No sex.

No make-out sessions.
One good kisser and Isla is done for.

No heavy petting.
One brush anywhere near her nether regions and she might as well rip this whole thing up.

Dating is allowed.
If she wants to torture herself.

Masturbation is okay.
Under controlled circumstances.

No sex!

No Sex!

NO SEX!

Isla thought she knew exactly how the third date would end.

A handsome man. Manhattan cocktails. Dangerous dimples. And enough chemistry to fog up the windows overlooking the Hudson.

What she didn't expect?

A bedroom disaster so spectacular, she'd be telling the story for the rest of her life.

Some women get flowers.

Isla Monroe got trauma and a future stand-up routine.

Because apparently, the universe had jokes.

How is she supposed to just… stop?

It’s all she’s ever known.

And now that her life feels as if it’s on the brink of romantic collapse, maybe it is time she takes a step back.

Delete all the dating apps.

No more swiping right more than left.

No more lackluster texts. No more ghosting. No more bad dates dressed up as possibilities.

It’s time to do something about this.

She exhaled slowly.

You’re being ridiculous.

Her hand closed around the doorknob.

Then—

Footsteps.

Right outside her room.

Her entire body went rigid.

Someone was there.

She held her breath until her chest ached, afraid even the smallest sound might give her away.

The footsteps stopped.

Silence followed.

Complete.

Unbroken.

Perhaps whoever it was had left.

Perhaps they had realized no one was home.

Perhaps—

The door exploded inward with a deafening crash.

The edge struck Isla square in the forehead before she could react. Pain flared sharp and immediate, stealing the breath from her lungs.

Then everything went dark.