The Player: A Scorching Hot Romance

By Stefanie London

Emery Daniels has no time for the heartbreaker next door…but the tension between them is impossible to resist! Don’t miss the sizzling final installment of the Close Quarters miniseries by USA TODAY bestselling author Stefanie London!

Rowan Lively is the neighbor from hell, with a parade of beautiful women only too happy to stroke his inflated ego. And I can’t take another night of listening to him making those noises through the paper-thin walls. I need to design my latest board game, not fantasize about my gorgeous neighbor.

Anonymous fun with a costumed hottie at a gaming conference is a sexy distraction from terrible online reviews and conflicts with my creative team. I’m craving a physical release to put Rowan out of my mind. Until our true identities are revealed, and I find myself in a compromising position with my neighborly nemesis…

Now I can barely look Rowan in the eye, and the sparks between us are hot enough to burn down the building. Soon we’re waking the neighbors with our passionate games and working together on a new exhibit for his Melbourne art gallery. And even though I know the score—this is just a fling—I can’t help wondering…will he ever play for keeps?

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlequin
• Release date: Mar 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780369702432

Stefanie London

Stefanie London is a USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary romance. Her books have been called "genuinely entertaining and memorable" by Booklist, and her writing praised as "elegant, descriptive and delectable" by RT Magazine. Originally from Australia, she now lives in Toronto with her very own hero and is doing her best to travel the world. She frequently indulges her passions for lipstick, good coffee, books and anything zombie related.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Emery

SOUNDS LIKE...PENIS?

I snort as my friend Ava blushes and shakes her head. She’s standing at the front of my lounge room, motioning with her finger in a way that looks suspiciously phallic. Also, we’re playing naughty charades, so there’s that.

Penis is possibly the least dirty thing we’ve shouted tonight.

I glance at my teammate, Hannah. Despite the fact that we have three people on our team, the other two women in the room are beating us by a country mile. That’s what we get for playing against twins.

Dick? Doodle? Trouser snake? Firehose? Fuck pole?

Fuck pole, really? Hannah looks at me and bursts out laughing. That’s a new one.

You’re welcome. I wink. You can use that with Owen next time you want to spice things up.

Ava waves her hands, frowning. Okay, scratch all that. She makes the motion for sounds like again and waits to make sure we’re watching. Then she does something...weird.

Is she...tap dancing? Hannah cocks her head.

Ava nods enthusiastically. Then she starts doing the dick thing with her hands again. I’m lost. Hannah and I look at each other and shrug. The time is rapidly running out and the twins are going to claim their victory.

Tap dancing...sounds like tap... I wrinkle my nose and then, like a bolt of lightning strikes me with genius, I get it. Strap-on!

"Thank God, Ava says from the front of the room. That was actually mortifying. If any of you dare put that on social media I will unfriend you for life."

I love playing these games with Ava. Despite being engaged to one of the sexiest men to walk on planet Earth, she blushes at the drop of a hat. Seriously, one time she told me that I was no longer allowed to eat bananas in her presence unless I cut them into pieces first.

Although to be fair, I did ham it up on purpose.

Should we call it a night? Drew stretches her arms above her head and yawns, causing the hem of her T-shirt to rise above the waistband of her shredded jeans. I have to make the arduous trek home.

The arduous trek is a whole one floor down. Hannah also lives in this building, and both Presley and Ava are within a five-minute tram ride. Given I don’t have family in Melbourne, I’m grateful to have one of my own creation in such close proximity. It makes our weekly catch-ups easier and I have more than enough ears to bend if I need to talk to someone.

I think of these ladies as my posse. My girl squad. Sisters from other misters.

You just want to quit while you’re in the winning position, I tease.

Read the numbers and weep, Em. Twelve to three. Drew turns to her sister, Presley, and they high-five. It freaks me out how alike they are, total mirror images right down to the identical tattoos on their hips. Thank God, they dress differently, otherwise I’d never tell them apart. I’d call that a colossal defeat.

Yeah, yeah, I grumble. I start stacking the bowls and glasses from our evening in, trying to act like I don’t care about a silly game even though I have a competitive streak a mile wide. Call it a product of having four older brothers—I like to win. Who’s hosting next week?

I can, Hannah volunteers. "Owen is heading to New York because his old boss is getting married and they’re doing some big bucks party thing. Sorry, bachelor party as he keeps correcting me."

Fancy. Presley tries to help out with cleaning up, but I wave her away.

On one hand, I’m jealous that he’s going to New York, but on the other hand... I get the apartment to myself! She shimmies and I laugh. I know she’ll miss him like crazy, because they’re totally one of those so-adorable-you-want-to-puke couples. In fact, if you ladies want to come over early, I’m happy to cook dinner instead of doing nibbles.

Done. Free meals are my favourite kind. Drew grins. On that note, thanks for hosting tonight, Em.

There’s a chorus of agreement and it makes my heart very full. I love these women to bits. They all file out, with the exception of Ava, who stays behind.

How’s work? she asks, carrying a stack of bowls into the kitchen.

Ugh. I sigh, feeling more than a little guilty at my less-than-enthusiastic response. I have my dream job—designing cool and innovative board games—and yet, like with any other job, it has its good days and its bad days. "We’re supposed to run live playtesting at GameCon this weekend, but the prototype components are not at all what I thought they’d be. Really poor quality. I need to find a new supplier and see how quickly they can turn an order around. On top of that, my illustrator quit."

Eric? Ava frowns. She knows him because the team works out of my apartment from time to time, and until recently she lived across the hall. I’ve only started investing in a shared workspace recently. He just...quit? That doesn’t sound like him.

He walked out of a meeting yesterday and hasn’t taken my calls since. I huff. We had a moment of creative difference.

I feel the judgemental stare from my closest friend before I see it. Ava has a talent for that—emitting her feelings so strongly, you don’t even need to see her to know what she’s thinking.

What? I shrug. I’m the boss, he knows that.

And Eric has been with you since the beginning. You should give his opinions more weight.

I place the glasses in the sink. "One, I hired him as a freelancer on the first project so he didn’t have any skin in the game then. No pun intended. And two, now he’s my employee. I don’t have to play nice to avoid hurting his feelings. This is a business. My business. Do you think anyone would be concerned about the strength of my opinions if I were a man?"

Ava raises an eyebrow. You can have strong opinions, Wonder Woman. But a good leader makes her people feel heard, even if she doesn’t agree with them.

She’s right, of course. But... Well, the competitive streak isn’t my only personality flaw. My verbal filter is about as effective as a drinking glass made of tissue paper, and I have a tendency to bulldoze my way through things until I get what I want. Can I blame that on the four older brothers, too?

I’ll apologise, I grumble. "But I still maintain I was right. I respect Eric—he’s a fantastic illustrator—but the concept drawings are pointless if they don’t get the right tone across, even if they are beautiful."

Which they were. Eric’s artistic talent is second to none, which is why he’s on my team. I only hire the best.

It comes from a good place, Em. Ava places a hand on my shoulder. I know you want this one to pay dividends.

It’s not just the money, I say. The first game was such a phenomenal success I thought I’d cracked some code. But the second one...

Many artists deal with the sophomore slump where their second project underwhelms compared to the first. It could be the new experience of working under a tight deadline, the pressure of knowing people are watching to see if it fails. And, of course, I’ve lain awake so many nights wondering if that first game is the only good idea I’ll ever have.

Maybe it’s some fluke I’ll never recreate.

Lord knows there were plenty of game reviewers and vloggers who said that, and worse, after the second game came out. Talk about a blow to a gal’s confidence.

If I can’t prove myself this time, it could all be over. Investors won’t give me the money I need for future projects if my sales don’t stack up, and I can’t publish my games if I have to partner with a company who’ll whittle down my creative control with contractual fine print. In my head, if this game is a flop, then... I’m done.

I don’t want to be done. But I also don’t have an endless supply of cash to do what I love without worrying whether it’s financially viable.

Em, it will be amazing. The second game...

Sucked. I slump back against the kitchen cabinets.

It wasn’t what you’d hoped, she says gently. This is why Ava’s little students love her so much—she has a calming way about her. "But you learned so much from that project. You made mistakes that will mean this next game is better planned and executed."

I swallow. Thanks.

I want so badly for this game to succeed that the pressure chokes me sometimes. I feel it like a python closing around me, hissing in my ear that I’m never going to pull this off. Which is a red flag to a bull; it makes me push harder and aim higher. But it also makes me a rigid perfectionist who gets stuck on her own ideas and exacting standards.

"I was a bit of a jerk to Eric, I admit with a sigh. I’d just read another review that got in my head—"

Emery Marie Daniels! Ava is in full angry-teacher mode now. "How many times have I told you not to read those things? The game is out and you’ve moved on to another project. Reading the reviews is only a form of self-torture at this point."

I know, I groan, scrubbing my hands over my face. It’s a compulsion.

WWJD?

No, not What Would Jesus Do? It’s What Would J. Lo Do? Beyoncé also works. Or Gaga. Badass ladies who attack their work with creativity, and confidence, and stamina.

"Do you think she sits around reading reviews of her movies and shows? No! She gets her perfect butt back into her tiny costumes and she belts her heart out with conviction. She gets to work."

I nod. You’re right. I need to get my head back in the game.

Yes, you do. Ava reaches in and gives me a hug. No more reading reviews, okay?

I promise.

I walk her to the front door and we chat for a few more minutes—with her telling me a funny anecdote about her students—before we part ways for the night. I sigh and look at my apartment. It appears clean, because I’d feel the wrath of my mother all the way from Queensland if I’d invited my friends over to a messy home. Funny how my dying my hair electric blue and quitting my office job to design board games never bothered her, but a messy house would totally set her off.

However, my place is only clean to the untrained eye. I’d scrambled to sweep a paper prototype into a box under my coffee table, and a few pieces of a bestselling game I’ve been studying are languishing under the couch. Now there are plates and bowls and glasses in the kitchen sink.

"That is a tomorrow problem," I mutter to myself as I head toward my bedroom.

Despite having an awesome night with my friends, I’m feeling emotionally drained. This project is stressful and I’ve spent more nights than is healthy sitting hunched over my coffee table, working until dawn. I’ve always been a bit of a night owl, and when I’m in production mode, it only gets worse.

I head into my tiny bathroom to brush my teeth. The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks a little haunted—bags inexpertly covered with concealer, lashings of mascara unable to hide the red rimming my eyes. Even my cheeks look a little hollow. I tend not to eat when I’m stressed, and my jeans did feel a little looser tonight. My nose looks big as always, but that’s nothing more than an unfortunate family trait.

You need to get it together girl, I tell myself. "Your mother did not raise a whiny bitch."

Damn straight.

I’ll get a good night’s sleep and head into work tomorrow feeling refreshed. Even if I don’t, I’ll at least be caffeinated. Then I’ll apologise to Eric, sufficiently grovel so he forgives me and get back to kicking butt. All I need is a good night’s sleep...

Just as I soak a cotton pad in makeup remover and hold it to my eye, I hear something.

Uhh... The moan comes through the walls of my bathroom. Yes.

Are you fucking kidding me?

There’s no mistaking the source of that moan. Nor the fact that whoever built this building—the laughably named 21 Love Street—decided to make the walls paper bloody thin so that anything and everything can filter through with ease.

There’s a dull thump, like skin hitting tile, and another low pleasure sound. I scrub at my face, trying to block it out while my body reacts as though a switch has been flipped. Problem is, my brain knows how to fill in the blanks.

My next-door neighbour is a guy named Rowan Lively. He’s six-two and built like a Hollywood movie star—all muscle, no fat. Broad shoulders but not too bulky. Strong, lean and hot, hot, hot. Dark hair and smouldering dark eyes along with the cockiest grin you’ve ever seen.

The ladies love him...frequently.

Shut up, I mutter under my breath as I take the rest of my makeup off.

I’m met with a panting sound. Okay, so he’s fucking in the shower. Cool. The walls in the bedroom are just as thin. Ask me how I know that.

Do you have any idea what it’s like to listen to people screwing on the other side of the wall while you’ve been in a sexual wasteland for the past year? It’s cruel, unusual torture. Because I can picture him, water sluicing over his incredible body, hair damp and onyx eyes wide while I slide...

No, you will not slide anything.

Along with being hotter than the depths of hell, Rowan is the kind of guy I’d fantasise about when that same hell freezes over. He’s up himself. Thinks he’s God’s gift and all that. He’s arrogance in a pretty, suited package. A cocky asshole with the body of a god.

And I will not have him ruin this night of sleep that I so desperately need.

As if on cue, there’s a groan so rough and low that it shakes me to my core. Cliché, I know. But that’s how it feels...like the sound is literally travelling through my nervous system, making me tremble on the inside.

I ball my hands into fists. Damn him. I need to start tomorrow on the right foot! Why does he think he can loudly bang his way through the week, inconveniencing his neighbours like this? It’s unfair. Rude.

You’re just saying that because hearing him moan has you wanting to reach for your vibrator.

I’m angry because I know my inner voice is right...and I hate myself for it.

Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself marching through my apartment and out the front door. If Rowan thinks he can keep me up all night with his sexy grunting and groaning, then he’s dead wrong. I will get a good night’s sleep and he’s going to learn a lesson in manners.

CHAPTER TWO

Rowan

I’M BARELY OUT of the shower when I hear the furious pounding at my front door. I towel off and yank on a pair of track pants. Who the hell is knocking at midnight on a Thursday? I’m not playing loud