He's Always Hidden Behind a Mask. Until it Was No Longer Possible.

Asher Stevens is a legend when it comes to Wildcat football. If the gossip that swirls through campus is true, he'll be one of this year's top NFL draft picks. To say I can't stand the guy is a major understatement. Other women might be taken in by his handsome face, chiseled body, and athletic prowess, but not me. I see him for what he is—a muscle bound, steroid-infused meathead who drinks like a fish, smokes weed, and screws like he's been sentenced to prison without the possibility of conjugal visits.
So what if my pulse trips every time our gazes collide?
Or my panties dampen when he lays hands on me?
It means nothing.
After three and a half years of steering clear, it seems like my luck has finally run out. Everywhere I go, there he is.
Needling me at the restaurant where I work—check.
Colliding on campus when I'm running late—double check.
Showing up in a parking lot after an accident—triple check.
No matter what I do, I can't get away from the guy.
To make matters worse, my life is on the verge of imploding and the one person I want to avoid like the plague is the very same one who comes to my rescue, making me an offer I can't refuse. One that involves spending time alone with him when that's the last thing I want to do.
You know what scares me most?
The fleeting glimpses I catch buried beneath all the hype. The ones that suggest he's deeper and more intelligent than I suspected.
Resisting the campus legend is easy.
Resisting the man he's slowly revealing himself to be, isn't.

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