Dare You to Hate Me B. Celeste (best motivational books TXT) 📖

toward me. “Get in.” Aiden throws open the passenger door and stares at me with hard, expectant eyes.

“No.”

“Ivy, Get. In.”

My jaw ticks. “I’m not getting in the truck with you, Aiden. I said I’m fine.”

I get a few feet away before an arm hooks around my waist and yanks me into a hard body. Hard because he works out nonstop, trains on the field, and who knows what else. I try not to focus too much on the obvious muscles he has now compared to the past. I’m by no means a small woman. I’ve packed some meat on my bones over the years, and wholeheartedly enjoy the pastries at Bea’s any chance I can. Employee discounts are good for the wallet but bad for the body—evident in the love handles that like to peak out the top of the squeezing waistband.

“Put me down!” I demand, thrashing in his hold as he hauls me into the cab of his truck like I weigh nothing. I smack his arm away uselessly since he’s already withdrawing it to reach for the door. “What the hell!”

He has the nerve to roll his eyes as he makes sure my feet are out of the way, before slamming the door shut and jogging around to the driver side. Before I can even think about jumping out, he’s already inside and putting the vehicle into drive.

“Do you manhandle everybody?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, fingers wrapping tightly around the wheel. I can’t see well because of the dark, but I’m sure they’re white from the grip. “My teammates especially love it.” He catches the glare I cast him, but only scoffs at it. “Christ, Ivy. No, I don’t manhandle anyone. Because they’re smart enough not to be in goddamn summer clothes in upstate New York in fucking October.”

I am not playing this game. I pop the lock and open the passenger door. He slams on the brakes in the middle of the road, not even looking to see if anyone is behind him. I’ve got one foot out the door before he’s yanking me backward onto the seat.

By the time I right myself again, he’s suddenly in front of me with a deathly look on his face, and I have no idea how the hell he got out of the truck so quickly. “What the fuck are you doing?” he growls, blocking my way out.

Isn’t it obvious? “Getting out.”

“I was driving. Are you nuts?”

My teeth grind. I hate that word and all its variations. Nuts. Crazy. Insane. Psycho. Maybe they’re all true, but nobody but me gets to decide that. “I told you I didn’t want to get into your truck. You forced me in.”

“Don’t act like I—”

“What?” I challenge. “Was helping me? I don’t need, nor do I want, your damn help. Thanks anyway.”

I go to climb out again, but he won’t let me. His arms keep me caged in. “I don’t care if you hate me, I’m not letting you walk in the fucking dark when it’s below fifty in that outfit. You’re wearing sandals.”

Ignoring his “hate” comment, I wiggle my toes, which are half numb from the cold. “Gee, am I?”

His jaw ticks. “Let me drive you home.”

Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “No.” When his dark eyebrows raise a fraction, I stifle a sigh and try appearing calm. “I don’t want to go home. That’s why I was taking a walk.”

This time, he says nothing. I can see the contemplation in his eyes though. He’s wearing a long sleeve black Henley that fits his body a little too well. He was never the type to show off when we were younger, so I doubt it’s on purpose that the material clings to his huge biceps, but he also didn’t look like this back then. Gone is the lanky boy and in his place is a man who grew into his body.

“Please?” I’m ashamed of the soft-spoken word that escapes my lips, but it sends him into action. He gives me one subtle nod, gently repositions my legs back into his truck, and closes the door again.

This time when he gets behind the steering wheel, neither of us says a word. Biting down on my thumbnail until it snaps, I watch the scenery pass and listen to the low crooning of the country station playing on the radio. He still listens to the same stuff, quietly humming along to the lyrics. He has a nice voice, but never lets anyone hear it.

We’re heading toward the busier side of town where a lot of the local businesses and bars are located when he asks, “Why?”

I cautiously shift in my seat, daring a peek at him through the shield of fallen hair. “Why, what?”

His lips flatten. “You were never stupid, Chaos. Don’t act like it now.”

“Don’t call me that.” Memories flood back, and I squash them out of habit. Being this close to him for the first time in four years makes something stir in me that I don’t like.

Now he plays dumb. “What? Chaos? You never minded when we were younger. Remember all those times you said you wanted to be a superhero?”

“Chaos was never meant to be a superhero.” Chaos wasn’t a self-appointed nickname or some anti-hero to cheer on. It’s what I became. Unlike him, who was always obsessed with comic books and superheroes, I had no interest. I used to tease him about being my own personal savior, which he’d blush over and deny every time. He and I were always different that way.

I know for a fact one of his arms is covered in a tattoo sleeve, including a Captain America shield. I’d seen it when he came into the bakery when it was warmer, showcased in a t-shirt that highlighted the masterful ink on his skin and the bulging muscles beneath it. He must have gotten over his fear of needles because I remember his mother sharing the time he blacked out after seeing a nurse pull one out for the