P.S. I Loathe You by Lisi Harrison Read Free Book Online Page B

now” sort of way. “K, why are you always putting your cute little apartment down? I think it’s cozy.”
    “That’s what
I
think.” Dempsey leaned across the table and high-fived Massie. A fiery-hot crush-bolt shot up her arm the instant they made contact.
    “Ehmagawd, that’s right! You live there. I totally forgot.”
    Kristen rolled her eyes.
    Claire smile-bit her pinky nail, half listening and half texting Cam.
    “Maybe we’ll run into you Friday night.”
    “May-
be
.” Dempsey nodded back.
    Massie beamed.
Gimme a YAY!
    CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION
     IN
     OUT
      The Pinewood Building
     The Block Estate
      Cleats
     Claus
     Cheering coach
     Acting coach

WESTCHESTER, NY
    SYCAMORE ROAD
    Tuesday, September 22nd
4:39 P.M.
    Dylan had imagined herself riding doubles on the back of a boy’s bike many times before. A silk Hermès scarf tied around her red curls . . . tanned calves glistening in the sunlight . . . cashmere-coated arms hugging a distressed leather jacket . . . But never had she envisioned herself post-detention, wearing pigeon poo–covered sweats, red rain boots, and gripping a hoodie with cracked dishpan hands. Yet there she was, on Derrington’s silver BMX, off to buy his sister a birthday present. And she had never felt more beautiful.
    Students lumbering home under the weight of their backpacks envy-glanced as they passed. Dylan made sure they saw her “my life is so perfect I’m bored” expression. Lids heavy . . . mouth relaxed . . . hungry.
    After a few blocks, Derrington started to slow down. And then the bike started to wobble.
    Am I too fat?
    Dylan spit out her wad of Twisted Tornado Bubblicious, hoping to lighten the load. Still, the bike swayed from side to side.
    “I should get off,” Dylan managed, despite the lump in her throat.
    “Good idea.” Derrington slammed on the brakes.
    “What?”
    “My ankle.” He began loosening his laces.
    “Oh!” The throat lump disintegrated. “Want me to pedal?”
    He folded his arms across his chest and shrugged.
    “Trade places,” Dylan insisted, feeling revitalized and fabulously in control. She straddled the banana seat and honked his horn. “Clear the road!”
    She sucked in her abs when he gripped her waist and managed to hold them in as she power-pedaled for the next eight blocks.
    Rosemary mint shampoo wafted off Dylan’s hair and enveloped them in what she pictured to be an invisible scented heart. . . . Then a vision of Massie formed in her head, or rather, what the alpha would do if she saw them right now. And the heart scattered like glitter in the wind.
    “You’re strong,” Derrington mused, thumb-drumming on her back as they rounded the corner onto Main Street.
    OMG, he thinks I’m a man. Massie would never pedal a boy. Not even for charity!
    “He’s injured,
okay
?” Dylan shouted at a gawking toddler in a pink fleece–lined stroller.
    Derrington leaned forward and honked his horn as they weaved through the foot traffic.
    Beep beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beep beep beep beep beeeeeeeep. Beep beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beep beep beep beep beeeeeeeep.
    They cut through the middle of the sidewalk, forcing pedestrians to pick a side or perish. Shopping bags, children, and teacup dogs were yanked out of harm’s way with such urgency Dylan couldn’t stop pedal-laughing. Or was the giddiness a side effect directly related to Derrington’s chest being pressed up against her back? Either way, she needed to get off the black bike and show this boy that despite her strong legs and extreme mouth gas, she was all lady. And she would start by calling him
Derrick
.
    “Here we are,
Derrick
.” She hit the brakes in front of Amazing Lace, a small boutique with big prices. “Shall we go in,
Derrick
?”
    Saying his real name gave her that awkward French-class feeling. Like when Madame Vallon made her speak with the correct accent—
It’s not jam-bone; it’s