Text Chemistry

Killian, a successful twenty-eight-year-old multi-billionaire, gets acquainted with a hotshot twenty-five-year-old stunning lawyer, Mayeli, one passionate night. He senses a mysterious connection to her but has yet to discover why. As their paths cross frequently, Killian and Mayeli struggle to admit their lingering feelings for each other. Will they eventually accept each other, or will they keep drifting away from the feelings they share? And what connection did they share?

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An app had been making the rounds online lately—one that let you text your future self. Right before the final paper of the SATs, I decided to jump on the bandwagon and fired off a message: [Future me, do I end up marrying Liam Tinsley?] The screen flickered, and a reply from an "Unknown Number" popped up almost instantly: [Yes. You had a big, grand wedding.] I clutched my phone and typed back fast: [And Mia Thompson was my maid of honor, right? She's my best friend!] The response came just as quickly: [She was. But she wasn't just the maid of honor, she slept with Liam on your wedding night.] My smile froze mid-expression. Then a second message hit: [Truth is, you didn't need to go through all that trouble tanking your scores just to match his. He bombed the math section on purpose—so he could end up in the same city as Mia, who was at the bottom of the class.] [He pushed you to turn down that top-tier university—not for your sake, but because he didn't want Mia to feel inferior next to your grades.] The pre-exam warning bell cut through the air. But I was frozen, my body ice-cold, unable to move. One last message slammed into my screen: [If you don't believe me, head straight to the motel behind the school after the test. You'll see the truth for yourself.]

A series of short letters between a teenage girl and boy. I just really hope you all enjoy reading this book.

DISCLAIMER! MM ROMANCE ! Caleb Foster is late. Again. Snow is still melting in his hair when he pushes open the classroom door, the cold from the rink clinging to him as thirty students turn to stare. At the front of the room, Professor Elliot Ward pauses mid-sentence. His gaze drifts to the attendance sheet, then back to the broad-shouldered hockey captain standing in the doorway. “Mr. Foster,” he says calmly. “I assume the ice rink does not operate on the same schedule as my classroom.”

Jenny Shaw, my roommate and belle of the campus, had been stealing my skincare products for four whole years. She even used them to fake a wealthy and beautiful persona, becoming a million-follower influencer and bagging a wealthy heir. Right before our graduation defense, her face suddenly erupted in severe lesions, completely disfigured. Jenny immediately accused me, claiming that I was jealous and vicious enough to lace the skincare products with poison! In an instant, I was branded online as the Poison Queen and a dangerous figure. Facing the police, I simply smiled at them and showed them my thesis. [Molecular Deconstruction Analysis of Herbal Medicinal Materials: Skin Regeneration and Reconstruction.] "Poisoning you? That's like a pot calling the kettle black. But thanks for providing me with experimental data!"