I Hate You: an enemies-to-lovers standalone Read online

  I Hate You

  Copyright © 2019 by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  Cover Design by Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Model: Eddie

  Photography: Wander Aguiar

  Editing by: C Marie

  Little Dove Publishing

  Copyright Law:

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, this book has been pirated and you are stealing. Please delete it from your device and support the author by purchasing a legal copy. 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.

  First Edition Aug 2019

  Contents

  I Hate You Playlist

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt - Boyfriend Bargain

  Also by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  About the Author

  I Hate You Playlist

  Click below to hear the music that inspired I Hate You!

  http://bit.ly/IHATEYOUbyIlsa

  This book is for all the cool, smart girls in the world, especially dedicated to those who love hot football players, cupcakes, Say Anything, Big Bang Theory, True Blood, and of course, potty-mouthed parrots.

  1

  There are worse things than seeing your ex for the first time since he dumped you: root canal, hairy wolf spider on your pillow, watching your dad kiss your sixth grade teacher.

  I shudder at those thoughts as I whip my car into the parking lot of Cadillac’s, a local bar and hangout spot. A long exhalation leaves my chest as I turn off the ignition.

  Welcome back to Magnolia, Mississippi, and Waylon University, folks. It’s time to face the music, which is the guy who broke up with me in front of all my friends at my own freaking eighties-themed sorority homecoming party last October. I’d worn a sleek fedora and carried a kickass whip a la sexy Indiana Jones style, and he’d been in yellow parachute pants and a ladies-sized small tank top that clung to every muscle on his chest. We were totally fine—until it all went to hell.

  That was almost three months ago, and I haven’t seen him since.

  But tonight—tonight, I’m going to see him face to face, because I have to prove to myself that I’m over him. I’m not leaving until my eyes meet his and—

  Dang, I don’t know what will happen after that.

  My bottom lip hurts where I’ve chewed on it during the drive from the house to here. Maybe he’s not inside. I picture him laid up in his dorm room surrounded by jersey chasers. They’re probably rubbing him down with hot oil right now, caressing those bulky, tight muscles on his back, most definitely the wiry, roped ones on his forearms—

  Stop. Forget the wide receiver.

  Clenching the steering wheel, I scan the parking lot for his black truck and don’t see it, but the place is packed for a Wednesday night in January. Everyone is back from the holiday break filled with new optimism for grades, social status, and what the future holds. My future? In six months I’ll be out of Magnolia and living a whole new life, one that doesn’t involve smoking-hot football players with rock-hard abs who tell you you’re beautiful but in the end are just big fat liars.

  My eyes land on the door of the bar as a group of students spill out of the entrance. They stumble around laughing and talking, and my heart twinges. That used to be me. I used to be the life of the party—but look at me now, the girl who’s basically been in social hiding since Blaze ended things.

  New semester, new you, I mutter. I’m not going to be the pathetic creature I was a few months ago. No more Wallflower Charisma! Party Girl is back! It’s going to be awesome!

  “Car door is open,” states the snobby car voice lady who lives inside my older model Nissan Maxima, and I realize I’ve been sitting here with one leg in and one out, my mind running. I smirk at the technology that was put into these cars in the early 90s—not at the fact that they were able to crack the code on how to record some British woman’s voice and play it, but how they decided this groundbreaking technology should be used to alert the driver to the most obvious things.

  “Washer fluid is low.”

  “Parking brake is on.”

  If Lady Maxima—my nickname for said un-insightful voice—really wanted to help, she would come up with some better alerts.

  “Don’t chase down the ice cream truck. It’s embarrassing and you’re lactose intolerant anyway.”

  “Don’t screw that football player. He will only break your heart.”

  With a nervousness that makes me annoyed, I take one last look in the rearview mirror to check my hair and makeup. My long, dark hair is braided in two loose plaits, the soft pink streaks peeking out here and there. Makeup is smoky eyes and carefully filled-in brows. Lipstick is dark pink. In a perfect world, I imagine my style gives me a sassy femme fatale look, but the reality is I’m just a short nerd girl with pink in her hair.

  I get out of the car and stop at the heavy wooden entrance. Dread, thick and heavy, stirs around in my stomach as I contemplate how I’m going to react when I see him. No doubt he’ll be with Dani, the willowy Barbie doll creature he picked up with after me. I swallow down queasiness as a chilly gust of wind blows, pushing me closer to the door.

  F him.

  You may not be the most beautiful girl in the room, but that’s not why people dig you. Show them you’re back and better than ever.

  The bustling sounds of the bar fill my head as I enter, people laughing and Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” on the jukebox. Fitting. With tables on one side and pool tables and an arcade on the other, the place is decorated like an old-fashioned diner with black and white floors and red stools at the bar. Vintage cars on neon signs blink on the walls.

  Playing cool and acting as blasé as possible, I take off my coat and drape it over my arm. Tiny beads of sweat form on my face, and I chalk it up to the stares of everyone in the place. They aren’t looking at me, per se, but they are watching the door, waiting for the football team to arrive. With a deep breath, I inhale the greasy, yummy smell of fried food. My stomach growls, and I tell it to chill out. There’ll be no messy cheesy fries with loads of ketchup and ranch on the side tonight. My bl
ack mohair sweater dress is too pretty…and this is business.

  “There she is! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a person we haven’t seen in these parts in ages. The elusive Charisma Rossi! Give her a hand, y’all!” The announcement comes from Margo, the cardigan-wearing, champagne-drinking president of my sorority.

  Color floods my cheeks. “Stop that. Attention is what I don’t need right now.” I scan the room with lowered eyes.

  She straightens the headband on her shiny, straight blonde hair and gives me a pointed look. “He isn’t here, Charm,” she says, her Southern accent sweet as iced tea. “But he will be.”

  “Who isn’t here?”

  “Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for it. Nice outfit, by the way. Bold with the red stilettos—makes quite a statement.” She arches an elegant yet somehow condescending brow as she hooks her arm in mine and tugs me toward the front of the bar. Normally, I wouldn’t be so acquiescent to her telling me what to do, but she’s taller than me, and I use her as a shield, hunkering down next to her as we walk.

  She stops at a big table right out in the open with a clear view of the arcade and pool tables.

  Great, just great—right in the middle for everyone to see.

  I sigh. “What time did you arrive to score a front-row seat?”

  “Chi-Os get the best. I aim to please.”

  Margo is a Type A tornado on her way to Yale Law. We’re nothing alike, but we manage…mostly. She thinks I’m a little wild, and I think she has a stick up her ass. I like her anyway.

  My eyes scour the bar again, and I straighten my shoulders. Be carefree. Be nonchalant. BE THE OLD YOU. Right. Only, there’s a pinch on my right big toe from my three-inch heels, and I end up standing on one foot like a flamingo to ease the pain. To make matters worse, both arms itch, and I glare at the fluffy fabric on my sleeves. It was a big mistake to wear this, yet I know where my head was when I picked out the figure-hugging dress. I wanted to look hot. I wanted him to see me, take a good, long, second look, and wish he still had me.

  “You’re scratching yourself. A lot.” Margo squints at me.

  “Dude, I’m fine.”

  But I’m not. My skin, from the top of the neckline to the hem, feels like a million ants have invaded. Mohair, why you killing me? I’m mid-scratch, trying to be discreet as I reach a spot on my neck, when a group of rambunctious partiers pushes past me to get to the pool tables. I stumble in the process, and someone’s cold beer spills down the front of my once awesome but now terrible dress.

  Crap.

  Double crap.

  Well, shit.

  I stare down at my wet chest and let out a wail. At least the coldness makes the itchiness feel a tiny bit better.

  The guy in question utters a half-mumbled apology and takes off for the pool tables.

  “How rude. By the way, I can see your nipples,” Margo says as she takes a sip from her champagne flute.

  “Perfect—a flamingo with erect nipples,” I mutter.

  He isn’t even here yet and this night already sucks.

  2

  While blotting my dress with napkins Margo pushed into my hands, I take in our group and see Connor Dimpleshitz, Margo’s man. He’s chatting with some of his nerd friends, and I say that because out of the four guys, three wear identical Regional Chess Champions shirts. Digging up resolve, I flash a big pretend smile. Fresh guys—I can get behind that. They check me out with a bit of fascinated wariness, and I almost claw and purr at them, but my heart isn’t invested. Old Charisma would have. She was outgoing and always ready to party, but she hasn’t reared up yet. She might have teased them for their matching shirts or enjoyed a long conversation about the intellectual benefits of chess on the brain. She might have hooked up with one of them if they agreed to her rules: no kissing on the lips and no sleeping over.

  The truth is, sex for me is a carefully thought-out plan with the right guy selected. The moment I arrived at Waylon, I set those guidelines in place to keep my heart safe, and I only broke the kissing rule once, but that was way back in freshman year, and I don’t think Blaze even remembers that night at the toga party. Not surprising since we were both trashed and didn’t exchange names. Plus, he never brought it up during the three weeks we were hooking up last fall—rules emphatically in place.

  Not once did he kiss me. Not once did he ask me to stay over.

  “Glad you came out, Charisma. We’ve missed you,” Connor calls out, grinning as he raises his dark beer, and I throw up a wave.

  “Blaze and company should be arriving any minute—or at least that’s the word from social media,” Margo says in my ear.

  She needs to not bring his ass up.

  “Haven’t thought of him in ages. Can’t recall a thing about the guy. Is he well?”

  Her eyes squint at me. “They did win the national championship against UT two days ago, so yeah.”

  “Good for him. I hope it brings him the millions he wants in the NFL someday.”

  “You didn’t watch the game?” Her mouth gapes.

  “Nope. I had better things to do. Went to the dentist, washed my hair, cleaned out Vampire Bill’s birdcage.” I avoid her eyes and take in the packed area. Bodies jostle around the bar, bumping and moving like molasses as co-eds do a loop from the end of the bar to the pool tables. This place was my go-to party place last year—until him.

  My eyes narrow in on a huddled group near the back of the room.

  Welcome Back, Wildcats! has been printed on a huge white banner and put up on the wall. Jersey chasers on dick patrol linger underneath it, waiting for their idols. My lips tighten.

  “Yeah, the piranhas are circling.” She takes a sip of her drink, her gaze darting from me to them.

  “IDGAF.” Acronyms—it’s my thing. They save time and get the point across.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her frown and give me a searching, almost worried look, reminding me she witnessed my spectacular breakup with Blaze at our party—although, was it even a breakup when we weren’t a real couple? I guess not, though the pain of us being over hurled me into a darkness I don’t like to think about, as if we’d been together for months.

  And Blaze? Just the memory of his stony face and hard eyes, his hands on my shoulders, pushing me away, telling me I wasn’t—

  “Right. Forget him. How was your Christmas?” she asks.

  “It’s been almost four years, and Ma’s still upset I didn’t stick around the Bronx and marry a nice Italian guy across the street. Pop and my two brothers are rowdy as ever.” I manage a smile. “I did miss them though. Paulie’s kids are adorable, and Mattie’s still living at home and going to law school. He’s the one dealing with Ma’s meddling right now, not me, so halleluiah for that.”

  She cocks her head. “Nice. You look pale.”

  I don’t glance at her, keeping my eyes carefully focused on a point on the bar behind her. “I’m fine,” I say, but the truth is, I haven’t gone a day without thinking about Blaze.

  I just…I just…can’t stop thinking about those words he said.

  We’re over. You’re not my type.

  At the time, we were on the dance floor, jammed between writhing, drunk partygoers, and I thought I misheard him. I knew we weren’t serious, but for the first time in my life, the walls around my heart were cracked, just a little, and even though I had my rules, I wanted him to be the one who stuck around. I wanted him to ask for more.

  He didn’t.

  He dumped me and went on with his life, like I was nothing to him 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 tooth
pick 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.