Our site works best with the latest versions of these web browsers. Some BOTM features may not work on older or outdated browsers.
To update, click your preferred browser below and follow the instructions.
The genius of this book is how it blatantly mocks clichéd tropes while you are being sucked into a story about the very thing being mocked.
An action-packed, sci-fi / romance / YA book that takes the standard love triangle plot and shatters it with a modern-day twist—I loved this book!
Two boys compete for the affection of a girl. One is the gorgeous, smart, aw-shucks boy next door (I am picturing Scott Eastwood) and the other is the moody, quintessential bad boy (complete with leather jacket and motorcycle). The girl must choose only...
There is a secret organization that cultivates teenage spies. The agents are called Love Interests because getting close to people destined for great power means getting secrets.
Caden is a Nice: The boy next door, sculpted to physical perfection. Dylan is a Bad: The brooding, dark-souled guy, and dangerously handsome. The girl they are competing for is valuable to the organization, and each bo...
All four walls of my cell are mirrors.
The light on the ceiling flashes red and pinpricks of crimson bounce around the room. Red, huh? That's a bit sudden, seeing as the last examination was only a couple of weeks ago. I grin at the light, and my smile is reflected by the endless versions of myself that surround me. The light flashes again.
I drop into push-up position. The concrete floor is so cold my hands go numb then start to burn. Up, down. Up, down. A strand of mousy-brown hair falls over my eyes. That color will be the first thing they change about me.
If I'm chosen, that is.
If I'm good enough, that is.
On flash nine I jump to my feet. Gritting my teeth, I grab my shirt and pull it up and over my head. The voice of the LIC's events coordinator rings through my mind: When you're examined, be proud to display the bodies you've worked so hard to create. You're all incredibly beautiful young men, and you should relish the chance to show everyone how handsome you are.
I scrunch the shirt in my hands for a second—just a second—crushing it beneath my grip. Adrenaline pumps through my torso and my arms, making them feel electric. I toss the shirt into the corner of the room, then lower my eyes and force myself to do what they want me to do every morning: look at the boy/man/whatever I'd become.
The countless hours I've spent working out have obviously had an impact. Still, I'm far from perfect. I mean, I have abs, which took forever to show, and I'm proud of my arms. But my skin is stormtrooper white, I have a mole on my left hip I'm really self-conscious about, and my chest is getting hairy.