From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Ella and Micha series comes a gripping story of passion, pain, and the courage to love . . . The Tempation of Lila and Ethan On the surface, Lila Summers is flawless: good looks, expensive clothes, and a big, beautiful smile. But a dark past and even darker secrets are threatening to bubble over her perfect fa?àövüade. She'll do anything to keep the emptiness inside hidden-which leads her into situations that always end badly. Whenever she hits bottom, there's only one person who's there to pull her out: Ethan Gregory. Ethan set the rules a long time ago: he and Lila are just friends. He doesn't do relationships. Although his tattooed, bad boy exterior is a far cry from Lila's pretty princess image, Ethan can't deny they have a deeper connection than he's used to. If he's not careful, he could be in serious danger of becoming attached-and he's learned the hard way that attachment only leads to heartbreak. When Lila falls farther than she ever has before, can Ethan continue to help as a friend? Or is he also getting close to falling . . . for her? "Romantic, suspenseful and well written---this is a story you won't want to put down." ― RT Book Reviews on The Coincidence of Callie & Kayden "Sorensen's portrayal of... relationships and long-distance love, as well as the longing to escape one's past, raises her above her new adult peers."― RT Book Reviews on The Secret of Ella and Micha Jessica Sorensen is a #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives with her husband and three kids in Idaho. When she's not writing, she spends her time reading and hanging out with her family. You can learn more at: http://jessicasorensen.com/ Twitter @jessFallenStar Facebook.com/pages/Jessica-Sorensen/165335743524509 The Temptation of Lila and Ethan By Jessica Sorensen Grand Central Publishing Copyright © 2014 Jessica Sorensen All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4555-7489-6 CHAPTER 1 Present day ... Lila I'm having a where-the-hell-am-I moment. My arms are flailing, my pulse fitfullyracing as I struggle to get my bearings. I open my eyes, but I can't place asingle thing about the room I'm in, other than I'm naked in a bed, sweaty, andsuper gross. My head feels like it's stuck in a fishbowl as I try to recollectwhere I left my pills, but I can't even remember where I am. There are photos onthe walls, none of anyone I recognize, though. The closet is open and it lookslike there's some kind of football uniform in there. Did I sleep with afootball player? No, that doesn't sound familiar. My gaze slides to theopened condom wrapper on the nightstand and I feel relief wash through me. I'mon birth control and everything, but that only protects from pregnancy. God,I really need to stop doing this. I've become accustomed to these kinds of situations, waking up in unfamiliarplaces with a headache, panic, and consistent, recognizable shame inside me thatI know belongs there, just as much as the air in my lungs and the blood in myheart. I don't deserve to feel anything better after the decisions and choicesthat I've made. I know what I am on the inside now and I don't fight it anymore.It's both liberating and heartbreaking because this is how I have tobe—who I am—and it's sad. But I can smile on the outside, show theworld how happy I am, since that's what's important, even if I'm dying on theinside. The routine is very simple and I know it like I know the back of my hand. I openmy eyes, take in my surroundings, try to remember something, and then when allelse fails, get the hell out of there. I slowly sit up, trying not to wake theguy lying in the bed next to me. He's got dark brown hair and a pretty sturdybody, but his back is turned to me and my memories are hazy, so I can't placewhat he looks like from the front. Maybe that's for the best, though. Whatever Iwas looking for with him—love, happiness, a blissful moment ofconnection—obviously never happened. And I'm at a point in my life where Idoubt if it ever will. Holding my breath, I climb out of bed and slip my dress on, covering myself up,along with the scar winding around my waist, reminding me of why I'm here. Iattempt to get the back row of buttons done up, but my fingers are numb, like Iwas doing something weird with them last night, which could be a possibility. Ido have tendency to get a little extreme when I'm that drunk. The fingernailssometimes come out, and back in boarding school I got deemed the sluttybiter/screamer. Although, sometimes I wonder if I do it out of pleasure or fromthe fear that seems to surface when I have sex. And that confusion is his fault. I'll always hate him for that, even if I thought I loved himand would have done anything for him at the time. But how could I really, when Iwas way too young to feel love? Even now, I still haven't felt it and I'm twentyyears old. Leaving my dress unbuttoned, I collect my shoes and tiptoe toward the do