First rule of being the perfect student: never invest your feelings in high-risk assets. Meaning boys.
I, Briar Adams, broke that rule and paid dearly when I saw my boyfriend’s bare ass in the back seat of his pickup. (Spoiler: the girl underneath him was not me.)
My revenge plan came together instantly, and it was mathematically flawless. Step one: find an equally miserable partner in crime, preferably one with stunning blue eyes and broad shoulders. Step two: strike a fake-relationship deal to make our exes choke on jealousy. Step three: when the traitors come crawling back, stage a dramatic breakup and walk off triumphantly into the sunset, free. The perfect formula.
But my brilliant calculations left out one fatal variable. My fake boyfriend, Kaylen, kisses in a way that shuts my analytical thinking down completely. And spontaneous “stress relief” sex destroys every life barrier I’ve spent years building.
Apparently, my perfectly calibrated system has suffered a critical failure. And the scariest part is, I have absolutely no desire to fix it.
