She’s the one bet I can’t resist...
Wall Street Journal bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills returns with an all-new swoon-fest of a novel about what happens when you look beyond labels and take a chance on love.
I Bet You, an all-new sexy college romance standalone is available NOW!
Sexy Athlete: I bet you…
Penelope Graham: Burn in hell, quarterback.
The late night text is random but Penelope knows exactly who “Sexy Athlete” is. And why she shouldn't take his wager.
Ryker Voss.
Football star.
Walks on water and God's gift to women.
Just ask him.
His bet? He promises Penelope he’ll win her the heart of the nerdy guy she’s been crushing on. His plan—good old-fashioned jealousy. Once her crush sees her kissing Ryker, he'll realize what he's missing. Sounds legit, right? The only question is…why is Ryker being so nice to her?
Penelope Graham.
Virgin.
Lover of sparkly vampires and calculus.
His mortal enemy.
Penelope knows she shouldn’t trust a jock, but what’s a girl to do when she needs a date to Homecoming? And Ryker’s keeping a secret, another bet, one that could destroy Penelope’s heart forever.
Will the quarterback score the good girl or will his secret mean everyone loses at this game of love?
Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
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Excerpt
Penelope
I stand
in front of the mirror in the restroom and gasp. Holy moly, I’m a total
disaster. Red is on my shirt, my neck, my cheek, and there’s even a dab in my
hair. I let out a heavy sigh as I wipe at it with a wet paper towel. At least
my hair is auburn and the red will just blend right in. I scrub at the stain on
my shirt, but all I end up doing is making a giant wet spot.
“Forget
it,” I mutter to myself a few minutes later as I straighten my lopsided messy
bun and adjust my glasses. My makeup is faded, and I reach into my apron for a
tube of cherry red lipstick then quickly swipe it over my mouth. Like that’s
going to improve the situation. I need a makeover and new clothes stat.
I walk
out of the restroom and take in Sugar’s Bar and Grill, a restaurant in
Magnolia, Mississippi. The dinner rush is over, but a few stragglers will come
in, mostly college students. Only a block from campus, Sugar’s has a modern
farmhouse feel with galvanized steel light fixtures, pale pine floors, and
straight-back metal chairs, but the food…well, that’s what keeps the place
hopping. It’s the only restaurant near campus to get anything you want served
up with a side of fresh fried green tomatoes. Their menu also features Southern
classics, such as chicken and dumplings or macaroni and cheese with bacon
sprinkled on top. Just thinking about it makes my stomach rumble. I was so
wrapped up in writing during my break that I forgot to eat.
I sigh
and head to the football table, where they promptly hand over the money. “Nice
doing business with you, boys,” I say before flouncing off, feeling Ryker’s
eyes on me the entire time.
What’s
his deal with me?
I mean,
you’d think he’d want to avoid me because of the article, but it’s as if his
mission is to be around me as much as he can. In fact, I’m not even sure he
knew who I was before I wrote it since we don’t run in the same circles. I
suspect he’s torturing me.
I push
him out of my head and walk over to a table that needs bussing, picking up
half-empty soda glasses and putting them on my tray. The door chimes, signaling
that someone has come in, and I raise my head to see—
Whoa.
I freeze.
Bring out
the angels and cue the hallelujah chorus.
Now that’s
the kind of man I should be writing sexy scenes about.
Standing
at the door is Connor Dimpleshitz—yes, his surname is unfortunate, but his IQ
makes up for it. I’ve been crushing on him since our sociology class last
semester.
Framed by
a golden halo of sunlight as it glints through the windows, I decide he’s what
would happen if Albert Einstein and Henry Cavill had a baby. “A hot genius. The
perfect unicorn,” I murmur to myself.
I chew on
my lip, debating on whether to mosey up to him and say hi or hide.
Hide
wins. I know, I’m a little ridiculous, especially since we have calculus
together this semester and he’ll obviously see me at some point in class.
But then
I’ll have good hair and ketchup-free clothes.
I quickly
survey the possibilities for my escape as the hostess seats him in another
server’s section. My eyes land on the right side of the restaurant, where I
could make a mad dash for the kitchen, but he’s bound to see me darting since
I’d have to walk past him. Plus, I want to hang around and watch him without
him knowing.
I come to
a decision. Wrangling the tray of half-empty sodas I cleared, I quickstep it
over to the back left corner, the farthest away from the double doors of the
entrance. I maneuver my body into an awkward hunkering position behind a huge
potted plant with wide fan-shaped leaves. At least five feet tall with a gnarly
brown trunk, the green monster is perfect camouflage.
I peek
around a big leaf that’s in dire need of a good dusting,judging by the motes
floating around. Feeling paranoid that someone is a witness to my absurdity, I
throw a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s around.
Ryker.
Shit.
He’s
staring at me from the football table, and there’s a glint in his gaze, as if
he’s wondering what I’m doing.
I scowl
and stick my tongue out at him. He makes me feel so rebellious and flustered
and…excited.
I can’t
even stop myself. Ugh.
His
expression deepens in amusement, and I grimace, realizing my butt is sticking
out. His annoying eyebrow jacks up and says, What the hell are you doing?
With eye
telepathy I tell him to mind his own freaking business.
I
pointedly turn my back on him and focus on The Unicorn.
A few
seconds later, a familiar deep voice resonates from behind me, making me start.
“You look a little flustered, Penelope. Spying on someone for your next story,
perhaps?”
I freeze.
Blink. His voice is husky and lower than before when he was calling me garçon,
the tone reminding me of languid summer nights under a starry Southern sky
while he gives me deep, passionate kisses—
Good
Lord. Stop your daydreaming. Must. Stop. Reading. Romances.
I heave
out a sigh and turn around to face Ryker.
What the
hell does he want now?
***
“I don’t
submit to the Wildcat Weekly anymore,” I say.
I worked
for them most of last year, covering the home games and a few random articles.
With a dad who was in the NFL, I know a lot about football, but when Sugar’s
offered me more hours, I took it.
“No more
football stories, huh?”
I shrug,
my gaze taking in his chiseled cheekbones, the curve of his full lips, the hint
of scruff on his jaw. Dammit, why is he so gorgeous? “What can I say? I covered
the most fascinating story last semester—you. Guess I went out on a high note.”
He nods,
taking that dig. “I always noticed you at the games.”
I scoff.
“I didn’t think girls like me were on your radar.”
“You sat
near the third row at the fifty-yard line taking notes at every home game.” His
eyes drift over me. “And I didn’t say you were on my radar.”
“Really?
Sounds like you did.”
“Trust
me, I have more discriminating tastes.” He shrugs.
“Why, how
sweet of you.” My Southern accent has thickened, the way it does when I’m
sassy. It’s one thing to know he doesn’t like me, but for him to say I’m not up
to his standards…well. “Did you pop over here just to be nice?”
He
exhales and rakes a hand through his hair, calling attention to the lighter
strands that have been bleached by the sun. “Honestly, I’m not sure why I came
over here.” A conflicted expression crosses his face as he tugs at his collar.
My eyes stare at the myriad of curly blond chest hairs that are poking out from
the V-neck of the light blue Oxford he’s wearing with the sleeves rolled up to
his elbows. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay from the ketchup getting
all over you, but everything I’m saying is coming out wrong.”
Oh. This
is different. And not what I expected.
“I’m
fine, Baby Llama. No need to worry. You can go. Your girlfriends are waiting
for you.” I tilt my head back toward the football table.
He
doesn’t budge. “Baby Llama?” An amused grin flashes over his face.
I shrug.
It’s been my private nickname for him since sophomore year when I stumbled upon
him coming out of an upstairs bathroom at the Tau house after a shower with
only a white towel wrapped around his trim waist. Some jersey chaser was with
him. His hairy chest had both shocked my virgin sensibilities and excited me at
the same time. The unruly curls just made him seem more naked, as if I’d seen
his cock. Much to my dismay, I’d later dream about rolling around on that bed
of golden curls. Seriously, who takes a shower with a chick in the middle of a
kegger? Ryker Voss, that’s who. Because he can. And girls do whatever he wants.
But not
this one.
I respect
the game—even love it—but I don’t fall for football players, especially high
and mighty quarterbacks who think they walk on water. My dad was the star
player at Waylon twenty years ago, and trust me, I know how they operate. They
get what they want and then they walk out, leaving broken hearts everywhere.
“Have you
ever seen a real llama?” he asks, continuing our conversation. It’s as if he’s
actually trying to be nice. “I saw one at a safari park once. Little bugger
tried to eat my hand off when I fed him, but he was cute. Maybe you need a
poster of one in your room so when you see it, you’ll think about me. I’ll even
sign it for you.”
And
there’s the cocky again.
“Buy me
one. I’ll throw darts at it.”
“Damn,
you never stop.” He huffs out a laugh, his eyes lingering on my neck. “Oh,
there’s a bit of ketchup here too,” he says, reaching out to glide his finger
across the top of my collar, his knuckles barely brushing against my neck.
The
feather-light touch is brief and not sexual, yet my body hums, tendrils of
sparks racing over my skin. I suck in a breath and catch his scent, warm and
spicy with hints of leather and sandalwood.
He blinks
and clears his throat. “Um, I actually have this cleaner stuff that I spray on
my practice clothes. It’s a miracle worker. You’re welcome to borrow it. Of
course, you’d have to come by the football dorm to pick it up. We could even do
laundry together if you wanted?”
He says
the words softly, as if they’re nothing,and I’m staring at him full on.
Do our
laundry together?
I suspect
Ryker Voss is flirting with me, though not well. The pimply-faced checkout boy
at Big Star has better lines than this.
Yet…
Something
warm grows inside my stomach and then flutters around, the sputtering of
newborn butterflies. He is the hottest guy on campus. Still, I remind myself
he’s a player, gather my resolve, and shoot those butterflies down.
“You’re
being weird, Ryker.”
“Because
I’m being nice? Yeah. New year, new start. I want to forget all the bad stuff
from last semester.” He pauses. “And the article you wrote.”
“Is that
right? Even the part where I said you dishonored the sport and were a disgrace
to college players everywhere?”
He stares
down at his hands. “I had my reasons for what happened.”
So I
heard. He got involved in the fighting to help his friend and fellow teammate
Maverick save his disabled sister.
“Ah,
well, I did write a follow-up article, but it wasn’t nearly as popular as the
first one.”
He
shrugs, and somehow, he’s closer now. I stare into his thickly lashed cerulean
eyes and blink at the force of them. His irises…God, someone should name a
crayon after them.
“So…do
you want to do laundry together sometime?”
This
again? My mouth parts. “What? Like a date?”
“Yeah.”
I blink
rapidly, my brain trying to wrap about this new Ryker. “No. I’m sure you
already have jersey chasers lined up outside your dorm vying to do your
laundry. I’ve heard they actually beg to rub your shoulders and do your
homework. I imagine they even fight to be the one to suck your sweet little
toes.” I come to an abrupt halt. Suck his toes? SUCK HIS TOES? OMG. Where did
that random comment come from? I don’t have a foot fetish. I blame it on his
presence and carry on. “And don’t worry about me—I don’t need your laundry
advice. A little ketchup never hurt anyone.”
Determination
crosses his face and with a flurry of movement, he drops a small piece of paper
onto the tray I’m holding.
I stare
down at it. Sexy as Hell Athlete is written in masculine handwriting with a
phone number after it. I look back up at him, my eyes tracing the enigmatic
half-smile on his face.
“I wrote
it down for you earlier and wanted to give it to you after the ketchup thing,
but I chickened out.”
Several
seconds go by.
“Will you
give me yours?” he asks after a few moments of us just standing here.
“My
what?”
“Number.”
He grins.
I
indicate the tray and my obvious impediment. “I don’t have any paper on me.”
“Just
tell me. I’ll remember.”
I’m
flustered, and that’s the only reason I rattle off my phone number. He grins
and repeats it back to me.
He lowers
his voice in a conspiratorial way. “So…you’re watching someone, I take it.
Anyone I know?”
Feeling
bemused by his attention, I shake my head, quickly losing control of this
situation.
“For a
writer, you seem to be at a loss for words. Do I make you speechless,
Penelope?”
I scoff.
“No.”
“I’m
curious as to what has your attention back here.” He slides in next to me
behind the plant, his shoulder brushing against mine. He’s a giant next to my
slender frame, and all at once, I feel protected and safe, which is entirely wrong.
It’s probably his male pheromones, lulling me into softness before the kill—and
damn if it isn’t working. He murmurs something about us hiding together and
spying on people, but I’m distracted because my face is up close and personal
with the chest hair that pokes out of his shirt. I want to trail my fingers
through it and see if it’s as soft as it looks. He smells like alpha male and
sex. Hard, passionate sex that makes you orgasm fast and furious.
Not that
I have any firsthand knowledge of that, of course, but I have my fantasies.
Gird your
loins, Penelope.
Resist
the quarterback.
But I’m
getting sucked in.
I blame
it on the dimple that appears when he smiles. My stomach does that fluttering
thing again, and this time, I can’t shoo the butterflies away. I’m weak. I move
my eyes up the strong column of his tanned throat to meet his gaze. At least
ten seconds go by as we take each other in.
What. Is.
Happening?
“You’re
pretty,” he murmurs. “Have I ever told you that?”
“We don’t
usually talk except for when I take your order.”
His hand
reaches up and briefly touches a piece of my hair that’s fallen out of my
topknot. He rubs it between his fingers. “Your hair…it’s—”
“Auburn,”
I manage, clearing my throat.
“It
reminds me of a new penny, the way the amber color catches the light…” His
voice trails off, and he bites his bottom lip. “God, that has to be the
stupidest thing I’ve ever said.”
“You have
worse lines. Tell me, is doing laundry code for sex?” I say, staring up at him.
I’m itching to straighten my glasses, a nervous reflex, but my hands are
holding the tray.
“I only
use lines on jersey chasers. You’re the kind of girl I have to work for.”
“What
about your discriminating tastes?”
“Pure
bluff. I think we have a real connection, Penelope.” His face is closer now,
and I swallow, wondering how we must look to everyone else in the restaurant. I
realize that in the process of talking, we’ve backed up to the wall behind the
plant, and I figure the only table we’re visible to is the football one, but I
don’t tear my eyes away from Ryker to check.
“You
smell like rainbows,” he says.
My chest
rises. I’m enjoying his full-court press. It’s…intoxicating. “What does a
rainbow smell like?”
“Sweet
and delicious.”
“It’s the
suckers.” His eyes land on my lips, and it almost feels as if he’s touched
them. Heat rushes over my skin. “The red ones are my favorite. I think they’re
cherry or strawberry or raspberry…definitely not cranberry…that’s disgusting,”
I say, rambling, feeling disoriented.
“It’s
crazy, but I really want to kiss you right now,” he murmurs.
My eyes
drift over his shoulder to where Connor’s table is. I can’t see his face, but I
know he’s there, and even though I’m drugged by Ryker’s proximity, I remind
myself he’s the one I should kiss.
Not
Ryker.
Ryker is
a player—just like my dad was.
He
watches the direction of my gaze and follows it. “You’ve been watching Dimples
hitz, haven’t you?” he says, a frown line appearing on his forehead. “Are you
into him?”
My
stomach dips. “Why would you say that?”
“Because
you hightailed it over here when he walked in and you’ve been hiding ever
since. So, I figure he either did you wrong or you’re infatuated, and since I
haven’t heard any gossip about you and him, I’m guessing you must have a thing
for him.”
Abort!
Abort!He knows too much!
Sanity
slowly returns to my brain in small increments, and I take a deep breath,
orienting myself as questions race through my head. What if he uses my crush
against me? Maybe he wants revenge for the article. I don’t know!
Flustered
and unsure, my eyes dart around the restaurant, looking for an exit so I don’t
have to answer his question.
My gaze
lands on the football table he came from, and I notice Archer watching us with
focused interest, a calculating look on his face as he whips his eyes from me
to Ryker. He leans over and whispers to Blaze, who turns to peer in our
direction. I pause, my brain analyzing and decoding. Why is Archer suddenly
interested in what Ryker is doing over here with me—especially when there’s a
pretty co-ed sitting right next to him, tracing little circles on his bicep?
Yet
Archer’s eagle eyes are onus. Watchful.
I notice
all three players at the table have suddenly given us their attention,
anticipation evident on their faces.
Alarms go
off in my head and things start to click into place.
How nice
he was to me. How we ‘have a connection’. Yeah, right.
Mortification
washes over me.
How could
I not have seen it sooner?
God, I am
an idiot. I was so distracted…
I’m a
bet. A stupid freaking bet.
I feel
like someone just punched me in the gut.
My
survival instinct tells me to get away from Ryker, and obviously,I could just
walk away and hold my head high, but I want to make a point and show those
football players they can’t toy with me. I release the tray I’ve been balancing
for what seems like days in his direction. The contents of the glasses spill
out and crash to the floor, watered-down soda and ice drenching us before
dripping down to the floor. The plastic glasses make a horrible clattering
noise on the wooden floors, and I imagine most everyone in the restaurant heard
it. I don’t look to see their faces. I only glare at Ryker.
He jumps
back and stares down at the mess on his khaki pants then looks back at me.
“Remind me to never bring up Dimpleshitz again.”
“Stop
your games, Ryker.”
His face
stills. “What games?”
My teeth
snap together. Enough.
REVIEW
Review by: Jennifer
(5 stars)
Book two in the Hook-up series did not disappoint at all! Ryker we met in book one and is Mav's best friend. This is Ryker and Mav's senior year, and Ryker is determined to make sure that this is the best year yet.. the NFL is waiting he just has to make sure that there are no distractions. When a bet gone wrong makes Ryker take notice in Penelope, he is gonna do his best to make sure that she doesn't turn into a distraction. Penelope will never date a football player, and after she caught Ryker trying to make a fool of her, she will never give him the time of day. She didn't bet on the fact that he is determined to make it up to her and that he is determined to make sure that they are friends. When another bet is made, Ryker now has to do his best to stay away from Penelope, but he is finding that impossible.
I really enjoyed this story, this had some super steamy naughty bits that had me fanning myself! Drama, hot football gods, some funny bits, this story was such a good read! I give this 5 stars.
Love football heroes and nerdy heroines?
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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 Diaries, and any kind of book featuring unicorns and sword-wielding females.
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 Diaries, and any kind of book featuring unicorns and sword-wielding females.
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