New Adult/Contemporary Romance - Recommended for readers 17 and older
1. I hate Nick Brady. Loathe. Abhor. Can’t stand him 95% of the time.
2. That other 5%? I’m not talking about that at all.
3. People think I’m lucky for surviving the car crash. I disagree.
4. Nick is the only guy who makes my nightmares go away.
5. I won’t love him, though. Love is not worth the pain.
I, Nick Brady, have a few confessions of my own:
1. I don’t hate Daphne Fox. At all.
2. I find her scar sexy. Just like the rest of her.
3. I may be her older brother’s best friend, but that’s not going to stop me.
4. I love her.
5. And I’m going to do everything I can to have her.
Nick has been nice to me tonight, but kissing . . . No. He hates me. I hate him. Yeah, sure, I’ve thought about kissing him, but it doesn’t mean anything. And it’s not like I’m going to kiss him. No way. I meant what I said to Hailey—I’m not chasing after any guy. I want to be chased after.
I want to be wanted.
And, well, Nick doesn't want me.
Not at all. I’m fine with this. Totally. It’s not like I really want Nick. So, that’s good. Really good. Except it doesn’t feel good. I know Nick annoys the crap out of me, but I still kinda sorta like him.
Just kinda though.
Someone bumps into me, and I stumble backward. Nick catches me and helps me straighten. I turn to thank him. He looks at me.
I start to open my mouth, then shut it and gaze up into his eyes. They really are such a deep blue—and so much more fascinating than my hazel ones. But I never realized he had tiny laugh lines at the corners of his eyes until now.
Nick steps closer to me, getting in my personal space again. But I don’t mind. Not one bit. I don’t even know what’s happening right now—except I don’t want to open my mouth and ruin whatever it is. We’re not even talking. We’re not even fighting. So weird. And then he puts his arm around my waist and brings my body to his. I gasp at the contact. He’s so hard and fit, and his heart is beating furiously against my palms.
I lift my right hand up to his face, daring to touch him. He hasn’t shaved, and his stubble rubs against my fingers. I love the feel of it. I want to get even closer to him. I want to press my body against his.
And then he touches my face. Not just anywhere on my face. He touches my scar. Tenderly. His fingers whisper along the jagged path, almost reverently. Like he can’t believe this is happening.
I can’t believe it, either.