The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

“Bullshit!” Lana shouts. “That is such bullshit. You can’t tell me you sent some poor guy a sleazy text message and not give any details. What kind of an asshole are you?”

“Bore-ring! Boring, that’s what kind of an asshole she is,” Donovan adds, a singsong lilt in his voice. “That story was fucking boring, sorry.”

“And a total lie—you didn’t bring this up for no reason, Laurel. There’s obviously more to this story, so spill, or I’m going to be horribly disappointed in you.”

I pull a split end out of my red hair. “Donovan, remember that guy from the parking lot at the Pancake House?”

“Dine and dash guy?”

“Yeah.” I lean forward and grab my water bottle, twist the top off and take a swig. “That’s the guy. That’s who I was texting.”

“Are you fucking with me right now?” Donovan scoots forward on the couch, turning to face me. “Seriously? No bullshitting?”

I set the water back on the coffee table we all have our feet on. “Nope, no bullshit. His name is Rhett, and his friends hung the posters—the ones who stuck him with the tab.”

Donovan lets out a puff of air. “Damn, I figured they were hazing him but I was hoping they weren’t. Hot guys are such assholes.” He sighs. “I wish I was dating one.”

“No you don’t,” Lana scoffs. “God, listen to the two of you. When are you going to learn not to settle for the first selfish dick who pays attention to you?”

“After I’ve been sexed a few times.” Our big gay roommate leans his head back on the couch. “I wish I was kidding.”

“I don’t settle.” My face is scrunched up. “I can’t help it if every guy I date ends up being a wanker.”

Lana sighs. “I love it when you use British slang.”

Sly grin. “Thanks. So do I.”

The three of us rest our heads on the back of the couch, eyes focused on the ceiling.

“So what’s he like?” Lana whispers without turning her head to look at me.

“Well,” I begin slowly. “It’s hard to tell. Obviously he’s defensive about the whole thing since every skank on campus has texted him, so when I sent him a message, he told me to fuck off—but he’s warmed up a little.” Kind of.

“Is he cute?”

I frown. “He’s slightly below average, but fun to talk to.”

I can hear her eyebrows rise. “And his name is Rhett?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s kind of sexy.” Lana’s voice is wistful. “Like, Gone with the Wind southern plantation shit.”

“Fiddle dee dee, I do declare,” Donovan sits up, fanning himself and not sounding one bit like Scarlet O’Hara. “I’d like to fuck y’all on the veranda.”

“Frankly my dear, you can suck my dick,” Lana says in a false baritone.

Donovan scowls. “Hey, you stole my line!”

“Shut up you guys.” I laugh. “You’re the worst.”

Lana crosses her ankles on the coffee table. “So what do the two of you talk about?”

“Well, it’s only been a few times. Mostly we spent our time arguing because I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“You’re such a clingy bitch,” Donovan snarks.

“Shut up, Donovan, I am not!” I smack him on the thigh, pout. “I hate being ignored, that’s all.”

Lana scoots forward, sucking on her diet soda with a noisy slurp. “The guy would jizz his pants if he laid eyes on you.”

I do a mental hair flip but just shrug; I know I’m pretty—beautiful if we’re being honest. I’ve been hearing it since I was young, flattery from strangers, my parents, family and friends.

And, of course, guys.

Guys love me.

My red silky hair. My slender waist and pouty lips. My fantastic boobs.

Vanity is one of my flaws, but I’m not going to pretend to be modest, either. That would be worse.

“Here’s what I want to know,” Lana says slowly, arm on the back of the couch, leaning into me. “Why did you text him…when you can call?”

I bite my lip. “You think I should call him?”

Her brows go up. “Why not?”

Why not indeed.

Rhett’s phone rings four times before he answers, the rich quality of his voice reminding me of a lumberjack, a rugged outdoorsman. Masculine and heavy.

Smoky.

Far deeper and sexier than I was expecting when I dialed his number.

“Hello?”

“Rhett?”

Pause. “Who is this?”

“It’s Lau—” I stop short, remembering I gave him a fake name. “It’s Alex.”

Silence.

“Hello?” I ask because the connection is so quiet. “Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m tryin’ to figure out why you’re callin’.”

He’s southern?

Stop it.

I don’t know what I thought his voice would sound like, but I sure as heck wasn’t anticipating a slow, lazy drawl with a rich tone. His deep timbre sends a startling shiver running down my spine.

Tryin’. Callin’.

“I…” I can’t tell him my roommates told me to call him, or that I thought it would be fun and wanted to know what his voice sounded like. “I called on a whim.”

“Why?”

“I felt like talking.”

“Can I be honest with you, Alex, so we can stop wastin’ each other’s time? I’m sure you’re really nice, but you seem a little too aggressive, and that’s not really my style, so maybe you should call someone else.”

Wastin’ each other’s tiehm…

Oh God, so southern. I wonder what state he’s from and how he ended up at Iowa—and why he hasn’t told me to fuck off by now. He sounds like a really nice guy, much different than the hypersensitive asshole texting me back the other day.

“What is your style?”

Rhett is quiet again. I hear him thinking about his next words. “Look Alex, I’m not trying to be rude, but…” He leaves the sentence open-ended, voice trailing off into dead air.

“But you don’t want to talk?”

When he doesn’t answer, I pull the cell away from my face to check that the call hasn’t been disconnected. The timer at the top of the screen shows the seconds ticking away, so I know he’s still there.

“Can you just tell me one thing?”

Reluctance. “Shoot.”

“Where are you from?”

“Louisiana.”

That makes me smile. “I thought I detected an accent.”

The line goes quiet again, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing. This whole conversation is like pulling teeth, and the last time I forced a man into a conversation was never. Why start with him?

But then, “I was raised in Mississippi, but my parents moved back to Louisiana my sophomore year of high school.”

“Near New Orleans?”

“No, Baton Rouge.”

“Near all the plantations?” A low, amused chuckle greets my ears, making my girly parts get a little bit damp. Jeez, what is wrong with me? “What’s so funny?”

“That’s usually one of the first things people ask when they hear where I’m from.”

“What’s the second thing people ask?”

“If I’ve ever wrestled an alligator.”

“Have you?”

Another laugh. “No ma’am.”

Ma’am.

His accent is doing funny things to my lower belly, so I shift in my desk chair, rest my elbows on my desk, prop my chin in my hand. “Are you always this polite?”

A low chuckle into the receiver. “No.”

“I mean, you did tell me to fuck off when I first texted you. I guess that isn’t exactly polite, is it?”

“Don’t feel bad. I told every single girl who texted me to fuck off.” The curse rolls off his tongue, sweet and sour. Fuck awe-ff.

“Well that makes me feel a tad bit better,” I admit.