But it's a friendship that comes with a price - because Weston just cannot seem to stop screwing things up. Or saying all the wrong things. Possibly in that order...
And who has time for an 18 year old "fixer-upper" that should know better?
Or does she?
Note: This YA book is intended for 17+ due to the vulgar language used by its male characters (and occasionally the females as well, even though they're too lady like to do it throughout the entire book). Some adult sexual situations that steam up a few car windows. This title is approx. 63,000 words.
Read for free on Kindle Unlimited: https://www.amazon.com/Kissing-Cars-Kiss-Make-Book-ebook/dp/B00I3IGJRO/
WARNING: This book contains cursing, and LOTS of it. It also has sex, uncomfortable and often awkward situations. Not to mention, the secondary characters say some really inappropriate s**t. Not intended for readers under 17
Read for free on Kindle Unlimited: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00YM0ANQU/
Read an Excerpt
Eventually, I lean down to unbuckle the adorable espadrille wedges on my feet, and as I do, the hair on the back of my neck prickles. I get the distinct feeling that I’m being watched.
How cliché, right?
Slowly I raise my eyes, covertly looking around without sitting up completely (kind of wishing I had a baseball cap on to conceal my own scrutiny) and sure enough, within seconds I’ve identified the source of my discomfort: there, sitting across the library with his eyes locked on my legs, is wicked Weston McGrath.
I swallow a lump in my throat as he slowly does what has been described in my smutty teen novels as ‘raking his gaze’ up my seated torso. Even though he is lucky enough himself to be donning a ball cap, which means I can’t see much of his face, I can see that he is chewing on his lower lip.
And so exciting.
What the heck is he looking at me like that for?
Watching him watch me is like… like a train wreck I can’t peel my eyes from, and holy shit, I would never admit it to anyone, but he’s giving me goose bumps— major goose bumps, all over my legs and arms.
Panic: I wonder if he notices.
Here’s the thing: I’ve never actually met or talked to Weston, but he has a terrible reputation— and by terrible, I basically just mean he’s a real asshole, totally full of himself, has no respect for anyone. He is the quintessential player.
God do I hate that term.
I mean, seriously, without getting all Urban Dictionary here, what does it even mean? The guy is what, eighteen years old? Let’s be real— how many relationships could he have had, and how many people could he have even realistically slept with to be called that? Hey, be my guest and label a college-aged guy a player— at least he has the age to back it up.
So while he’s been given the label of player, I’m not sure if I actually believe it’s true, skeptic that I am. I myself tend to be the complete opposite, and will be lucky if I get a date to prom this year, let alone to the movies, unless it’s with some creep.
Still, that thrill is there as he sits in his seat, checking me out.
About the Author
Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series, and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances. Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced latte's, historical architecture and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.
She lives with her husband, children, and her ridiculously large dog.
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