Ten Thousand Things I Hate About You

A V-Card Diaries Novella

Lili Valente

All Rights Reserved

Copyright Ten Thousand Things I Hate About You © 2022 Lili Valente

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This e-book is licensed for your personal use only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy hot, sexy, emotional novels featuring firefighting alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work. Cover by Bootstrap Designs.

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Contents

Ten Thousand Things I Hate About You

About the Book

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

About the Author

Also by Lili Valente

Ten Thousand Things I Hate About You

A V-Card Diaries Novella

By Lili Valente

For Jojo Sparklecorn.

About the Book

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman newly turned eighteen, with a few grotesquely cheap beers in her belly, will want to pounce on her best friend’s older brother.

Okay, so maybe that isn’t a “universal truth,” but it’s my truth.

I’ve had a crush on Derrick Olsen since I needed help tying my shoes. And yes, I was nearly ten by the time I finally mastered the skill—why are laces still a thing when Velcro is so awesome?—but still…

I could stare at the man for hours.

Meanwhile, he barely knows I’m alive. Or at least, that’s the way it’s been before. But tonight, with a spring moon overhead and bonfire flames dancing across the sexy planes of Derrick’s face, I sense things could change between us.

If I’m brave enough to make them change…

I can do that. I can come on to my best friend’s older brother. What’s the worst thing that can happen? He turns me down in a fashion so horrifically embarrassing that I decide to hate him forever, and he happily agrees to return the favor? I mean, yeah, I guess that’s a possibility.

But the odds of that are slim to none…right?

Chapter One

Harlow Raine

Age 18

A young woman determined to make

her steamiest teenage dreams come true…

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman newly turned eighteen, with a few grotesquely cheap beers in her belly, will want to pounce her best friend’s older brother.

Okay, so maybe that isn’t a “universal truth,” but it’s my truth.

I’ve had a crush on Derrick Olsen since I needed help tying my shoes. And yes, I was nearly ten by the time I finally mastered the skill—why are laces still a thing when Velcro is readily available?—but still…

That’s a long time to crush on a guy who has no clue you’re alive.

Oh, he knows you’re alive, he just isn’t super excited about it.

Wrinkling my nose at the inner voice, I tip my red Solo cup back, taking another gulp of liquid courage as I watch Derrick laughing with some of his high school friends around the bonfire.

Thanks to the combination of the flames and a full moon glowing in a cloudless, spring sky, I can make out every detail of his perfectly structured face. His cheekbones are a little sharper than they were when he still lived at home—he’s twenty-six now and what little baby fat he had left on him as a teen is long gone—but his lips are still a perfectly-shaped love poem and his dark eyes glitter with that mixture of intelligence and sarcasm that sets my panties on fire.

I could stare at the man for hours.

Meanwhile, he barely spared me a second glance as he passed the lawn chairs where my friends and I are camped out by Leslie’s car.

He stopped just long enough to glare into the darkness—no doubt checking to make sure Evie, his little sister and my bestie, wasn’t out after midnight along with me since she still has a curfew. Then he lifted a hand, nodded, and went to join the older set around the fire without so much as a “Hey, Harlow, how’s it hangin’?”

But I probably shouldn’t take it personally.

The Olds don’t usually hang out with The Youngs at field parties.

In a town as small as ours, it isn’t unusual for all the singles from fifteen to thirty to end up at the same after-hours party once the bars close, but in the name of keeping shit decent, people usually stick with their own demographic. And if they don’t—like when twenty-nine-year-old Ronald Meyer got caught with his hand up a sixteen-year-old’s sweater—the rest of the older set steps in to remedy the situation.

We’re a close-knit community. We watch out for each other, and no one wants to see our party field shut down by the police because a few creepers don’t understand the age of consent.

I have no doubt that if Derrick saw me sneaking into the shadows by the creek, where couples go to make out, with an older guy, he’d rush to intervene and make sure I’m okay. But there’s no way in hell he’d ever be that guy.

For starters, he still thinks of me as a child, not a woman.

I don’t see him nearly as often now that he’s graduated from college and started a high-stress job, helping manage New York’s newest NHL team, but when our paths do cross, I don’t so much as register on his radar. His eyes skim right over me without seeing that I have breasts and hips and a semi-feral, permanently lusty shimmer in my eyes.

I’m pretty sure it’s unusual for a girl to be this horny all the time—none of my girlfriends seem to suffer from my affliction—but maybe it’s just another one of those things that women are socialized to keep quiet about. Like periods and big ambitions and how nice it is to let your leg hair grow out in the winter.

Either way, I tend to connect with the boy characters in teen movies more than the girls. I’m the one having graphic sex fantasies in AP Calculus and getting weirdly turned on by the anatomically correct peen drawing in my biology book. I’m the one who spends way too much time in the shower and who has a collection of dirty gifs on my phone I use for…inspiration while I’m touching myself under my covers at night.

A collection composed exclusively of men with dark hair, green eyes, and Derrick’s strong, square jaw…

Said jaw, my favorite jaw ever, is currently sporting a short, tidy beard that’s new for Derrick, and that has ramped up my forbidden fantasies to Threat Level Super Duper Dangerous.

Who knew a beard could make your ovaries threaten to explode?

Not me. I didn’t realize I had a thing for facial hair, in fact, until Derrick walked by half an hour ago with that new fuzz. Suddenly, I could think of nothing but what that beard would feel like on my lips, my neck, my inner thighs…

I remind myself that Evie will lose her mind with shock and horror if she learns I came onto Derrick. No matter how that bold, and probably insane move plays out, our friendship—my most important friendship—might never be the same. I remind myself that Derrick will almost certainly laugh in my face, and then I’ll never be able to go over to Evie’s again for fear of running into the source of my greatest shame.

I remind myself of all the reasons I should stay right where I am—do not leave the circle of lawn chairs gathered around the portable fire pit my friend Leslie brought from home, do not mortify myself mere months from graduating and leaving small town life behind for good.

But when Leslie leans over and murmurs, “Are you having ‘yes, daddy’ fantasies right now? Or is it just me?” I don’t pretend I have no idea what she’s talking about, the way I usually would.

“That beard,” I murmur instead, the words emerging as a low purr.

“I know, right? Jesus,” Leslie hisses, propping her feet up on the empty chair across from hers. Chelsea and Theresa, our other party friends, are off making out with their boyfriends in the woods, which means we probably won’t see them again tonight. They have a bad habit of ditching us to get laid, lending credence to my theory that maybe other teen girls think about sex at least half as much as I do.

“I mean, he was hot as hell before, but that beard,” Leslie continues with a wistful sigh. “I just want him to turn me over his knee and tell me what a bad girl I’ve been.”

Shocked, but intrigued, I swat her knee. “Leslie Hobbs, how long have you been hiding this kinky side?”

“Since eighth grade,” she says with a giggle. “I used to get rope burns on purpose so Coach Platt would rub antibiotic cream on my thighs after gym class.” She shrugs. “Until he figured out what I was doing and started sending me to the nurse because he was married and not a creep who liked thirteen-year-old girls. But it was fun while it lasted. Older men are just so much hotter than guys our age. As soon as I’m eighteen, I’m going to get a thirty-year-old boyfriend with a real job and hobbies aside from playing video games and setting his farts on fire and I’m never looking back.” She glances toward the larger bonfire again. “And he’s going to have a beard. Daddy Olsen just made sure of that.”

“You shouldn’t call him that. He’s Evie’s brother,” I say, more because I don’t care for the moony look in Leslie’s eyes than any real concern for what Evie might think about this conversation.

Evie and Leslie have nothing in common and rarely speak. Leslie is my party friend and Evie is my everything-that-really-matters friend. The chances that Evie will find out Leslie and I were sitting around drinking beers and lusting after her brother’s beard, are slim to none.

But still, I add, “And he’s not really ‘daddy’ material. He’s only twenty-six.”

“Daddy-hood isn’t determined by age. Being a daddy is a state of mind,” Leslie says. “And Derrick is totally the bossy, daddy-knows-best kind of guy. Remember how he yelled at us that time he caught us trying cigarettes behind the ice-skating rink in ninth grade? I thought he was going to murder you and Evie both with his eyeballs.” She fans herself as she hums low in her throat. “So hot. I remember wishing I were Evie’s bestie so Derrick would have grabbed my arm and hauled me to his car like I was a bad little girl.”

Starting to suspect Leslie is every bit as obsessed with sex as I am—and in a much kinkier way—I can’t help asking, “So, is that really what you like? Did you and Greg do stuff like that when you were together?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, God no. Greg was way too in awe of my pussy to get bossy with it. I swear, every time I let him go down on me it was like I’d given him the keys to the holy kingdom or something.” She laughs but a beat later her lips turn down in an exaggerated frown. “Which was pretty adorable, really. I miss that big dummy. And his tongue.” She sits up straighter in her chair, scanning the group of senior boys playing horseshoes and taking turns doing keg stands on the other side of the bonfire. “Maybe I should go check in with him, make sure he’s hanging in there after the breakup.”

My lips twist. “You mean, fuck with his head by making him think you want to get back together, when really you’re just using him for sex?”

“I mean, he’s a big boy,” she says, grinning as she grabs her purse from beside her lawn chair and pulls out a pink lip gloss. “If he’s as tired of breaking up and making up as he says he is, then he’ll tell me no.” She smoothes on a coat of gloss before plunking it back in her purse and adding in a devilish whisper, “But he won’t. You cool with catching a ride home with Pete or somebody? He has his van and is the designated driver for their crew. I have a feeling Greg and I are going to end up in the backseat of my love sedan on a backroad somewhere…steaming up the windows.”

I assure her I’ll find another ride, wish her luck, and watch her go, relieved to have at least one potential competitor for Derrick’s attention out of the running.

But Leslie is far from the only woman with her eyes on Daddy Olsen.

The early, twenty-something bank teller chicks perched on the hay bales nearby have been whispering behind their hands about him all night. And Lala, the nineteen-year-old Spanish exchange student, has swiveled past him twice in her skintight spandex dress, the one that’s way too skimpy for a cool spring night.

Her nipples are sticking out half an inch through her dress and it’s only a matter of time before Derrick notices them and the rest of Lala’s gorgeous self. And she has the added advantage of being outside Evie’s friend group, someone Derrick didn’t know as a child, and fully legal.

But then…I’m fully legal now, too.

Since Derrick was home for Christmas, my eighteenth birthday has come and gone. I’m a woman now. I can vote and join the military and drink in Australia and Ireland.

There’s no reason I can’t express interest in another fully grown adult…aside from my certainty that Derrick has no interest in me in that way, of course. I’m positive the thought of kissing me has never crossed his mind.

Then change his mind. And his perspective.

Since when do you sit on your ass, waiting for someone to give you what you want?

You’re a go-getter, Harlow Raine. You’re a force to be reckoned with, who just scored a full scholarship to Duke.

And besides, what do you have to lose?

I try to remind the inner voice of the risks—mortification, shame, upsetting Evie, that weird rash I get on my chest sometimes when I’m really nervous—but she’s had too much beer.

The inner voice is a cocky drunk and I’m a frisky one.

It’s a bad combination, so bad that by the time I polish off the last of my Nasty Light and pop a mint from Leslie’s car stash to banish the taste of cheap beer, I’ve concocted a plan.

It’s a wild, semi-bonkers plan, and one that could easily go hideously awry.

I make one last attempt to reason with the scheming side of myself, reminding it that girls who go wandering into the woods with strange men often end up the focus of a true crime podcast. But my gut insists that Derrick won’t let anything happen to me.

He might not seem to be paying attention to my side of the field, but I’ve crushed on this man for nearly a decade.

I know him, and I know that if Evie, our other best friend, Jess, or I are anywhere in Derrick’s vicinity, we’re on his “protect and destroy potential threats” radar. I’ll be lucky to get all the way into the woods before he’s there, doing the surrogate big brother thing.

That’s why I have to be ready.

Prepared to make a move the moment he intervenes…

Popping another mint into my mouth and pulling in a deep, bracing breath, I remind myself that fortune favors the bold and, like the drunk idiot I am, head right for the most dangerous man at the party.

Chapter Two

Harlow

Edgar Smithfield-Watson III…

If you were to simply hear his name in passing, you’d probably think he was a posh guy. Or that he came from money at some point in the not-too-distant past.

You’d be wrong.

The Smithfield-Watsons, on the whole, are lovely people, but they’re solidly lower middle class. They live in a family compound of faded gray houses by the shore, sell ice cream out of antique carts on the beach every summer, and reproduce at a staggering rate. At any given time, there’s a Smithfield-Watson in nearly every grade at the local elementary school, and it’s been that way for as long as anyone can remember.

So, it makes sense that one or two members of each generation are going to be assholes. It’s not bad parenting or anything in the DNA, it’s just…statistical probability.

Victoria Smithfield-Watson fed my mom ex-lax brownies at Girl Scout camp when they were kids, Bartholomew Smithfield-Watson tried to cut Jess’s pigtail off when we were in second grade, and Edgar Smithfield-Watson III, at the tender age of just twenty-three, has already knocked up half the town.

That might be a slight exaggeration, but the man has at least five baby mamas, and those are just the women willing to come forward and cop to the fact that they were fooled into believing his bullshit.

Allegedly, Edgar talks a great game while he’s trying to get into a girl’s panties, but as soon as she’s knocked up, he contracts a serious case of amnesia. Suddenly, he can’t remember the encounter that led to yet another bouncy baby boy or girl and maintains that he isn’t the father, no matter how many paternity tests prove otherwise.

Desperate to keep the state from garnishing his paycheck for child support, the jerk does all his work under the table for cash. On any given day, you can find Edgar running old refrigerators to the dump in his truck, stacking firewood, or selling water bottles at popular traffic stops around town—usually with a sign begging for help feeding the five children he’s never given a dime or a moment of his time.

Basically, he’s the worst.

But he also happens to be the most beautiful thing the Goddess ever plunked down on this sweet earth. With shaggy blond hair, artic blue eyes, a dazzling smile, and a chiseled body any movie star would kill for, he’s never had any trouble getting women naked and horizontal. And by eighth grade, he had a rep for knowing exactly what to do with them once he got them there.

If he’d slap on a condom, he’d just be an easy-going slut who women could enjoy for what he had to offer and leave behind when it became clear he wasn’t into love and commitment.

But he isn’t that guy.

He’s the guy who complains condoms are too tight on his giant schlong, swears he’ll pull-out, and then vanishes into the ether when a positive pregnancy test enters the picture. Not to mention the fact that he’s probably infested with crotch cooties. I’m not about to slut shame anyone—even Edgar—but condoms aren’t just for preventing pregnancy. Refusing to wear one as you plow your way through hundreds of women every year, is a recipe for a cornucopia of venereal diseases.

I know better than to get within ten feet of the guy. Heck, on a normal night, I wouldn’t even risk eye contact. I find him that utterly repulsive.

But Derrick doesn’t know that.

Derrick will think I’ve been lured in by Edgar’s man beauty, like so many innocent young women before me. He will feel compelled to step in to protect me from myself.

And that’s when I launch Operation Bait and Switch.

In my buzzed head, it’s a brilliant plan.

Nearly foolproof, in fact!

I’m so focused on what to say to Derrick after he gets rid of Edgar, that I don’t spare a thought for what I should say to Edgar himself until I’m a few feet away from where he’s drinking with his friends not far from Derrick and his slightly older crew.

Edgar looks up, fixing me in his icy gaze. He arches a curious—but not at all lecherous—brow, and I suddenly remember that I’m wearing the giant “Mermaid Hair, Don’t Care” sweatshirt I dug out of Leslie’s trunk when it started getting cold.

The shirt is cute and soft, but not the least bit sexy. It hangs to my mid-thigh and is baggy enough to conceal all my curves, leaving me resembling a pink cake pop with two scrawny sticks sticking out of the bottom instead of one. With my hair in a ponytail and nothing but mascara and blush on, I probably look about fifteen years old.

Maybe even younger.

I’m tall, but I have a baby face, a fact that ensures not a single bouncer in the state of New Jersey has ever fallen for my fake I.D. and I still get carded at R-rated movies.

Anxiety tightening my throat, I slow my steps, debating whether I should take the sweatshirt off before I get closer to Edgar and his friends, or if that would make this entire thing too weird and obvious. Then I wonder if the lacy blouse I’m wearing underneath the sweatshirt would be much of an improvement. It’s form-fitting, but it doesn’t show any cleavage. And it’s vintage from the 1960s, meaning it’s scratchy as hell and smells like dusty mothballs, no matter how many times I soak it in dish soap overnight.

And who wants to make out with an itchy dust mite?

Or a human cake pop with a baby face?

Maybe this isn’t a brilliant plan…

Maybe it’s a stupid drunk girl plan, and I’m about to become the laughingstock of the entire town. What would it say about my sex vibe if I’m turned down by the one guy who never turns anyone down, not even Lisa Chiddle, who has beef jerky breath and a rabid donkey laugh?

I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t bode well for my chances of losing my V-Card before I head to college in the fall, especially not to the guy I’ve fantasized about being my first. Derrick would never be interested in an Edgar Smithfield-Watson III reject. He dates gorgeous women with shiny hair and perfect bodies and grown-up jobs.

I’ve decided to walk past Edgar and his friends—pretending I was just heading into the woods solo the entire time—when a big hand wraps around my elbow and a deep voice rumbles in my ear, “You’d better not be doing what I think you’re doing.”

My pulse leaps and my nipples tighten in my bra, while my elbow faints from the excitement of being lightly man-handled by my crush.

Steeling my courage to the sticking point, I glance up at Derrick in the orange light of the fire and whisper, “I don’t know what you think I’m doing, but I’d love to hear more. Assuming you’re cool with standing guard while I pee in the woods, so I don’t get eaten by wolves.”

It’s not a sexy excuse, but it works!

Derrick exhales a relieved-sounding sigh. “Sure. Though I thought girls always peed in groups of two or more.”

“Not when a girl’s friends are all off making out with boyfriends or ex-boyfriends,” I say as we pass by Edgar’s crew without incident and move farther from the flames. “Then she has to go it alone.”

Derrick grunts. “I’m glad Dad doesn’t let Evie come to these parties. They’re dangerous.”

“Yet here you are…” I arch a judgmental brow his way.

“I’m twenty-six. And a man,” he says. “I don’t have to worry about being assaulted, murdered, and my corpse left in a shallow grave.”

“Oh, come on, I’m sure there’s someone out there who wants to assault you and leave your corpse in a shallow grave,” I say, bumping his shoulder with my fist, the feel of the rock-hard muscles beneath his sweater sending a thrill tingling up my thighs. “Don’t be so down on yourself.”

He grunts again, this time with the hint of a smile I can just barely make out in the gathering shadows as we enter the tree line. He glances down at me, “Thanks, smartass.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “So, tell me, what brings you home on this lovely spring weekend? Homesick for gnarly subs and mud season after all your time in the big city?”

“Dad needed help replacing the gutters today and didn’t want to hire someone.”

I huff. “I bet that went well. I’m assuming you refrained from putting him in a shallow grave?”

“Just barely,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Which is why I’m the old loser at the high school party tonight. I was afraid if I stayed there much longer, I’d strangle him with that stupid pipe he won’t stop smoking even though his blood pressure is through the roof.”

“It would be hard to strangle someone with a pipe, but I hear you,” I say. “Your dad is a lot. And you aren’t an old loser. All the single people in town come to these parties. There’s nowhere else to go after the bars close, unless you want to hit Brad’s house on Seventh Street, but Brad is a sad sack and it always smells like fresh ass in there.”

“Fresh ass, huh?” Derrick laughs as he follows me off the trail, under several low-hanging tree limbs, and out onto the wide, rock ledge overlooking the quarry below. “So, what’s worse? Fresh ass or stale ass?”

“Fresh obviously. It’s way more…aromatic.” I pull in breath and prop my hands on my hips, staring out over the moonlit water below.

It’s gorgeous here. The perfect place for an impromptu seduction, and Derrick and I are bantering like we’ve never bantered before. He’s actually talking to me like an equal, not a dumb kid! And I swear there was a hint of flirtation in his tone when he called me “smartass.”

But I can’t jump the gun.

Timing is everything with things like this.

Luckily, I suddenly have a brilliant idea how to set the stage for a natural transition into a “more than friends” moment.

Derrick comes to stand beside me, murmuring softly, “Wow. I forgot how pretty the quarry is in the moonlight.”

“It’s even prettier from down in the water,” I say, reaching for the bottom of my sweatshirt and pulling it over my head. I drop it on the ground and start toeing off my shoes, but I barely get one sneaker off before Derrick’s hand is on my elbow again.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks. “You can’t jump into the water in the dark. You’ll kill yourself. And I thought you had to pee.”

I shrug. “Maybe I want to pee in the water, under the moonlight, while the stars spiral overhead.” I make a weak attempt to tug my arm from his grip. “Come on, old man, don’t be a fun killer.”

He pulls me closer, just the way I’d hoped he would. “I’m not a fun killer; I’m just not in the mood to save a drunk girl from drowning or to watch you split your head open on a rock and die.”

I lift my chin, tipping my lips toward his and setting my pulse to stampeding in the process. “Yeah? Would me dying ruin your whole night?”

He tips his head down, bringing his face even closer to mine. “It would ruin a lot more than my night.”

“Why?” I lean into him until my breast brushes ever-so-slightly against his chest. “Because you actually like me, after all?”

“Of course, I like you,” he says in a soft, uncertain voice.

“That was really convincing,” I whisper as I lean even closer, watching the muscle twitch in his jaw with breathless wonder.

“Your Evie’s best friend.”

“We’re not talking about Evie. We’re talking about you. Do you like me, Derrick?” I whisper, my nipples pulling into tight points for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the fact that my breasts are both touching his chest now and he hasn’t made a move to pull away. “Because I think you’re…pretty all right.”

“Pretty all right,” he mutters. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I mean, when you’re not being a condescending stick in the mud, you’re cool.”

“It’s not being a stick in the mud to keep a drunk person out of deep, freezing-cold water.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m lightly buzzed. And I’m not a little girl anymore, either. I don’t need you to protect me or boss me around,” I say, adding in a voice that sounds way more confident than I feel, “Unless you want to boss me around in the water while we’re skinny dipping.”

“What?” he rumbles in an ominously deep voice, but we’re too far down this road for me to turn back now.

“You ever been skinny dipping?” I ask, trying to pretend that my heart isn’t about to burst from my chest. “Or is that too much fun for a nose-to-the-grindstone guy like you?”

He releases my arm and takes a swift step back. “If you need to pee, pee. If not, head back to the party.”

I swallow the panicked lump rising in my throat as the inner voice starts screeching that we’ve made a massive mistake.

But then he wouldn’t have stood chest-to-chest with me for so long if he didn’t feel something, too.

Holding tight to that fact, I roll my shoulders back and say, “I believe I said I’d only be taking orders from you if we were in the water. Are we in the water? Did I miss something?”

He thrusts an arm toward the field behind me. “Go back to the party. Now. I’m not going to play these games with you, Harlow. I’m not interested.”

“Really? Then why were your lips inches from mine for five minutes?”

“It wasn’t five minutes,” he snaps.

“That isn’t an answer,” I shoot back, his lack of outright denial making my heart swoop like a kid on a swing, soaring toward the sky. “And I meant what I said, Derrick. I’m eighteen. I’m not a child. I’m a woman, legally and in every other sense of the word. And I know what I want.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t always get what you want, brat,” he says, with enough heat to make the words sting like a hot poker slipped between my ribs.

“Brat?” I sputter.

“Yeah, and a spoiled one.” He props his hands on his hips and turns his back to me, gazing out over the still quarry water. “Pee and start walking. You have three minutes before I throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to the party. Who’s giving you a ride home?”

“Leslie’s probably leaving with her ex, so I’m not sure I have one,” I say, the back of my nose beginning to sting and my heart tumbling off the swing to scrape both knees on the concrete. I stuff my foot back into my shoe and snatch my sweatshirt from the ground with shaking hands.

“Then I’ll give you one. Now, hurry up. I don’t want my friends to think I’m some sick fuck who needs to be watched around young girls.”

The disgust in his tone is enough to send tears slipping down my cheeks. He says something else—something hurtful I’m sure—but I’m already running through the woods, dashing back toward the field so fast the low-hanging limbs smack me in the face before I can dodge them.

But that’s fine.

I’ll take a face covered in red welts over a Car Ride of Shame with Derrick. The thought alone is enough to make me want to get sucked into a black hole at the center of the universe, never to be seen again.

I’m so mortified, so ashamed, that I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I emerge on the opposite side of the bonfire, not far from Derrick’s friends and the senior boys playing horseshoes.

Swiping at my cheeks and sniffing hard, I tuck my chin to my chest, praying I’ll be able to make it back to Leslie’s car before she leaves. Surely, if I explain what I’ve just been through, she’ll give me a ride home before she and Greg dash off to bang each other’s brains out.

But when I reach the place where our circle of lawn chairs was gathered, there’s nothing there but tire tracks in the soft ground and a Fro-Yo loyalty card that must have fallen out of someone’s purse.

Leslie is gone, as are Chelsea and Theresa.

Biting my lip and twisting the sweatshirt anxiously in my hands, I wrack my brain, wondering who I can ask for a ride who will be willing to leave right now. I’m friends with several of the horseshoe guys—including Pete, the senior boys’ DD—but they always stay out until the crack of dawn and most of the other people here are older.

I’ve just decided to head over to the bank teller crew and tell them I got my period unexpectedly and need emergency girl help getting home, when a slightly nasal voice behind me asks, “Your friends ditch you?”

I turn to see Edgar Smithfield-Watson III emerging from the shadows beneath the oak tree growing between this part of the field and the bonfire. His gait is slow, graceful, but predatory all the same.

Looks like I attracted his attention, after all.

Now, to decide what to do with it…

I hear Derrick asking someone by the bonfire if they’ve seen me and realize the time for thinking is over. It’s time to act and act fast.

Trusting my gut, I cross to Edgar, and whisper, “Do you have a car here?”

He nods to his right. “My truck’s parked right over there.”

“Could you give me a ride?” I ask, clenching my jaw and willing myself to stand still as he brushes my ponytail over my shoulder, his fingers lingering on my neck in a way that makes me want to gag. “I need to get out of here.”

“Sure thing, hot stuff,” he says. “You want to come back to my place?”

I absolutely don’t, but I know Edgar’s reputation well enough to realize that the chances he’ll give me a ride with nothing in it for him are slim to none. So, I nod, forcing a smile as I say, “Sure. But can we go now? There’s someone following me I’d rather not talk to.”

“Totally. Olsen’s a stuck-up prick,” he says, making it clear he saw me walk into the woods with Derrick, which is…worrisome for reasons I’m having trouble pinpointing with all the fight or flight chemicals flooding my brain. Edgar wraps his fingers around the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “And you look like you know how to party. What’s your name?”

My lips are parting in reply, when Derrick practically growls from behind Edgar, “Her name is Harlow. And if you don’t get your hands off of her in five seconds, we’re going to have a problem.”

Chapter Three

Harlow

My heart is ricocheting off my ribs like a toddler hyped up on ice cream and set loose in a bouncy house, and I can’t decide whether I’m relieved or pissed that Derrick’s trying to take control.

Yes, Edgar is a little creepy and getting way too handsy, way too fast.

But Derrick is the harbinger of doom. I will literally die of shame if I have to spend one more second with him.

So, when Edgar pulls his hand from my neck and turns to face Derrick, I quickly snatch his fingers in mine. “I’m going with Edgar. He’s giving me a ride,” I say, my voice only trembling the slightest bit. “Your assistance is no longer needed here, but thanks.”

Edgar’s clammy hand curls lightly around my palm. “Yeah, it’s all cool, buddy.” He exhales a soft, derisive laugh. “You can take the superhero act somewhere else, Harlow’s all good.” He glances my way with a cheesily seductive grin. “That’s a hot name, by the way. Suits you.”

“She’s out of your league,” Derrick says, surprising me. “And I have Carrie Cox’s number in my phone. I’m sure her dad would love to know you’re out here getting fucked up and trying to score with teenage girls while Carrie’s about to go into labor.”

Edgar’s grip tightens on mine until it almost hurts. “Fuck you, Olsen. That kid ain’t mine. If you stuck around town instead of running off to the city, you’d know that.”

Derrick steps closer, until I can smell his woodsy, spicy cologne, a much preferable scent to the stale marijuana smoke and wet puppy smell clinging to Edgar’s clothes. He smiles, sending a chill straight to the center of my bones. I’ve always known that Derrick could be bossy and overbearing, but I didn’t realize he could also be terrifying until right now. “Let her go. This is the last time I’ll ask. Then, we’re going to have a problem.”

Edgar’s grip spasms on my already crushed fingers, making me flinch and a whimper involuntarily leap from my throat.

Before I can say a word or attempt to squirm my aching bones free, Derrick’s hand whips out, executing what feels like a light karate chop on Edgar’s wrist, but which sends the other man to his knees with a wail of pain.

One second, Edgar’s standing beside me, turning my knuckles to dust. The next, he’s on the ground, moaning and clutching his wrist.

Derrick’s arm goes around my waist. He practically lifts me off my feet as he starts toward where most of the vehicles are parked at the far edge of the field.

Behind us, Edgar shouts, “Fuck you, Olsen. I’ll fuck her as soon as you’re out of town, shit for brains. If you were keeping your girl happy, she wouldn’t have come begging me for a ride.”

“That isn’t what happened. You came after me,” I shout over my shoulder, but Derrick shakes his head and snaps, “Stop. Let it go. He’s not worth the effort.”

“But that isn’t what happened,” I insist. “I just wanted a ride from someone who didn’t treat me like a kid.”

“Well, you would have gotten that. Though, from what I’ve heard, Edgar doesn’t last long. Five minutes, tops. And he likes to take the condom off in the middle of things without telling his partner what he’s up to. That’s what happened to my friend, Carrie. Now she’s nine months pregnant with that shithead’s baby and trying to figure out how to pay for everything alone.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter. “That’s horrible. He just…took it off? Without telling her?”

“Yeah. It’s considered rape in some states, but not here. Not yet.”

My stomach snarls. “I wasn’t going to have sex with him. I was going to ask him to take me home as soon as we got close to town.”

“And I’m sure he would have done just that,” Derrick says, sarcasm dripping from the words. “He’s such a nice guy and all.” He exhales before adding in a gentler tone, “How’s your hand?”

“Fine,” I say, my throat so tight I can barely force the word out.

“We can grab some ice at the gas station on the way to your house if you want,” he says as we near his Jeep. “And…maybe a slushy? My treat?”

I dig my heels in and throw out my hand, stopping him from opening the door. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to be nice to me and make things better. Things are never going to be better.” I turn, pulling away from his grip on my waist to face him head-on. “But just FYI, I would never have said the things I said, if you hadn’t stood so close to me for so long. So don’t act like I’m some kind of crazy child who pulled the idea that you might want to kiss me out of her ass.”

“I know that you think—”

“Because I didn’t,” I cut in, my voice trembling as the tears I beat back earlier threaten once more. “There were signals. And I’m not crazy.”

Suddenly Derrick’s hands are on either side of my shoulders, pinning me against the Jeep as he says in a low, urgent voice, “I know you’re not, but I can’t kiss you, Harlow. I can’t, no matter how much I might want to. You’re my little sister’s best friend. And I’m too fucking old for you.”

“But you…” I trail off, my mouth going dry as I realize what he’s said, what he’s confessed. “But you…want to?”

“I want to so fucking bad, it’s killing me,” he whispers, sending electricity racing across my skin. I suck in a breath and hold it as he leans even closer, until his lips are inches from mine, and I can feel his body heat warm against my mouth. “But I refuse to be that guy, the one who takes advantage of you.”

And then, like she’s been waiting in the wings all along, ready to take over, my Inner Seductress whispers, “Then let me take advantage of you instead.” A beat later, my lips are on Derrick’s and my heart is in my throat.

For a second, I think he’s going to push me away.

His body stiffens, and his lips are firm and motionless against mine.

But then, it’s like something snaps inside of him. A beat later, his hand is cradling the back of my head, dragging me closer as his mouth comes alive.

His tongue strokes against mine with a groan of relief I feel everywhere, from my tingling lips to my curling toes and every sizzling inch of skin in between. He wraps his other arm around my waist again, pulling me against him as I twine my arms around his neck and return the kiss, my tongue sparring with his as the taste of floral hops from the beer he was drinking earlier and an earthy, salty taste that is all Derrick floods through my mouth.

In seconds, my nipples are aching with the need to be touched and my panties are soaked. I’ve been wet before, obviously—my ex and I did our fair share of steaming up the windows in the back seat of his Mustang and Chris was a good-looking guy—but I’ve never been this turned on, this hungry for more than a kiss or a hand down the front of my panties.

I want to be naked with Derrick, bared to him in every sense of the word.

I want to wrap my legs around his waist and feel him hard and pulsing against me where I need him most. I want him to take my virginity, and in my current beer-buzzed and kiss-addled state, my brain decides it’s a good idea to tell him so.

“I want you to be my first,” I mumble against his lips as he squeezes my ass through my jeans. That one, possessive touch is nearly enough to make me come.

“What?” he whispers, his hand abandoning my backside as he shifts away, putting a hateful two or three inches between us.

I step forward, tightening my grip on his neck again. “I want you to be my first. Let’s get a hotel room for the rest of the weekend. I don’t have a curfew anymore, so I don’t have to be home until Sunday night if I don’t want. As long as I call Mom in the morning and tell her I’m okay, and tell her not to tell Dad I didn’t come home at all so he won’t have a meltdown, she won’t worry and everything will be cool. We can stay in bed all day if we want.”

He tries to pull back again, but I arch my hips forward, grinding against the thick, delicious hardness behind his fly. “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t need hearts and roses or love or whatever. I just need sex, and I’d much rather lose it to you than some guy my age who has no idea what he’s doing.”

Derrick reaches behind his head, circling my wrists with his fingers and gently, but firmly, pulling them from around his neck. He holds onto my arms as he says, “I’m flattered, I really am, but—”

“Oh God, don’t,” I groan, my stomach filling with acid all over again. “Don’t do the let me down easy thing. Clearly you like kissing me as much as I like kissing you. So, let’s go kiss some more and worry about the other stuff later.”

“I can’t have sex with you, Harlow,” he says, the pained tone in his voice easing my stinging pride a little, but not enough.

Not nearly enough.

“Even kissing you…” He exhales. “That was a mistake, one that won’t happen again. Ever.”

Chapter Four

Harlow

Derrick releases my wrists and takes another step back, shaking his head like he’s snapping out of dream. “Fuck, I don’t even know why I did that. When I came after you, I was just… I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

He drags clawed fingers through his hair, which falls perfectly back into place, because he’s Derrick, and everything about his life is perfect.

Everything, apparently, except the fact that his lips just touched mine.

“Way to make a girl feel great about her kissing skills,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my aching chest.

I thought nothing could be worse than being turned down flat, but this…

This is so much worse.

As I watch Derrick fight to swallow, his throat working as if he’s struggling to keep down a rush of bile, I can safely say I’ve never felt more repulsive.

“I can’t do this.” He reaches a stiff arm out to clasp the Jeep’s door handle behind me.

“Can’t do what?” I shift to the side as he opens the door.

“Talk about it,” he says, nodding toward the empty seat without making eye contact. “I can’t talk about it or think about it, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d keep this between us. It would upset Evie, and there’s no point in upsetting her when it was a freak accident that won’t happen again.”

“You make kissing me sound like a car crash.” I shift into the space between him and the open door. He steps back again, moving so fast it summons a humorless laugh from my throat. “Jesus, Derrick, I’m not going to give you cooties. Or throw myself at you or…whatever. You’ve made it clear you’re not interested, and I’m not a sexual predator. Not even a little bit.”

He mutters something beneath his breath that I can’t quite make out before adding in a louder voice, “Just get in, Harlow. Let me take you home.”

“Fine,” I mumble as I climb into the passenger’s seat. I strap the seatbelt into place before crossing my arms over my chest again, feeling like I’ll explode if I don’t make an effort to hold myself together.

The last of the beer-and-kissing-buzz fades away as Derrick guides the Jeep out of the field and onto the dark country road leading back toward town, leaving me with a sour taste in my mouth and a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Shit. I’ve screwed things up.

I’ve screwed things up so badly, I’m not sure they can ever be normal again.

Derrick’s right—it doesn’t make sense to tell Evie what happened—but I’m not sure I can keep a secret like this from her. Evie is more than my best friend; she’s family. I’m closer to her than I am to my biological sister, and we’ve always told each other everything. Whether good news or bad, I don’t feel like something fully happened to me until I share it with Evie.

The thought makes me perk up in my seat and some of the tension ease from my ribs…

That’s it!

If I don’t share this with Evie, it will be almost like it didn’t happen.

“Everything okay?” Derrick asks, breaking the strained silence for the first time since he started the engine.

“Yeah.” I shift closer to the door, as far away from the soul-and-kissing-confidence-crushing human on the other side of the vehicle as possible. “Everything is better than okay, but I think we should take this one step further.”

He casts a nervous glance my way, dividing his attention between my face and the mostly abandoned road ahead. “What do you mean? I told you, Harlow, that was a mistake. A huge mistake. I can’t—”

“I’m not talking about that,” I say, cutting him off before he can turn me down, yet again.

Ugh. He’s such a jerk. How could I have ever thought he was bossy and controlling in the good way? He’s an uptight joy killer, a nightmare in Sex God’s clothing, and now at the top of my Least Favorite People list.

“I’m talking about not talking,” I continue in a cool voice. “I think you’re right. I don’t think we should talk again. Ever. About anything. From now on, I’ll pretend you don’t exist and vice versa. Sound good?”

He sighs. “Come on, Harlow. I’ve known you since you were a little kid. I care about you. You’re…my friend.”

“I’m not your friend. I’m Evie’s friend. You made that clear every time you treated me like an annoying little sister you didn’t want borrowing your video games or stealing dirty magazines from under your bed.”

Derrick punches the brakes a little too hard at the first stop sign and his head jerks my way. “What? You’re the one who stole them? I thought it was Evie. I gave her shit about it for weeks.”

“Yeah, I know.” I sniff and lift my chin higher into the air. “She told me about it. And I confessed I was the one who took them. And she told me that she’d never tell you what I’d done, because she’s the most loyal, wonderful friend ever. I should have remembered that and made sure I didn’t do anything to damage our friendship. Like kiss her evil big brother who likes bondage porn.”

“A little rope and handcuffs aren’t bondage,” he says. “Not really. And I was seventeen when I was looking at those. You were nine.”

“So?” I shrug. “I was curious. And I started my period a year later. It wasn’t like there were no hormones in my system. I understand it’s convenient for people to assume sexual urges suddenly manifest overnight when you turn eighteen, but that’s not reality.”

“I get that, but still...” He shakes his head. “You were wearing your hair in pigtails and making mud pies with Evie in the backyard. You shouldn’t have been looking at shit like that. I should have hidden them better.” He shoots a frustrated glance my way. “Or, better yet, you should have stayed the hell out of my room. It wasn’t a kid-friendly place, and you were told at least a hundred times it was off-limits.”

“Whatever, I’m fine. I wasn’t psychologically damaged by your second-rate porn, and I found much better stuff under my mom’s bed a few years later, anyway. Romance novels are way sexier than man porn. The women get to have love and orgasms and actual three-dimensional lives, instead of shaving their pubes into a weird dagger shape and bouncing on the pizza boy’s dick, pretending whatever gross dude they hired to play the pizza boy isn’t totally nasty. And none of those women in porn are actually coming. You know that, right?”

“Of course, I know that,” he snaps.

“And that’s okay with you? You’re cool with some poor actress experiencing zero pleasure while Jake the Jizz Factory is spewing all over her face?”

“No, it’s not okay with me. But it… It is what it is. Those women choose to make those films. They’re not forced into it.”

“So?” I challenge. “They should still get to feel good. The men do. Why is it just assumed the women will fake it when a little fucking effort on the part of the men they’re fucking in those movies might actually get them off? It’s another toxic, man-centered belief, and it’s gross. If you really care about women, you should stop watching that shit. Try romance novels instead. You might learn something.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he says, heat creeping into his tone. “But I’ve never had any complaints in that department. And how did we get on this subject anyway?”

“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure you started it.” I motion toward the still-empty intersection. No other cars are stopped behind us, but I’m so done with this conversation. “Keep driving, please. The sooner this ride is over, the better. I’m eager to forget the sound of your voice and that I was ever attracted to you. Even for a hot, clearly crazy second.”

He sighs again, more heavily this time. I’m pretty sure he also rolls his eyes before he eases off the brake, taking the left toward the sprawling subdivision where we both grew up, but I don’t care.

I don’t care if Derrick thinks I’m being overly dramatic or obnoxious or a spoiled brat. Because I think he’s a Grade A Jerkhole of the first order.

And then he says, “It’s okay to be an eighteen-year-old virgin, you know. You don’t have to rush it. You have plenty of time,” and I decide “jerkhole” is too kind a word.

Derrick is a condescending turd burglar, a smug shit stain, perhaps even Satan himself.

As I swing out of his Jeep in front of my house a few minutes later, I try the nickname on for size. “Later, Satan. Here’s hoping our paths never cross again.”

I slam the door on his reply and start up the driveway, feeling at least twenty percent better. Satan is the perfect name for that douchebag. I make a mental note to refer to him as Satan and nothing else—not even in my innermost thoughts—and let myself into the house.

I creep past where my mom is asleep on the couch with the television playing the historical romance series she binge-watches at least once a year, and the fire in my belly burns even hotter.

I’m not going to end up like my mom, married to the first guy I ever bang and spending the rest of my life longing for romantic adventures I’ve never experienced firsthand. My dad is a solid guy, but his idea of romance is buying a bucket of chicken on the way home so Mom doesn’t have to cook or taking her car in for an oil change.

I want more than that, and I know Derrick’s wrong about me having “plenty of time” to lose my virginity. The longer I wait, the bigger deal it’s going to be. And the bigger deal it is, the more likely I’ll be to get stupidly attached to the first guy I have sex with, just like my mother and sister before me, and end up stuck in a less-than-awesome marriage.

Besides, I hate people telling me what to do. And by Derrick telling me what to do? Well, he’s practically guaranteed, I’ll do the exact opposite.

I’m going to find someone decent to punch my V-Card ASAP and head to college ready to play the field, ready to date and bang a variety of cute guys and make sure I’ve found my perfect match before I settle down.

As I brush my teeth and tumble into bed in my clothes—too tired to bother changing into pajamas—I make a vow to start tomorrow. I’ll head down to the beach in the skimpiest outfit I can find that’s still suitable for the cool spring weather and start my hunt for a Decent De-Virginizer.

He doesn’t have to be fantastic. He just has to be a nice guy, okay-looking, and have enough experience to make sure he doesn’t bruise my ovaries while we’re getting busy. (That happened to Chelsea her first time with her equally virginal boyfriend. Later, she joked that at least he had a dick big enough to bruise her ovary, so things could be worse. But right after, she was in so much pain her usually glowing dark brown skin looked gray around the edges.)

Maybe I’ll ask Evie to go with me to the beach.

We can spend the afternoon practicing our flirting and the evening gorging on pizza at our favorite place by the shore, the one with the free breadsticks and the old jukebox with all our favorite bands from junior high still front and center on the selection menu.

It will be good to spend some quality time with her. We haven’t had a beach day since last summer and that way I can get started on pretending the shit with Derrick never happened tout suite.

But the next day, Evie already has plans to see a movie with Derrick. She invites me, but of course I say “hell to the fuck no,” and make up some lie about being too sleepy to sit in the dark for hours.

Afterward, I pace my room like a psychopath, chewing my fingernails down to nubs as I wonder if Derrick’s going to keep quiet about last night or if I’m going to get a text from Evie telling me she’s totally grossed out by me and doesn’t want to be friends anymore.

By three o’clock, I’m such a stress case that I call Cameron, my boy bestie, and beg him to meet me on the beach for a walk.

I plan to pick his brain about boy psychology and the chances of Derrick keeping his lips zipped, but when I see him standing by the sign warning that swimming is stupid this time of year, I realize I can’t spill the beans. I can’t burden Cam with this secret. I’ll have to carry it alone.

For some reason, that makes me teary all over again, an occurrence unusual enough that Cam pulls me in for a hug and asks, “What’s up, Lo? Why so sad? Did something happen at the party last night? Pete said it was pretty wild.”

“Nothing happened, I just…” I bite the inside of my lip, but I can’t stop a sliver of the truth from slipping out. “I just saw Derrick there, and he was a huge asshole. He made me feel like a sloppy pile of idiot shit.”

“How? And why? What did he say?” Cam asks, but I’m crying too hard to answer.

I don’t know why I’m falling apart, and I try to stop, I really do, but I can’t. Cam tries to tempt me with pizza and ice cream and finally—after driving us back to his house so I can snot all over myself in private—a shot of his mother’s vodka that he stole from the liquor cabinet. She’s at work until nine and he swears she won’t notice, but I shake my head again.

Alcohol is part of what got me into that mess last night. I plan on avoiding it—and parties where Derrick might be in attendance—for the foreseeable future.

I finally calm down and Cam and I watch old Saturday Night Live episodes until I’m smiling again, but that weird night lingers between us for weeks to come. Eventually, he must say something to Jess and Evie about it, because they ambush me after a Future Business Leaders’ meeting, Evie’s eyes wide with anxiety as she begs me to tell her what Derrick did to me and if she needs to kick him in the balls for it.

I promise her it was just his usual bossy big brother shit, but that it really hit me the wrong way all of a sudden. The lie soothes Evie’s fears while giving me a free pass to make my Derrick hatred a public matter. I start to call him Satan in front of everyone and eventually, use the name again to his face, when I bump into him after graduation in May.

I smirk at him and drone, “What’s up, Satan? Oops, kidding, don’t care,” in a bored monotone and breeze past him to find my family in the throng of well-wishers.

Years pass, and I do my best to play the field, but somehow, I can’t seem to ditch my V-Card. Not in my four years at Duke or when I move to New York to start my master’s at NYU.

I tell myself it’s bad timing or high standards or maybe a mixture of both. It’s certainly not because no man’s kiss has ever made me feel the way Derrick’s did or because some psychotic part of me is holding out hope that we might find our way back to each other someday.

I don’t want anything to do with Derrick.

I hate him like cystic acne and would rather eat a lettuce wrap covered in dog hair than kiss him again, let alone offer him my V-Card on a platter a second time. Turn me down once, shame on you. Turn me down twice, shame on me. Big shame. Huge. Like…the biggest shame ever.

Bottom line—Derrick is Satan and I have no urge to get naked with The Dark Lord of Smug and Bossy evil.

A part of me actually believes that’s true, right up until the moment, six years later, when he pins me against a wall in my New York City apartment and kisses me like he’s been fantasizing about me every bit as much as I’ve been fantasizing about him…

Harlow and Derrick’s love story

continues in SCREWED

Available Now!

About the Author

Author of over forty novels, USA Today Bestseller Lili Valente writes everything from steamy suspense to laugh-out-loud romantic comedies. A die-hard romantic, she can’t resist a story where love wins big. Because love should always win. She lives in Vermont with her two big-hearted boy children and a dog named Pippa Jane.

Find Lili at…

www.lilivalente.com

Also by Lili Valente

Hot Royal Romance

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Bad Motherpuckers Series

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The Lonesome Point Series

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Saddles and Sin

Diamonds and Dust

12 Dates of Christmas

Glitter and Grit

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Co-written Standalones

Falling for the Boss (co-written with Sylvia Pierce)

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The Good Love Series

(co-written with Lauren Blakely)

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Good with His Hands

Good to be Bad

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Hammered

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