Jonah and Dylan get along like oil and water. Until a fake dating ploy gives them new perspective, and they realize that “falling for your enemy” isn’t as impossible as it seems. There are plenty of words Jonah Collins could use to describe Dylan Ramírez. “Arrogant,” “spoiled,” and “golden boy” to name a few. Likewise, Dylan thinks he has Jonah accurately labeled as an attention-seeking asshat who never shuts his filthy mouth. Their friends are convinced Jonah’s and Dylan’s disdain for one another is just thinly veiled lust—a rumor that surges like wildfire when the two wake up in one bed after homecoming. Mutually horrified, Dylan and Jonah agree to use the faux pas to their advantage by fake dating. If they can stay convincing long enough to end their “relationship” in a massive staged fight, they can prove their incompatibility to their friends once and for all. But the more time they spend together, the more their plan begins to fall apart—and the closer they come to seeing each other clearly for the first time. "The boys’ banter sizzles and delights, but Woody’s true power shows through in the intricately realized characters’ tender depictions of support, kindness, and capacity for change." --PW Amanda Woody is a metro-Detroit-based queer author. They graduated from Central Michigan University with a degree in English and a certificate in creative writing. When not writing and reading happily ever afters, they can be found drinking caramel apple cocktails, playing Hades , or rewatching childhood shows with their siblings. You can follow them on Twitter @AmandaWoody_. CHAPTER 1 JONAH   I’d sell my soul for the chance to wake up like those cheery assbags in a Disney Channel movie. Seriously. Is stirring awake to chirping birds so much to ask for? Is it so impossible that I, too, could greet the morning sun, then twirl to my walk-in closet and choose between my cutest outfits? Can’t I be the one to snag some toast and sprint past my quirky parents because, oh dicks and fiddlesticks, I’m late for school! Of course not. Because I’m Jonah Collins, and I could never be so lucky. I can barely pry my face from my soggy, saliva-laden pillow. A throb­bing headache expands through my temples and jaw. I squint through my crusty eyes, making out scattered posters on deep burgundy walls. The Great British Baking Show , Chopped , Hell’s Kitchen , Pesadilla en la Cocina , Cake Boss . The dressers are scattered with tourist trinkets—snow globes, figurines, key chains. Okay, I’m in someone’s bedroom. That’s one question answered. But I’m . . . in my . . . Underwear? Oh shit . A curled fist of realization punches me back into last night. Sensa­tions from the after-party nip at my eyes, unraveling and disappearing. Shouting over music. Howling laughter. The sting of alcohol. Sparkles fluttering away from dresses. The glare of my phone screen as I check my texts again. There’s a slight incline in the bed, like there’s something weighing down the other side. Half hoping I’m lying beside a gargantuan teddy bear, I flip over, my heart hammering. Instead, there’s a real human lying next to me. Loose black curls tickle his brows, and he’s sleeping, one dark brown arm extended under his head, his shirtlessness burning into my retinas. It’s . . . It’s . . . Dylan. Fucking. Ramírez. My jaw unhinges. White, numbing panic burns behind my eyes. I’m fever dreaming, right? No way I’m lying half naked in bed beside my ul­timate archenemy without some logical explanation. I have to think . . . remember . . . Okay. I have to go back to square one. First, my friends and I head to Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner. I order cheese curds, then promptly regret it when I end up in the bathroom, producing curds of my own. Second, the dance. Music pounds through the cinder block walls of the cafeteria. The DJ pops on a slow song, and my friends break off in pairs, leaving me to dance dramatically by myself, pretending to hold the imaginary waist of a beautiful exchange student. People giggle, fuel­ing my confidence, and then I notice Dylan Ramírez standing away from the crowd, his arms folded grumpily. The night is suddenly swell. Third, the after-party. Dylan rarely hosts, so this is the perfect time to cause chaos. Maybe I could “accidentally” bump into one of his thousand-dollar vases or, better yet, steal one. Before I can step through the door, though, he’s pulling me aside with his Goliath palm. “ Hey! ” I yell. “Unhand me, foul bitch!” He smiles coolly. “Break something,” he says in a honey-sweet voice, “and you’ll regret it. Understand, Collins?” Oh my God. Is he threatening my well-being ? I whip my trembling, rage-induced fists out in front of me, prepared to spill blood on his fancy rich-people porch. His eye roll nearly makes me swing prematurely. “Cute stance,” he says, and then he turns to join the party, leaving me flushed and ready to swing at the wall. Fourth, I’m chugging spik