I want you . . . even when I hate you.
I Hate You, an all-new enemies to lovers sports romance from Wall Street Journal bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills, is available now!
Blaze Townsend: I hate you.
Charisma Rossi: I hate you more.
Sheâ€™s been expecting this ever since their latest showdown. She had good reason.
Hottest guy sheâ€™s ever seen.
Dumped her in front of her friends.
At her own party.
So no, sheâ€™s not about to forgive and forget just because he sits next to her in class.
He thinks all he has to do is turn on those baby blues, and sheâ€™ll melt right back into his arms. Please.Sheâ€™d be crazy to let this cocky player affect her again. (Tell that to her body.)
Nerd girl with a dash of bad.
The one who got under his skin.
The one he cut loose.
Blaze knows sheâ€™s the riskiest prospect at Waylon University, but none of the interchangeable girls he hooks up with have ever made him feel the way she did. Thereâ€™s absolutely no way he can have the girl and the game.
So why canâ€™t he stop trying to win her back?
Can this wide receiver score the girl or will he make the biggest fumble of his life
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Excerpt:â€œNeed some help?â€ Iâ€™m on my tiptoes when the question comes, trying to reach a book on the top shelf in the bookstore at the student center. My heart does a nosedive off a cliff as that familiar gruff voice washes over me, his accent a smooth drawl thatâ€™s reminiscent of hot summer nights and slow kissesâ€”kisses we never hadâ€¦well, except for that one time freshman year. I ignore him and try to grab the book. â€œYouâ€™re too short. Let me,â€ Blaze says, this time closer, his voice soft. I ease back on my feet and whip around, internally wishing Iâ€™d worn something more I hate you and donâ€™t you wish you still had me, but sadly, Iâ€™m not in my kickass shoes and itchy dress. Today itâ€™s flat-soled red Converse, black joggers, and a Yankees sweatshirt. I blow at a piece of hair in my face. Shit. Of course, he looks magnificent in a tight long-sleeved black shirt that clings to his broad chest and tapered jeans molded to those leg muscles. His face is unshaven, the darkness on his jawline adding a broody look. Curse him and his hotness. I stare at him a little too long, until I snap out of it. â€œI donâ€™t need help,â€ My voice is strangled as I move to brush past himâ€”forget the textbooksâ€”but he reaches out and takes my elbow. â€œCharismaâ€”â€ His fingers are a hot brand on my skinâ€”itâ€™s the first time weâ€™ve touched in three monthsâ€”and I pull away. A tremble starts in my legs. How dare he?It was one thing to see him in a social setting and pretend I was fine, but when weâ€™re face to face without people watchingâ€¦ â€œDonâ€™t put your hands on me. Iâ€™m not your hookup anymore, football player.â€ His face reddens, and he drops his arms. â€œI didnâ€™t meanâ€”â€ he stops, not finishing as he studies my face. I wonder what he sees. You know what he sees, Charismaâ€”someone who wasnâ€™t up to his usual standards. Everything I didnâ€™t say last night rushes out. â€œDidnâ€™t mean to what? Dump me in the middle of my own sororityâ€™s party in front of all my friends and half of campus? And you know, thatâ€™s totally fine. We both knew I wasnâ€™t enough to keep your attention.â€ His jaw clenches and he frowns, his brow furrowing. â€œI didnâ€™t plan for things to happen that way.â€ â€œHow did you want to break up with me? Over candlelight? A text would have worked just fine,â€ I bite out. The silence builds between us, and he watches me intently, as if trying to figure me out. He starts at my hair and works his way down to my feet, then comes back to my face. Just when I think I might combust from the intensity of his eyes, he looks away. â€œWhat?â€ I cock my hip. â€œYou look like you want to say something.â€ He taps his hand against his leg. Ice-blue eyes, ones I used to stare into and get butterflies from, glitter down at me. â€œYou just canâ€™t handle that ended things, sweetheart.â€ â€œNot your sweetheart.â€ â€œNever were.â€ Shitâ€¦shitâ€¦my heart feels like an anvil just landed on it, heavy and hard, and I canâ€™t breathe for a second at his words, part of me pissed, the other part devastated. I wanted to be his sweetheart, I did, but heâ€¦ Youâ€™re not my type. â€œThanks for the reminder,â€ I say quietly, my anger folding away piece by piece and slipping into that horrible self-pity I despise. He closes his eyes and scrubs his face with those talented hands, strong and big and capable, skillful with a football. He steps in front of me, much like he did last night, and I tilt my head back to take him in. At my height of five feet, three inches, itâ€™s hard to glare at a guy who towers over you and not look ridiculous, but I manageâ€”until his eyes flicker with lingering emotion. I dart my eyes around the store, searching for a way out, but Iâ€™m stuck between him and a bookshelf. â€œYouâ€™re blocking my path.â€ I focus on his legs. No sexiness thereâ€”well, except for the tight muscles under that denim. â€œThis is what I know,â€ he says in a low voice, ignoring my statement. â€œYou told me we were just messing around. You set all the rules. Isnâ€™t that how you operate? So why does me ending things with you even matter?â€ â€œYou never asked for more. You could have.â€ The revealing words fall around us, tinged with hurt, and I want to pull them back. The silence between us crackles, yet Iâ€™m aware of other people around us. There are a few girls on another aisle, and I glance over as one of them pulls out her phone. No doubt sheâ€™s taking a picture of him. Part of me retreats, anxious sheâ€™ll get me in that photoâ€”a girl who clearly doesnâ€™t belong. He doesnâ€™t notice. Everyone knows who he is, and theyâ€™re probably wondering why heâ€™s talking to me. â€œNo, I didnâ€™t,â€ he finally says, the words taut as if pulled from him unwillingly. He taps his leg, his tell that heâ€™s anxious or angry. We werenâ€™t together long, but every moment we spent together, I studied him like a wine connoisseur given a glass of rare cabernet. I know what makes him laugh, usually random things that make no sense. I know that groan he makes deep in this throat when he slides inside me, like heâ€™s home. I know the feel of his hand when he cups my face and stares at me, a hesitant expression on his faceâ€” â€œYou canâ€™t even look at me anymore. I wonder why,â€ he says, his voice a challenge. Steeling myself, I face those baby blues. â€œYou know why. I wish weâ€™d never met up last fall. I wish youâ€™d never flirted with me. I wish Iâ€™d never fucked you that first time in the libraryâ€”â€ â€œSame page. Same fucking page, Charisma.â€ And then heâ€™s walking away, broad shoulders swaying as he stalks down the aisleâ€¦
About Ilsa Madden-MillsWall Street Journal, New York Times, and USA Today best-selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills is best known for her angsty new adult romances and romantic comedies. Eight of her eleven novels have placed in the Amazon Top 10 Best-seller List: Dirty English #1; Fake FiancÃ©e and I Dare You #2; I Bet You, Filthy English, and Very Bad Things #6; Boyfriend Bargain #8; The Last Guy, her collaboration with Tia Louise, #4. A former high school English teacher, she adores all things Pride and Prejudice, and of course, Mr. Darcy is her ultimate hero. She’s addicted to frothy coffee beverages, cheesy magnets, and any book featuring unicorns and sword-wielding females. Feel free to stalk her online. .
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