Wall Street Journal bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills brings you a
brand-new heartfelt, sexy contemporary romance with I DARE YOU is LIVE!
Bad Ass Athlete: I dare you to…
Delaney Shaw: Who is this?
The late night text is
random, but "Bad Ass 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 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.
After the semester ends,
will the bad boy land the nerd girl or will the secrets they keep from each
other separate them forever?
Excerpt
Prologue
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 for 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.
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About the Author
Wall
Street Journal, New York Times, and USA Today best-selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong
heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap. She's best
known for her angsty, heartfelt new adult college romances.
A former high school English
teacher, she adores all things Pride and Prejudice; Mr. Darcy is her ultimate
hero.
She's also addicted to
frothy coffee beverages, Vampire Dairies, and any kind of book featuring
unicorns and sword-wielding females.
Join her Unicorn Girls FB group for special
excerpts, prizes, and snarky fun!
Connect with Ilsa
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