Isla Madden-Mills has a new steamy romance out I BET YOU and trust me it’s another juicy one. My thoughts on this will be published on Thursday but in the meantime checkout this excerpt.Â
Sheâs the one bet I canât 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 youâŠ
Penelope Graham: Burn in hell, quarterback.
The late night text is random but Penelope knows exactly who âSexy Athleteâ 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 heâll win her the heart of the nerdy guy sheâs been crushing on. His planâgood old-fashioned jealousy. Once her crush sees her kissing Ryker, he’ll realize what he’s missing. Sounds legit, right? The only question isâŠwhy is Ryker being so nice to her?
Penelope Graham.
Virgin.
Lover of sparkly vampires and calculus.
His mortal enemy.
Penelope knows she shouldnât trust a jock, but whatâs a girl to do when she needs a date to Homecoming? And Rykerâs keeping a secret, another bet, one that could destroy Penelopeâs 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!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2yKDR15
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/IBetYouIMM
Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2vLgSkX
Excerpt:
Penelope
I stand in front of the mirror in the restroom and gasp. Holy moly, Iâm a total disaster. Red is on my shirt, my neck, my cheek, and thereâs 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.
âForget it,â 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 thatâs going to improve the situation. I need a makeover and new clothes stat.
I walk out of the restroom and take in Sugarâs 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, Sugarâs has a modern farmhouse feel with galvanized steel light fixtures, pale pine floors, and straight-back metal chairs, but the foodâŠwell, thatâs what keeps the place hopping. Itâs 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. âNice doing business with you, boys,â I say before flouncing off, feeling Rykerâs eyes on me the entire time.
Whatâs his deal with me?
I mean, youâd think heâd want to avoid me because of the article, but itâs as if his mission is to be around me as much as he can. In fact, Iâm not even sure he knew who I was before I wrote it since we donât run in the same circles. I suspect heâs 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 seeâ
Whoa.
I freeze.
Bring out the angels and cue the hallelujah chorus.
Now thatâs the kind of man I should be writing sexy scenes about.
Standing at the door is Connor Dimpleshitzâyes, his surname is unfortunate, but his IQ makes up for it. Iâve 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 heâs what would happen if Albert Einstein and Henry Cavill had a baby. âA hot genius. The perfect unicorn,â 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, Iâm a little ridiculous, especially since we have calculus together this semester and heâll obviously see me at some point in class.
But then Iâll have good hair and ketchup-free clothes.
I quickly survey the possibilities for my escape as the hostess seats him in another serverâs section. My eyes land on the right side of the restaurant, where I could make a mad dash for the kitchen, but heâs bound to see me darting since Iâd 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 thatâs 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 oneâs around.
Ryker. Shit.
Heâs staring at me from the football table, and thereâs a glint in his gaze, as if heâs wondering what Iâm doing.
I scowl and stick my tongue out at him. He makes me feel so rebellious and flustered andâŠexcited.
I canât 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. âYou look a little flustered, Penelope. Spying on someone for your next story, perhaps?â
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 kissesâ
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?
***
âI donât submit to the Wildcat Weekly anymore,â 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 Sugarâs offered me more hours, I took it.
âNo more football stories, huh?â
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? âWhat can I say? I covered the most fascinating story last semesterâyou. Guess I went out on a high note.â
He nods, taking that dig. âI always noticed you at the games.â
I scoff. âI didnât think girls like me were on your radar.â
âYou sat near the third row at the fifty-yard line taking notes at every home game.â His eyes drift over me. âAnd I didnât say you were on my radar.â
âReally? Sounds like you did.â
âTrust me, I have more discriminating tastes.â He shrugs.
âWhy, how sweet of you.â My Southern accent has thickened, the way it does when Iâm sassy. Itâs one thing to know he doesnât like me, but for him to say Iâm not up to his standardsâŠwell. âDid you pop over here just to be nice?â
He exhales and rakes a hand through his hair, calling attention to the lighter strands that have been bleached by the sun. âHonestly, Iâm not sure why I came over here.â 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 heâs wearing with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. âI just wanted to make sure you were okay from the ketchup getting all over you, but everything Iâm saying is coming out wrong.â
Oh. This is different. And not what I expected.
âIâm fine, Baby Llama. No need to worry. You can go. Your girlfriends are waiting for you.â I tilt my head back toward the football table.
He doesnât budge. âBaby Llama?â An amused grin flashes over his face.
I shrug. Itâs 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 Iâd seen his cock. Much to my dismay, Iâd 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, thatâs who. Because he can. And girls do whatever he wants.
But not this one.
I respect the gameâeven love itâbut I donât 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.
âHave you ever seen a real llama?â he asks, continuing our conversation. Itâs as if heâs actually trying to be nice. âI 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, youâll think about me. Iâll even sign it for you.â
And thereâs the cocky again.
âBuy me one. Iâll throw darts at it.â
âDamn, you never stop.â He huffs out a laugh, his eyes lingering on my neck. âOh, thereâs a bit of ketchup here too,â 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. âUm, I actually have this cleaner stuff that I spray on my practice clothes. Itâs a miracle worker. Youâre welcome to borrow it. Of course, youâd have to come by the football dorm to pick it up. We could even do laundry together if you wanted?â
He says the words softly, as if theyâre nothing,and Iâm 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.
YetâŠ
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 heâs a player, gather my resolve, and shoot those butterflies down.
âYouâre being weird, Ryker.â
âBecause Iâm being nice? Yeah. New year, new start. I want to forget all the bad stuff from last semester.â He pauses. âAnd the article you wrote.â
âIs that right? Even the part where I said you dishonored the sport and were a disgrace to college players everywhere?â
He stares down at his hands. âI had my reasons for what happened.â
So I heard. He got involved in the fighting to help his friend and fellow teammate Maverick save his disabled sister.
âAh, well, I did write a follow-up article, but it wasnât nearly as popular as the first one.â
He shrugs, and somehow, heâs closer now. I stare into his thickly lashed cerulean eyes and blink at the force of them. His irisesâŠGod, someone should name a crayon after them.
âSoâŠdo you want to do laundry together sometime?â
This again? My mouth parts. âWhat? Like a date?â
âYeah.â
I blink rapidly, my brain trying to wrap about this new Ryker. âNo. Iâm sure you already have jersey chasers lined up outside your dorm vying to do your laundry. Iâve 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.â I come to an abrupt halt. Suck his toes? SUCK HIS TOES? OMG. Where did that random comment come from? I donât have a foot fetish. I blame it on his presence and carry on. âAnd donât worry about meâI donât need your laundry advice. A little ketchup never hurt anyone.â
Determination crosses his face and with a flurry of movement, he drops a small piece of paper onto the tray Iâm 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.
âI wrote it down for you earlier and wanted to give it to you after the ketchup thing, but I chickened out.â
Several seconds go by.
âWill you give me yours?â he asks after a few moments of us just standing here.
âMy what?â
âNumber.â He grins.
I indicate the tray and my obvious impediment. âI donât have any paper on me.â
âJust tell me. Iâll remember.â
Iâm flustered, and thatâs 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. âSoâŠyouâre watching someone, I take it. Anyone I know?â
Feeling bemused by his attention, I shake my head, quickly losing control of this situation.
âFor a writer, you seem to be at a loss for words. Do I make you speechless, Penelope?â
I scoff. âNo.â
âIâm curious as to what has your attention back here.â He slides in next to me behind the plant, his shoulder brushing against mine. Heâs a giant next to my slender frame, and all at once, I feel protected and safe, which is entirely wrong. Itâs probably his male pheromones, lulling me into softness before the killâand damn if it isnât working. He murmurs something about us hiding together and spying on people, but Iâm 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 itâs 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 Iâm 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 canât shoo the butterflies away. Iâm 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?
âYouâre pretty,â he murmurs. âHave I ever told you that?â
âWe donât usually talk except for when I take your order.â
His hand reaches up and briefly touches a piece of my hair thatâs fallen out of my topknot. He rubs it between his fingers. âYour hairâŠitâsââ
âAuburn,â I manage, clearing my throat.
âIt reminds me of a new penny, the way the amber color catches the lightâŠâ His voice trails off, and he bites his bottom lip. âGod, that has to be the stupidest thing Iâve ever said.â
âYou have worse lines. Tell me, is doing laundry code for sex?â I say, staring up at him. Iâm itching to straighten my glasses, a nervous reflex, but my hands are holding the tray.
âI only use lines on jersey chasers. Youâre the kind of girl I have to work for.â
âWhat about your discriminating tastes?â
âPure bluff. I think we have a real connection, Penelope.â 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, weâve backed up to the wall behind the plant, and I figure the only table weâre visible to is the football one, but I donât tear my eyes away from Ryker to check.
âYou smell like rainbows,â he says.
My chest rises. Iâm enjoying his full-court press. ItâsâŠintoxicating. âWhat does a rainbow smell like?â
âSweet and delicious.â
âItâs the suckers.â His eyes land on my lips, and it almost feels as if heâs touched them. Heat rushes over my skin. âThe red ones are my favorite. I think theyâre cherry or strawberry or raspberryâŠdefinitely not cranberryâŠthatâs disgusting,â I say, rambling, feeling disoriented.
âItâs crazy, but I really want to kiss you right now,â he murmurs.
My eyes drift over his shoulder to where Connorâs table is. I canât see his face, but I know heâs there, and even though Iâm drugged by Rykerâs proximity, I remind myself heâs the one I should kiss.
Not Ryker.
Ryker is a playerâjust like my dad was.
He watches the direction of my gaze and follows it. âYouâve been watching Dimples hitz, havenât you?â he says, a frown line appearing on his forehead. âAre you into him?â
My stomach dips. âWhy would you say that?â
âBecause you hightailed it over here when he walked in and youâve been hiding ever since. So, I figure he either did you wrong or youâre infatuated, and since I havenât heard any gossip about you and him, Iâm guessing you must have a thing for him.â
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 donât know!
Flustered and unsure, my eyes dart around the restaurant, looking for an exit so I donât 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 meâespecially when thereâs a pretty co-ed sitting right next to him, tracing little circles on his bicep?
Yet Archerâs 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 âhave a connectionâ. Yeah, right.
Mortification washes over me.
How could I not have seen it sooner?
God, I am an idiot.I was so distractedâŠ
Iâm 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 canât toy with me. I release the tray Iâve 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 donât 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. âRemind me to never bring up Dimpleshitz again.â
âStop your games, Ryker.â
His face stills. âWhat games?â
My teeth snap together. Enough.
Love football heroes and nerdy heroines?
Start the series of standalones today with I DARE YOU
Download your copy now or Read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2Fn15ur
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/IDareYou
Add to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/IDareYouHookUp
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.
Join her Unicorn Girls FB group for special excerpts, prizes, and snarky fun!
https://www.facebook.com/groups/ilsasunicorngirls/
Connect with Ilsa
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorilsamaddenmills/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/ilsamaddenmills
BookBub: http://bit.ly/2OE8TwZ
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2k6L96J
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2jjRzlD
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ilsamaddenmills/
Stay up to date with Ilsa by joining her mailing list: http://bit.ly/2MkYqK4
Website: http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com/