Hate Crush Read online A. Zavarelli

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Hate Crush

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

A. Zavarelli

Book Information:

They call him the devil. When I crash-landed into him on my first day at Loyola Academy, I was sure that couldn’t be true.
He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen in real life.
Little did I know he was also the cruelest.
I went from starstruck to stunned the moment his cynical eyes cut through me. I can’t tell you what it was that made him want to punish me. But from that day forward the brooding recluse of a man made it his goal to torment me. I want to loathe him, and some days, I do.
But good or bad, nobody’s attention has ever tasted so sweet.
What do you do when you have a hate crush on your bully?
Worse yet, what do you do when he’s also your teacher?
Hate Crush is a full length standalone age gap bully romance with a complete ending.
Books by Author:

A. Zavarelli Books



“SORRY I’M LATE.” My father flops on to the back seat of our Town Car with his briefcase in tow. He’s still dressed in his office garb, but the wrinkles in his shirt make it look like he just woke from a nap. The shadows beneath his eyes are more prominent than the last time I saw him, and I can’t even recall how long ago that was. He’s been holed up in his apartment in the city while my mother reigns supreme over the manor house in Greenwich. I’ve barely seen either of them over the summer, and it feels like it’s taken a small miracle just to bring the three of us together now.

“Really, Brady?” My mother huffs from the front passenger seat. “Would it kill you to be on time for once in your life?”

“Would it kill you to wait until noon for a drink?” he fires back.

Ignoring the hubbub, our driver, Luis, merges into traffic as my parents continue to bicker all the way up the I-95. I pop my headphones in and thumb through the latest tracks on my Spotify playlist to drown them out. Once I’ve settled into a good vibe, I reach for the camera hanging around my neck and sort through the photos I took over the summer. Lucky for me, the drive to New Canaan is short, and we seem to survive without any major bloodshed.

By the time we pull up to Loyola Academy, a wall of silence has been erected between my parents, which is preferable to the constant bickering. They tactfully go about the business of ignoring each other while Luis retrieves my suitcases from the car. My mother stands on the curb, twisting the gold bracelet draped over her delicate wrist as she studies the crowd that has gathered just inside the gates of my new home. Or prison, depending on how I choose to look at it.

“I should go speak with some of the other parents,” Mom says.

“Of course.” My father shoos her away. “Wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to let the world know Lila has arrived.”

She ignores his parting jab, and my father helps me roll my suitcases over the cobbled entrance to the campus of one of the nation’s finest boarding schools. At least that’s what the brochure said. In this case, I’m convinced finest is interchangeable with expensive. At first glance, it looks more like a university than a boarding school. The campus is massive, and while they boast about having one of the largest libraries in the nation, it looks like the acreage itself is more impressive. I could easily get lost here, and I don’t doubt that I will. From my research, I know that many of the brick buildings that dot the plush green landscape are historical. And beyond all that well-manicured grass lies the best preparatory education money can buy.

As we venture onto the grounds, a knot forms in my throat as multiple pairs of eyes roam my direction. Amongst the scattered parents and faculty are the modern-day Jackie Os and John Kennedys of the world. And then there’s me, Stella LeClaire. Unlike my peers, I’m not American royalty. I’m not even American aristocracy. The best thing I have going for me is that I’m the daughter of Lila Monroe, the once sort-of famous jet-setting model who refused to change her last name when she married my father. She’s beautiful and elegant and spins a wonderful tale about my father being a Wall Street fat cat and her daughter’s aspirations to work in fashion public relations. That isn’t even slightly true on my part, but she read something about it in a magazine once and decided soon after that would be the path for me. The next thing I knew, she was plying the admissions committee with expensive gifts and calling in all sorts of favors to get that golden ticket and the bragging rights that come with it. Now here I am with said ticket, signed up to take courses she thinks will eventually get me in the door at Cornell.

As I watch her make the rounds, I wonder if any of the other parents are falling for her respectable family act. Lila always wants to be the woman others look up to and not just because of her sky-high legs. In her mind, she’s the woman who gets invited to dinner and charity galas. The head of the table at the country club, and the fashionista who rules on and off the tennis court. What she fails to realize is that those same women who invite her into their circle are talking shit about her just as soon as she leaves.

In my brief interactions with the upper crust, I’ve learned they can sniff out a fraud better than anyone else. I don’t doubt for a second these alums and their offspring haven’t figured out we aren’t from old money. The majority have probably already deemed me unworthy of walking this hallowed ground with their trust fund babies. Honestly, I can’t say that I disagree with them. Loyola was never my dream. But with the current climate at home, and my parents' eagerness for their own freedom, I’m forced to make the best of the situation.