I Dare You

  Copyright © 2018 by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  Cover Design: Shanoff Designs

  Photography: Wander Aguiar

  Editing: C Marie

  Content Editing: Indie Girl Promotions

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above copyright owner of this book or publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked statue and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Synopsis

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Dirty English Excerpt

  I Dare You Recipes

  Books and Stalking

  About the Author

  This book is for all the cool nerd girls in the world, especially the ones who love hot football guys, cats, Star Wars, The Princess Bride, He-Man, and, of course, it goes without saying…donuts, cookies, and pecan pie.

  From Wall Street Journal bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills comes a brand-new heartfelt, sexy contemporary romance about a smokin’ hot football player and the good girl he falls for…

  Badass Athlete: I dare you to…

  Delaney Shaw: Who is this?

  The late-night text is random, but “Badass Athlete” sure seems to know who she is…

  Delaney Shaw.

  Good girl.

  Lover of fluffy kitties and Star Wars.

  Curious.

  His dare? Spend one night in his bed—a night he promises will be unforgettable—and she can solve the mystery of who he is.

  She knows she shouldn’t, but what else is she going to do with her boring Valentine’s Day?

  One sexy hook-up later, her mind is blown and the secret’s out.

  Maverick Monroe.

  Bad boy.

  The most talented college football player in the country.

  Just ask him.

  Too bad for him Delaney’s sworn off dating athletes forever after her last heartbreak.

  But Maverick wants more than one night and refuses to give up on winning Delaney’s heart. She isn’t one to be fazed by a set of broad shoulders.

  Will the bad boy land the good girl or will the secrets they keep from each other separate them forever?

  Freshman year

  Delaney

  Welcome to Magnolia, Mississippi, where locusts are as big as your hand and iced tea comes with a double helping of sugar.

  It’s also home to the best damn annual bonfire party at prestigious Waylon University, which is currently happening right now in the middle of a cotton field.

  But…

  I shouldn’t even be at this party.

  It’s mostly for Greeks and jocks and popular people, yet here I am, a mere freshman, hanging out with my bubbly redheaded roommate, Skye.

  “See?” she says as we take in the bonfire. “Isn’t this better than watching cat videos on a Saturday night? What do you want to do first?”

  I sigh, feeling nervous. Ever since I moved here from North Carolina, I’ve been pushing myself to try new things. Might as well put a crazy college party on that list. “Let’s get a drink.”

  She claps and excitedly replies, “Done. Alcohol at two o’clock.” We weave through the crowd, headed in that direction, and eventually we reach the bar, which is really just a long collapsible table someone set up. On top are various bottles of alcohol, and I grab the Fireball to pour shots. I’ve just tossed mine back and set down my cup when a prickling sensation washes over me, giving me goose bumps.

  My gaze moves across the crowd, stopping on a tall guy with dark blond hair, broad shoulders, and a cocky smile. Aha. He’s been staring at me, and now that he’s caught, he raises his glass as a half-grin crosses his face.

  I blush wildly as I adjust my black cat-eye glasses. I’m not used to such blatant male attention.

  Skye—who’s followed the trajectory of my gaze—spits out part of her drink. “Oh my God, do you know who that is?”

  “Obviously I should,” I say dryly.

  Her mouth flops open. “You really need to get out more.”

  My eyes drift back to him but keep moving as if I’m not staring. “So who is Mr. Hottie McParty Pants?”

  “If you don’t know him, you don’t deserve to know. But, he’s H-O-T—like Chris Hemsworth hot. I dare you to flirt with him.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me, knowing full well that for some reason, I can’t resist a dare. Normally rather reserved, a dare gives me permission to be someone I’m not.

  So does Fireball. I sling back another shot.

  “I’ll bring you a donut every day for a week if you flirt with him,” she adds, watching me.

  My ears perk up. “The ones with edible glitter?”

  She nods, and I toss a quick glance back to him. Our eyes collide again, and a zing of connection fires between us. He has a strong, handsome face and a stance that has masculine written all over it. A smile tips up his full sensuous lips, and—

  Two brunettes—twins, no less—approach him, one on either side, and wrap their arms around his waist. He smiles down at them. Oh. Well then.

  I turn back to Skye and frown. “Player. Not interested.”

  She waves her hands in my face. “He likes you—I saw it on his face.”

  I snort. “Probably gas pains. Your dare is not accepted.”

  We hear our names being called from the other side of the party and turn to take in the helmet-haired Martha approaching us, which is taking some time due to the fact that she’s wearing stilettos and a slinky halter dress. She carefully picks her way through the crowd, nudging people out of her way—sometimes rudely—as she focuses on us. Great.

  “Incoming mean girl,” I mutter under my breath.

  Like us, Martha Burrows is a freshman and lives on our floor. Rather full of herself, she announced within a week of meeting us that she’d no longer answer to anything but Muffin, a nickname she’d given herself.

  She eyes us both, a look of superiority on her pretty face. “I didn’t know you two were invited to this little shindig. Obviously, I know all the right people, so I’m always invited.” Her gaze zeroes in on my outfit and she rears back. “What on earth are you wearing, Nerd Girl?”

  “Clothes.” I stiffen at her name fo
r me as I tug on my fitted Star Wars shirt and the pleated red miniskirt I made from a man’s shirt. My long pale blonde hair is up in curled pigtails, and I went a bit heavy-handed with the shimmery eye shadow and red lipstick. It’s not your typical look for WU—which is anything monogrammed—but I’m learning to ignore the raised eyebrows.

  Skye, the peacemaker among us three, clears her throat and nods her head at the guy who’s been staring. “Delaney has an admirer, but she doesn’t know who he is.”

  Martha-Muffin follows Skye’s gaze, eyeballing the mystery man over my shoulder. She gives me an exasperated look. “That’s Maverick Monroe, you idiot. He’s the biggest football star in Mississippi and the freshman recruit of the year. Word is, though, girls like you aren’t his type—not at all.” Her hand flicks a stiff honey-colored curl over her shoulder.

  My teeth grind together. “Martha, if you think I care what you think about me and whether or not a quasi-famous football player is interested in me, then you are confused.”

  Her lips tighten. “It’s Muffin now, and why do you have to use such big words? What does quasi even mean?” is her cutting reply.

  Skye’s eyes get as big as saucers, and I assume it’s because Martha-Muffin and I are about to finally have it out. I can’t stand her, and she can’t stand me. We just…clash.

  But that isn’t what has Skye in such a titter.

  She points over my shoulder, and I get it.

  It’s the person standing behind me, the one I can’t see. I feel a nervous sneeze coming on and—thank God—I somehow push it down.

  A husky voice reaches my ears. “Quasi means seemingly or supposedly. What she means is I’m probably not a famous football player but rather one that’s been highly touted but is without merit.”

  Oh, shit. The voice is rich and smooth with just enough southern drawl to make a girl swoon. He also sounds halfway intelligent.

  I turn around slowly. Mr. Tall, Blond, and Football is right in front of me wearing a cocky smile.

  How in the hell did he get over here so fast?

  You know that moment when everything stops and the next breath you take is the first one of the rest of your life? That’s what it feels like as Maverick Monroe stares at me with his piercing blue eyes.

  I glance down and take in the sculpted chest and hard biceps.

  I look back up and see a chiseled jawline that’s defined and lined with a slight scruff. I see the thin pink scar that slices through his left eyebrow, and it does nothing to detract from his appeal.

  He’s perfection.

  He’s air.

  Which I desperately need right now, because I can’t breathe.

  He smirks, as if reading my mind, and I scramble to pull myself together. Someone calls his name—it’s a girl’s voice, probably one of those twins—but he doesn’t budge.

  His eyes rove over my skirt, glasses, and lips. “The question is…do you even know what makes a good football player?”

  “Nice hands?”

  His lips twitch. “Hardly.”

  “A tight end?” I smirk, feeling sassy…which is weird. I don’t know who I am right now, but it’s like my mouth has a life of its own, saying things I normally wouldn’t.

  Martha-Muffin chokes on her drink at my remark and Skye watches me with glee, clearly excited that I have the attention of someone who is apparently very important at Waylon.

  I put my hand on my hip. “The question is…why do I need to know?”

  “You don’t. All you need to know is I’m the best.”

  I suck in a little breath at his arrogance.

  A guy walks past us and claps him on the shoulder. “Badass game last week, Mav. Rock on.”

  “Thanks, man.” Maverick acknowledges the compliment and lifts his chin, his eyes never straying from mine.

  “What position do you play?” I ask. “Quarterback?”

  He smirks. “Middle linebacker—defense.”

  “Sounds fancy.”

  He laughs.

  Skye, who’s been eavesdropping unabashedly, sighs with a dreamy expression on her face. “His stats are the best in the country.” She clears her throat. “I-I only know that because my brother is a huge fan, I swear.”

  “Hi, Maverick,” Martha-Muffin says as she edges closer to him, nudging me out of the way with her sharp shoulders. “Remember me?”

  He focuses on her. “No.”

  She glowers. “I was in your dorm room with your roommate last week. You said hello to me.”

  He shrugs. “A lot of girls come through. I can’t remember them all.”

  Oh. My. God. He is arrogant, but I like how he just shut her down.

  Martha-Muffin’s face reddens and she mutters something under her breath, flips around, and flounces off. Good riddance.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Skye is drifting away too, giving me a thumbs-up.

  Whatever. I am not going to flirt with this guy…am I?

  He’s definitely got something about him, something that makes my body buzz. I tilt my chin up, taking in how tall he is. He has to be at least six-four.

  His gaze drifts over my face. “You know there’s a legend here at Waylon about our famous bonfire party?”

  “Oh?”

  He smiles, a flash of white on his handsome face. “Legend says the first person you kiss at the party is the one you’ll never forget. It might be years later, and still their face is the one you dream about.”

  “Sounds like hocus-pocus.”

  He lifts that mesmerizing left eyebrow. “I like to believe in legends—after all, I am one.”

  I smirk. “Probably a game made up by some frat-boy-slash-jock wanting to kiss all the girls.”

  He pauses for a moment as if thinking, and then he steps in closer, so close that I can see the varying shades of blue around his pupils. “May I?”

  My heart does somersaults.

  “May you what?” I ask, my voice low, but I know what he wants. My body is already leaning toward him, wanting it too.

  “This.” He kisses me, an almost imperceptible touch as he brushes his full lips against mine. The contact of our mouths is electric, sparks of fire skating along my skin.

  As if from a distance, I hear someone calling his name. It’s a female, and she’s pissed.

  It’s one of the twins probably.

  And I’m jealous.

  But, I don’t look. We pull away, and I stare at him as he stares right back. A stillness settles over the party, although I don’t think anything’s actually changed. The music is still playing. People are still talking. Beers are being passed around.

  Yet…

  We’re connected.

  Two stars in the black velvet sky.

  Two ships passing in the night.

  Oh, fuck, stop the nonsense, I tell myself.

  “What was that?” I ask, my voice breathless.

  “That’s your first kiss of the bonfire. Now you’ll never forget me.”

  And then, before I can think of a reply, he’s gone.

  I watch him go back to the twins, frustration coiling inside of me as I exhale.

  It would be two years before I kissed him again.

  Delaney

  It’s Valentine’s Day evening, and my social life is worse than when I was a brace-faced freshman at William Henry Prep School in Charlotte, North Carolina. At least back then one of the geeks from my math class gave me a tiny heart-shaped box of stale chocolates and a brown teddy bear. All I have this year is a broken heart, a bottle of premium vodka, and an eighties horror movie.

  Skye is out having fun, and I’m glad for her. She left the off-campus house we share earlier for a date with her boyfriend, Tyler, and here I sit…languishing in yoga pants and crying into my popcorn.

  I send a longing glance at my phone, waiting for it to buzz with a call or text from someone who cares about me…but it remains silent, mocking me as I press myself into the worn brown leather of the sofa. I hate feeling sorry for myself, but
sometimes it gets to me that I don’t have any family since my Nana—the person who raised me—passed right before I left for college.

  God. I’m lonely.

  My nose takes a whiff of the blanket that’s pulled up to my face, and I swear I still smell leftover hints of my ex’s spicy cologne. Alex is a special teams kicker for the football team at Waylon, and we’d been together since we met in a literature class freshman year. He was my first, the person I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with, and for the past year, part of me half-expected him to propose. Instead, he cheated.

  I take a sip of Grey Goose straight from the bottle, eyeing it balefully. At least he had great taste in vodka.

  I lift the bottle in the air, toasting. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Alex, wherever you are. I hope Martha-Muffin can give you what I couldn’t—ideally, the clap.”

  Yep, my arch nemesis from freshman year slept with my boyfriend, and the worst part was I’d walked in on them in his dorm room.

  Feeling that familiar melancholy of being alone creep in, I turn my attention back to the movie. Eerie, spooky music escalates from the surround sound speakers as a girl runs through a forest, her head twisting as she looks to see if she’s being followed. Terror is stamped on her face.

  It was on Skye’s dare that I chose this particular flick, and part of me knows she really just wants me to be preoccupied on a night when I’m alone.

  The popcorn is still warm from the microwave as I pop some in my mouth and chew rather furiously, watching as the heroine on the screen is suddenly accosted by a burly figure with a mask. I scream—even though I knew it was coming—sending fluffy white kernels flying. Han Solo, my cat, stands and hisses at me, his black and white fur sticking straight out. I’ve upended him from his comfy position on the couch.

  “Sorry, little man.”

  Screw the dare. I’ll take her punishment, which would no doubt be inventive. The last time I lost, she made me stand on a table in the cafeteria and call out, “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”