Hot Shots

Blaze Walker: Notorious bad boy. Star of the hockey team. He spends more time in bed with sorority girls or passed out on frat house floors than he does in classrooms. Which is why he's about to get kicked off the team unless he passes his finals. Me: Girl genius who started college so young that I've just turned eighteen my senior year. Which has made dating while in college, well, pretty much impossible. Hence, the v-card. Blaze and I both have something the other wants. If I tutor him, he'll pass all his exams. And he has a personality so repugnant to me that I can have a totally un-emotional, no-strings-attached first time. Because there's no way I could fall for Blaze Walker. Not even as my eyes begin to linger a little too long on his jagged muscles, and his on my thighs as we sit next to each other at the study table. Not even as the occasional brush of our hands elicits enough sparks to smell the smoke. Not even as our time studying together begins to peel back layers of the sexy-as-sin jock to reveal someone a lot more complicated than his reputation lets on . . . Nope, there's just no way. Truly, a plan worthy of my genius. Nothing could go wrong. Contains mature themes.

Pretending to be in love with my best friend was supposed to be easy-until I realized pretending isn't enough . . . I'm what most people would call exceptional. For my skills on the ice, for my massive and muscle-clad frame, and, of course, for my suave British accent that makes all the American girls swoon. And now, I have an exceptional problem. Thanks to a visa screw-up, I need to convince an immigration officer I'm engaged to an American if I want to stay in the country. My best friend Abby, a brilliant artist with the most luscious curves I've ever laid eyes on, is the natural choice. She'd do anything for me. I know I can trust her. But as we spend every day together, as I struggle to keep my eyes from lingering on her, as I get used to waking up with her body warming our bed, as her laughter bouncing off the walls of our crappy apartment becomes my daily soundtrack . . . I'm not sure I can trust myself-not to fall in love, for real.