G I R L F R I E N D M A T E R I A L
It’s a good thing Allison Farley isn’t in love with her best friend.
They may both be star students in their costume design program, but when it comes to relationships, Allison and Kate are as different as their fashion senses.
Kate marches through life in combat boots and crop tops, breaking hearts as fast as she steals them and insisting anything more than an emotionless hook-up is a waste of time.
Allison knits her own sweaters, wears socks with tiny strawberries on them, and has spent two years of college utterly failing at her goal of getting a girlfriend before graduation.
Until the day it hits her: she’s got a master flirting coach right at her fingertips.
It doesn’t take much to get Kate on board; teaching her best friend the art of seduction seems like the perfect distraction from some of the inconvenient truths Kate would rather not face.
Like maybe she doesn’t hate relationships.
Maybe she’s just afraid of them—too afraid to reach out and grab one when it’s staring her in the face.
So it’s a good thing Kate Davidson isn’t in love with her best friend either.
It’s a good thing Kate and Allison are just taking part in some purely platonic flirting lessons and are absolutely, totally, definitely not falling in love.
Girlfriend Material is a New Adult WLW romance from Katia Rose featuring a little fashion, a lot of fabric, and a friendship that’s only a few snips and seams away from love.
E X C E R P T
She’s the last student to show up today, as usual. 9AM classes don’t exactly jam with her night owl soul. I woke up this morning to find a handful of Instagram memes she sent me at a quarter to three.
Her dark hair is falling out of the lopsided bun she must have pulled it into on her way out the door after hitting snooze on her third alarm, but even with purple hollows under her eyes and a death grip on a huge black coffee that tells everyone not to mess with her, I can feel the shift in the room as she makes her way up the aisle toward me.
Conversations pause. Scissors freeze mid-snip. Heads lift up from where they’re bent over cell phones or textbooks. For a few seconds, the aisle is Kate’s personal runway as her combat boots squeak on the tiles and the fluorescent tube lights overhead try and fail to paint her with an unflattering glare.
Here comes Hurricane Kate.
She always makes a face when I call her that, but there’s no better way to describe the effect she has on people. Unlike the elf-like grace of Cassidy Kowalski, Kate Davidson has this swagger that inspires a mix of fear, admiration, and desire in all who witness her. I swear her Big Bi Energy causes at least a dozen people to question their sexuality every time she steps out in public.
I was already thoroughly convinced I was a lesbian before I met Kate, and it’s not like I would have said no had she shown any interest. Given the fact that I’ve been out since I was seventeen and still have yet to get my first girlfriend, there aren’t many girls I’d say no to a date with. Still, I’m not so desperate that I can’t admit Kate’s not really my type.
I’m looking for my princess—for a girl whose hair I can brush before bed and bring breakfast to in the morning, who sends me texts with little flower and heart emojis at the end, who will let me hold her hand between mine and blow on her fingers when they’re cold in the winter.
Kate would probably bite anyone who tried to do that. Since the day I met her at the same orientation lunch where I first saw Cassidy, she’s insisted the last thing she’s looking for in life is a relationship.
“God, these morning classes are going to kill me,” she says with a groan as she drops her battered Jansport to the floor and sets her coffee next to my pile of disgraced linen.
“You say that every week,” I tell her. “We’re, like, a month into the term.”
“Ugh, has it only been a month? I feel like I’ve been sleep-deprived forever.”
I laugh. “I feel like you’ve been sleep-deprived since infancy. Why were you on Instagram at three in the morning?”
She shrugs under her lumberjack-esque flannel jacket. Despite us being a week into February, she’s wearing a bustier-style crop top underneath the jacket, a sliver of toned stomach muscles showing between the edge of the shirt and the high-rise waist of her boyfriend jeans.
I drag my eyes away from the hint of her skin before I start staring. Even I get a little breathless around her every now and then, but I’m sure that happens to everyone with an extremely attractive best friend.