Chapter 8

I have a theory that hating someone and being attracted to them is so scarily similar that I might have mixed up the two emotions.

Attraction and hatred are both instinctive—your stomach mangle like a rag at the idea of that person. Your heart thumps painfully and brilliantly, almost to the point of threatening to burst out through your ribcage. It's impossible to stop thinking about the person, and every interaction with them fastens your pulse.

Obviously, I'm not attracted to Ryan at all—I simply hate him.

That is why I wasn't visualizing Ryan naked before I fell asleep yesterday or imagined his lush lips kissing my earlobe before biting down on it, whispering: "I want you, Amelia,"

Fuck. I wish Ryan was ugly. It would be easier to keep him away from my dreams and sweet reveries if he was a short, fat little man with a balding head and warts covering his entire face—stained, yellow teeth from smoking and a foul stench that followed him everywhere. B