wake up wondering how Alexa would handle something. I see something I know would completely piss Luke off and it makes me laugh. This is what happens to writers. We get in deep !
But I have to let them go and give them over to you so you can fall in love just like I did. So many people helped me work through this story and pushed me when I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get it right. Because that’s what matters to me—writing something that makes the readers feel. Something fun and sexy with twists of emotions here and there. And who are we kidding … we want that super hot guy. We want Luke Canton! I’ll let you in on a secret … Texas guys are hot. Beyond hot .
I have to share this memory because it seriously shapes my love for Texas guys. One of my all-time favorite nights when I lived there included this guy I was seeing. He was an artist, loved to two-step, had his share of tattoos, played baseball, loved country music, and was broody as hell. Oh, and the longest most beautiful eyelashes I have ever seen on a guy. He was not doting or super romantic—nothing like that, but one night he led me outside with a huge pile of blankets and spread them out in the backyard. He had a few of those famous Texas beers and we hung out and watched shooting stars and drank beer. It was simple, sweet, and just one of those moments a girl doesn’t forget .
Somewhere in the back of my head I think Luke would do the same thing for Alexa .
Seriously, everyone involved in this book (you know who you are) you rock! Thank you! I couldn’t do it without my family, friends, and the super awesome readers who have supported me this year. Thank you, thank you, thank you !
Dirty Play
One
Wes
I was a god. And not just any god. I had an arm that could throw a lightning bolt a hundred yards, with two seconds left on the game clock, and score. They should have called me Zeus. I could run faster than any damn lineman trying to knock the shit out of me. I could read the defense faster than the whistle blew. I could call plays and execute before the defense could say their own names. I was a fucking god out on that field, and everyone knew it. The coaches. My teammates. The fans .
Hell, I had known it since I joined the pee-wee league when I was six. That’s what kids do in Texas. Kids that have dads who want them to be competitive assholes before they can read. And that was me. Born to play football. Born to dominate. Born to win. Molded and coached into the best fucking quarterback to walk the planet .
And I did win. I won state playoffs in high school, I won our conference title in college, and I was on our way to taking our team to the Super Bowl. Nothing stopped Wes Blakefield. Nothing .
I could fuck any woman I wanted. I could gamble. I could party after a game. All of it. Because I won. The American Football Association wasn’t going to stop me. And neither was my team. I brought them millions. As long as I won, they would look the other way .
They didn’t give a shit about the women or the bets. As long as I put a W in the column every Sunday, they stayed off my back. I was a walking cash machine for those bastards .
Until everything came crashing down .
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2 months earlier
“B lakefield, you want me to pick you up tonight ?”
“Like a damn date? No thanks. I’ve got a driver.” I slapped my wide receiver on the back with my towel .
Practice had been light today. We ran some drills and I worked out a new route with the receivers. I stood in front of my locker, shoving my clothes in my bag, and picked up a water bottle .
“I guess you’re not planning on going home alone?” Stubbs grinned .
“Do I ever ?”
The locker room was almost clear. Most guys had showered and were headed to the Dean. It was a tradition among the Wranglers that the rookies threw a party as a gift to their teammates. We didn’t like to call it an initiation, but we all knew there was hell to pay on the practice field if the party sucked. The name stuck after the first rookie, Larry Dean, threw one hell of a party. I didn’t know what was in store for the night, but I was hoping it involved a pair of big tits and a tight ass. The guys knew my type, and I expected them to deliver .
“See you there.” Stubbs waved as he exited the locker room .
I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed out after him. I didn’t expect to run into Coach in the corridor .
“Wes.”
“Hey, Coach .”
Coach Howell was in his mid fifties, but the poor bastard looked like he was pushing seventy. That’s what coaching in the AFA did to a man. It shaved years off his life .
