Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | The Risk (Briar U #2) |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Elle Kennedy |
| Language: | English |
| ISBN/ ASIN: | B07G4H3665 |
| Book Information: | |
A sexy standalone novel from New York Times and international bestselling author Elle Kennedy. THE RISK takes you back to the world of hot hockey players, feisty heroines, bro banter, and steamy scenes... Everyone says I’m a bad girl. They’re only partly right—I don’t let fear rule me, and I certainly don’t care what people think. But I draw the line at sleeping with the enemy. As the daughter of Briar’s head hockey coach, I’d be vilified if I hooked up with a player from a rival team. And that’s who Jake Connelly is. Harvard’s star forward is arrogant, annoying, and too attractive for his own good. But fate is cruel—I require his help to secure a much-coveted internship, and the sexy jerk isn’t making it easy for me. I need Connelly to be my fake boyfriend.For every fake date…he wants a real one. Which means this bad girl is in big trouble. Nothing good can come from sneaking around with Jake Connelly. My father would kill me, my friends will revolt, and my post-college career is on the line. But while it’s getting harder and harder to resist Jake’s oozing sex appeal and cocky grin, I refuse to fall for him. That’s the one risk I’m not willing to take. | |
| Books in Series: | Briar U Series by Elle Kennedy |
| Books by Author: | Elle Kennedy Books |
1
Brenna
My date is late.
Now, I’m not a total bitch. Usually I’ll give guys a five-minute window. I can forgive five minutes of tardiness.
At seven minutes, I might still be somewhat receptive, especially if the lateness is accompanied by a heads-up call or text informing me he’s going to be late. Traffic is an evil mistress. Sometimes she screws you.
At ten minutes, my patience would be running thin. And if the inconsiderate ass is both ten minutes late and didn’t call? Thank you, next. I’m walking right out the door.
At fifteen minutes, shame on me. Why the hell am I still at the restaurant?
Or, in this particular case, the diner.
I’m sitting in a booth at Della’s, the ’50s-themed diner in Hastings. Hastings is the small town I’m calling home for the next couple of years, but luckily, I don’t need to call my father’s house “home.” Dad and I might live in the same town, but before I transferred to Briar University, I made it clear I wouldn’t be moving in with him. I already left that nest. No way am I flying back to it and subjecting myself to his overprotectiveness and terrible cooking again.
“Can I get you another coffee, hon?” The waitress, a curly-haired woman in a white-and-blue polyester uniform, eyes me sympathetically. She looks to be in her late twenties. Her nametag reads “Stacy,” and I’m pretty sure she knows I’ve been ditched.
“No, thanks. Just the bill, please.”
As she walks off, I pick up my phone and shoot a quick text to my friend Summer. This is all her fault. Therefore she must face my wrath.
ME: He stood me up.
Summer answers instantly, as if she’s been sitting by her phone waiting for a report. Actually, forget “as if.” She totally has. My new friend is unapologetically nosy.
SUMMER: OMG! NO!!
* * *
ME: Yes.
* * *
SUMMER: What. a. dick. I am so so so so sorry, Bee.
* * *
ME: Meh. Part of me’s not surprised. He’s a football player. They’re notorious douchecanoes.
* * *
SUMMER: I thought Jules was different.
* * *
ME: You thought wrong.
Three dots appear, indicating she’s typing a response, but I already know what it will be. Another long-winded apology, which I’m not in the mood to read at the moment. I’m not in the mood for anything but paying for my coffee, walking back to my tiny apartment, and taking off my bra.
Stupid football player. I actually put makeup on for this jerk. Yes, it was just supposed to be an evening coffee date, but I still made an effort.
I bend my head as I rummage around in my wallet for small bills. When a shadow falls over the tabletop, I assume it’s Stacy returning with my check.
I assume wrong.
“Jensen,” drawls an insolent male voice. “Got stood up, eh?”
Ugh. Of all the people who could’ve shown up right now, this is the last one I want to see.
As Jake Connelly slides into the other side of the booth, I greet him with a suspicious scowl rather than a smile. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
Connelly is the captain of the Harvard hockey team, AKA, THE ENEMY. Harvard and Briar are rivals, and my father happens to be the head coach of the latter. He’s coached at Briar for ten years, winning three championships during that reign. The Age of Jensen—that was the headline of a recent article I read in one of the New England papers. It was a full-page write-up about how Briar is killing it this season. Unfortunately, so is Harvard, all thanks to the superstar across the booth from me.
“I was in the neighborhood.” There’s an amused gleam in his forest-green eyes.
The last time I saw him, he and a teammate were lurking in the stands of Briar’s arena, scoping us out. Not long after, we kicked their asses when our teams played each other. Which was tremendously satisfying and made up for our loss against them earlier in the season.
“Mmm-hmmm, I’m sure you just happened to be in Hastings. Don’t you live in Cambridge?”
“So?”
“So that’s an hour away.” I give him a smirk. “I didn’t know I had a stalker.”
“You got me. I’m stalking you.”
“I’m flattered, Jakey. It’s been a while since someone was so besotted with me that they drove to a whole other town to track me down.”
His lips slowly curve into a smile. “Look, as hot as you are—”
“Aw, you think I’m a hottie?”
“—I wouldn’t spend the gas money to come here just to get my balls put through the wringer. Sorry to disappoint.” He runs a hand through his dark hair. It’s a bit shorter now, and he’s rocking some scruff that shadows his jaw.
“You say that as if I have any interest in your balls,” I answer sweetly.
“My metaphorical balls. You wouldn’t be able to handle the real ones,” he drawls. “Hottie.”