Title: I Hate You
Author: Ilsa Madden-Mills
Genre: Enemies-to-Lovers Football Romance
Release Date: August 19, 2019
Blaze Townsend: I hate you.
Charisma Rossi: I hate you more.
Sheâs been expecting this ever since their latest showdown. She had good reason.
Hottest guy sheâs ever seen.
Former fling.
Dumped her in front of her friends.
At her own party.
So no, sheâs 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 sheâll melt right back into his arms. Please. Sheâd be crazy to let this cocky player affect her again. (Tell that to her body.)
Charisma Rossi.
Nerd girl with a dash of bad.
The one who got under his skin.
The one he cut loose.
Blaze knows sheâs 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. Thereâs absolutely no way he can have the girl and the game.
So why canât he stop trying to win her back?
Can this wide receiver score the girl or will he make the biggest fumble of his life?
YOU CAN'T RESISTA DIRTY BOOK REVIEW
The book may be titled "I Hate You" but you are destined to fall for these characters! A super sexy, charming read perfect for those summer days lazing by the pool. A book the is easy to sink your teeth into, I totally devoured it!
Blaze the grade 'A' alpha male. A 'typical' jock or so we think. Beneath that beautiful, tough exterior is an ocean of pain that is clear if you look close enough. No one ever did until Charisma. The nerdy girl. Italian American descent a far cry from the girls normally seen with Blaze but she is the one girl that leaves a lasting impression.
She is straight talking and has a great sense of humour. She also has rules. Is she willing to break these rules and risk her heart for Blaze?
Will Blaze be willing to take a chance on another person? He has always only ever relied on himself, never needed anyone else, but this plucky sorority girl challenges everything he thought about others.
They are a risk but in order to move on from the past they both must decide to take that leap of fate. An excellent college romance đđđ
The book may be titled "I Hate You" but you are destined to fall for these characters! A super sexy, charming read perfect for those summer days lazing by the pool. A book the is easy to sink your teeth into, I totally devoured it!
Blaze the grade 'A' alpha male. A 'typical' jock or so we think. Beneath that beautiful, tough exterior is an ocean of pain that is clear if you look close enough. No one ever did until Charisma. The nerdy girl. Italian American descent a far cry from the girls normally seen with Blaze but she is the one girl that leaves a lasting impression.
She is straight talking and has a great sense of humour. She also has rules. Is she willing to break these rules and risk her heart for Blaze?
Will Blaze be willing to take a chance on another person? He has always only ever relied on himself, never needed anyone else, but this plucky sorority girl challenges everything he thought about others.
They are a risk but in order to move on from the past they both must decide to take that leap of fate. An excellent college romance đđđ
âNeed some help?â
Iâm 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 thatâs reminiscent of hot summer nights and slow kissesâkisses we never hadâŠwell, except for that one time freshman year.
I ignore him and try to grab the book.
âYouâre too short. Let me,â Blaze says, this time closer, his voice soft.
I ease back on my feet and whip around, internally wishing Iâd worn something more I hate you and donât you wish you still had me, but sadly, Iâm not in my kickass shoes and itchy dress. Today itâs 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.
âI donât need help,â My voice is strangled as I move to brush past himâforget the textbooksâbut he reaches out and takes my elbow.
âCharismaââ
His fingers are a hot brand on my skinâitâs the first time weâve touched in three monthsâand 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 weâre face to face without people watching⊠âDonât put your hands on me. Iâm not your hookup anymore, football player.â
His face reddens, and he drops his arms. âI didnât meanââ he stops, not finishing as he studies my face.
I wonder what he sees. You know what he sees, Charismaâsomeone who wasnât up to his usual standards.
Everything I didnât say last night rushes out. âDidnât mean to what? Dump me in the middle of my own sororityâs party in front of all my friends and half of campus? And you know, thatâs totally fine. We both knew I wasnât enough to keep your attention.â
His jaw clenches and he frowns, his brow furrowing. âI didnât plan for things to happen that way.â
âHow 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.
âWhat?â I cock my hip. âYou 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. âYou just canât handle that I ended things, sweetheart.â
âNot your sweetheart.â
âNever were.â
ShitâŠshitâŠmy heart feels like an anvil just landed on it, heavy and hard, and I canât breathe for a second at his words, part of me pissed, the other part devastated. I wanted to be his sweetheart, I did, but heâŠ
Youâre not my type.
âThanks 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, itâs hard to glare at a guy who towers over you and not look ridiculous, but I manageâuntil his eyes flicker with lingering emotion.
I dart my eyes around the store, searching for a way out, but Iâm stuck between him and a bookshelf. âYouâre blocking my path.â I focus on his legs. No sexiness thereâwell, except for the tight muscles under that denim.
âThis is what I know,â he says in a low voice, ignoring my statement. âYou told me we were just messing around. You set all the rules. Isnât that how you operate? So why does me ending things with you even matter?â
âYou 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 Iâm 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 sheâs taking a picture of him. Part of me retreats, anxious sheâll get me in that photoâa girl who clearly doesnât belong. He doesnât notice. Everyone knows who he is, and theyâre probably wondering why heâs talking to me.
âNo, I didnât,â he finally says, the words taut as if pulled from him unwillingly. He taps his leg, his tell that heâs anxious or angry. We werenât 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 heâs home. I know the feel of his hand when he cups my face and stares at me, a hesitant expression on his faceâ
âYou canât even look at me anymore. I wonder why,â he says, his voice a challenge.
Steeling myself, I face those baby blues. âYou know why. I wish weâd never met up last fall. I wish youâd never flirted with me. I wish Iâd never fucked you that first time in the libraryââ
âSame page. Same fucking page, Charisma.â And then heâs walking away, broad shoulders swaying as he stalks down the aisleâŠ
Iâm 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 thatâs reminiscent of hot summer nights and slow kissesâkisses we never hadâŠwell, except for that one time freshman year.
I ignore him and try to grab the book.
âYouâre too short. Let me,â Blaze says, this time closer, his voice soft.
I ease back on my feet and whip around, internally wishing Iâd worn something more I hate you and donât you wish you still had me, but sadly, Iâm not in my kickass shoes and itchy dress. Today itâs 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.
âI donât need help,â My voice is strangled as I move to brush past himâforget the textbooksâbut he reaches out and takes my elbow.
âCharismaââ
His fingers are a hot brand on my skinâitâs the first time weâve touched in three monthsâand 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 weâre face to face without people watching⊠âDonât put your hands on me. Iâm not your hookup anymore, football player.â
His face reddens, and he drops his arms. âI didnât meanââ he stops, not finishing as he studies my face.
I wonder what he sees. You know what he sees, Charismaâsomeone who wasnât up to his usual standards.
Everything I didnât say last night rushes out. âDidnât mean to what? Dump me in the middle of my own sororityâs party in front of all my friends and half of campus? And you know, thatâs totally fine. We both knew I wasnât enough to keep your attention.â
His jaw clenches and he frowns, his brow furrowing. âI didnât plan for things to happen that way.â
âHow 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.
âWhat?â I cock my hip. âYou 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. âYou just canât handle that I ended things, sweetheart.â
âNot your sweetheart.â
âNever were.â
ShitâŠshitâŠmy heart feels like an anvil just landed on it, heavy and hard, and I canât breathe for a second at his words, part of me pissed, the other part devastated. I wanted to be his sweetheart, I did, but heâŠ
Youâre not my type.
âThanks 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, itâs hard to glare at a guy who towers over you and not look ridiculous, but I manageâuntil his eyes flicker with lingering emotion.
I dart my eyes around the store, searching for a way out, but Iâm stuck between him and a bookshelf. âYouâre blocking my path.â I focus on his legs. No sexiness thereâwell, except for the tight muscles under that denim.
âThis is what I know,â he says in a low voice, ignoring my statement. âYou told me we were just messing around. You set all the rules. Isnât that how you operate? So why does me ending things with you even matter?â
âYou 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 Iâm 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 sheâs taking a picture of him. Part of me retreats, anxious sheâll get me in that photoâa girl who clearly doesnât belong. He doesnât notice. Everyone knows who he is, and theyâre probably wondering why heâs talking to me.
âNo, I didnât,â he finally says, the words taut as if pulled from him unwillingly. He taps his leg, his tell that heâs anxious or angry. We werenât 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 heâs home. I know the feel of his hand when he cups my face and stares at me, a hesitant expression on his faceâ
âYou canât even look at me anymore. I wonder why,â he says, his voice a challenge.
Steeling myself, I face those baby blues. âYou know why. I wish weâd never met up last fall. I wish youâd never flirted with me. I wish Iâd never fucked you that first time in the libraryââ
âSame page. Same fucking page, Charisma.â And then heâs walking away, broad shoulders swaying as he stalks down the aisleâŠ
Wall 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 Fiancée 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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