I Hate You - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,3

but a notch on his bedpost.

Anger flares, building and growing.

“Not his type, indeed,” I mutter. Deep down I’m still that chubby girl in school with thick legs and huge boobs. Chubby Charm, Bouncing Boobs, Thunder Thighs—those nicknames stick in my throat like cement. Most days I’m past those old insults; I’m not normally one to wallow in adolescent self-pity, but when your thighs still touch and the guy you’re with dumps you and starts dating a toothpick who looks like she might break in half if a hard wind blows, it brings the memories back, sharp as a knife.

Margo frowns as she looks at me—again. Digging up some of my old flair, I paste on a big smile, catch the arm of a passing waitress, and order a round of drinks for the table: a shot of tequila for me, prosecco for Madame President, and a Guinness for Connor. The other guys decline my offer. Maybe they’re still wary of me, but I barely notice. My senses are heightened and taut, tight as a wire as I try to keep one eye on the door and one on my friends, hoping I look casual and not anxious.

Come on, football players! Let’s get this over with so I can get my ass home and put on regular clothes, raid my fridge, and watch Big Bang Theory.

Three tequilas in and only half an hour has passed. Plus, I’m still sober. I glare at my shot glass, contemplating an entire bottle. Why does each moment that passes feel so dang slow? Still, I look back up and give the group a sweeping smile. Here I am, happy as a clam, it says.

The front door of the bar creaks open, and I pause mid-sip. The music is loud, tons of students going back and forth, yet somehow the noise of the door skates down my spine like a ghost brushed past me dragging chains.

I feel the electricity in the room before I lay my eyes on him.

He blows in like a king ready to receive his subjects.

At six foot three and almost zero body fat, he’s tall and lithe and tightly muscular—and beautiful. Can a man be beautiful? Fuck yeah. His thick, dark brown hair has grown out, and the top strands are swept back off his forehead, carefully styled, the sides cut shorter. The lengthier hair on top is edgy looking, totally different from how he wore it last fall in a short fauxhawk. Douchebag Extraordinaire has lighter colors interwoven, giving it depth and accentuating ice-blue eyes. He asked me to highlight his hair once during our whirlwind. We never got around to it—but someone has.

Another change? He’s sporting dark scruff on his jawline, giving him a slightly dangerous look.

I suck in a gulp of air. I never pictured him with sexy facial hair, and it’s…it’s…

It’s nothing. My heart is pure, hard steel.

The lights from the ceiling bathe him in a spotlight as he presents the entire bar with that famous sexy grin, the one that melts your insides and makes girls fall at his feet.

He turns when someone calls his name, and my eyes eat up the line of his profile, strong and defined and chiseled. His nose is straight and patrician looking, his cheekbones high and sculpted, carving out a perfect face. And even though it’s January, his face is sun-kissed from playing football outside for months at a time. He’s a damn Adonis.

Piercing, intense eyes are set underneath dark brows. His lashes are long and thick and you’d think it would make him look feminine, but nope. All it does is call attention to the hint of laughter there, as if he knows something you don’t, as if he’s playing you.

Which he is.

Blaze Townsend is a player.

Tonight he’s wearing a Wildcats National Championship long-sleeved navy shirt that clings to his biceps. I think about the skin under that shirt, those granite-hard abs he works so hard on. I’ve had my hands there. I’ve kissed each rippling muscle, worshipping him with my lips and tongue. God. I was crazy about his body.

My eyes move down, taking in the dark jeans encasing long muscular legs. I recall those powerful thighs under my hands, the dark curls I ran my fingers through.

Oh, just stop already!

F’ing hot.

F’ing asshole.

My libido frosts over when I see who’s with him.

On either side are two gorgeous girls with varied shades of blonde hair. They’re everything I’m not: tall, skinny, beautiful. My throat tightens at the perfection of them,