The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

“Nope—that’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

Those red, shiny lips curve in the moonlight. “A guy.”

Obviously. Girls like her always have a guy.

She seems to be taking my measure; even in the dark, I can feel her eyes roaming my body. “What about you?” she asks. “Here for a hookup or just to get drunk?”

“Neither.”

“Oh?”

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, the ones I washed and laid flat to dry, just for tonight. For Alex.

“Are you here for a girl then?”

My head shakes. “I shouldn’t have come out tonight anyway, so I’m going home.”

“Why shouldn’t you have come out? Was she not worth it?”

“I thought she might be, but I was wrong.”

Why the hell am I telling her all this? Like she gives a shit.

“So where is she?”

“Didn’t bother comin’.”

The redhead snorts, undignified. “If she couldn’t bother coming, then she’s probably not worth it.”

“It still pisses me off though, because I wasted my time and could have gotten in trouble.”

“Why’s that?”

“Athletic code.”

“Do you always follow the rules? Because there are athletes crawling all over the place in there.” She flips her thumb in the general direction of the house behind her.

“I do when it could cost me my scholarship.”

“Ahh, I see.” She pauses, rich, glossy hair gleaming under the dim porch light. It’s like a sheet of thick satin and looks twice as touchable.

“Are you lost or somethin’? I mean, did you follow me out here for a reason?”

Again, she regards me. “Just curious, I suppose. One second you were staring at me”—she snaps her fingers—“and the next you were gone.”

I have nothing to say to that.

“Don’t worry, I was staring at you, too.” Her soft voice carries in the dark. “Won’t your friends inside miss you?”

Not likely, but her statement gives me pause. “Why the fuck were you watchin’ me?”

Yes, it’s rude, but come on, both of us know it makes no fucking sense.

A soft little laugh. “Why on Earth would that surprise you?”

Noise and laughter and loud music from inside the house save me from replying. Someone begins chanting, “Chug, chug, chug,” and it’s quickly followed by raucous cheering. The crowd goes wild.

The front door opens, regurgitating drunk students by the half dozen. Some of them stumble down the wooden steps on unsteady feet, others to the edge of the porch to smoke or talk, make out.

The girl rises to her full height, runs those pale hands along her hips. I watch as her long legs descend the stairs, colt-like in their lithe movements. Her hand slides down the railing, index finger trailing the wood slowly, a catlike smile pulling at her lips.

She stops in front of me when she reaches the ground, our faces inches apart.

It’s too dark to make out the color of her eyes, but her black lashes flutter in my direction, long and stark, a contradiction to her light skin.

She’s more beautiful up close up than she is from a distance, the smell of fresh air, lemons, and spilled beer hitting my nostrils all at once.

A long finger taps her chin. “I feel like I know you.”

“Trust me, you don’t.”

“Oh, but I think I do.” She says it in a lazy drawl, red mouth forming each syllable.

“I would remember.” I would definitely remember a girl like this.

I take a step backward before doing something stupid, like trying to smell her again.

Her mouth downturns into a pretty pout. “You’re not leaving yet, are you?”

“I assumed we were done talkin’.”

“You don’t want me to keep you company?”

I swear, if my jaw wasn’t locked down from my scowl, it would fall open from shock. Is this chick for real? She cannot possibly want to stand here in the dark and keep talking to me.

Me.

Not when there are fifty better-looking guys inside the house. Better-looking. Hot. The football quarterback. The forward for the hockey team. Preppy fraternity brothers.

What the hell could she possibly want with me?

She sighs. “You’re not very chatty, are you?”

“I’m trying to figure out what’s goin’ on here.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want?” She’s way too pretty, way too far out of my league, rank, and status to be talking to me, and we both know it.

“I just wanted to see…” She swallows, her narrow shoulders moving up and down with a shrug. Every perfect line in her beautiful face is illuminated by the porch lights. The porcelain skin. The pert bow of her expertly outlined lips. “It’s hard to explain.”

I watch as she takes several steps backward to the banister rail at the foot of the stairs, rear end leaning against the wooden pole for support. Watching me, a strange expression crosses her face.

“I don’t feel…familiar to you at all?”

“Uh, no.”

She frowns. “You don’t recognize my voice or anything?”

“Should I?”

“No, I guess not.” Her sigh is long and wistful. “Aren’t you going to ask my name?”

I raise my brows and tilt my head. “Sure.”

“It’s Laurel.”

Laurel. She looks like a Laurel, delicate and beautiful and romantic. The name suits her.

I venture forward a few hesitant steps. She obviously wants to talk, so what would be the harm?

“What year are you?”

“Junior. You?”

“Same. Are you from Iowa?”

She smiles at my reply. “No. Illinois.”

“I uh, have a…friend from Illinois that goes here.” I slouch, shuffling my weight from one leg to another. “I’m a transfer student on the wrestling team. I was recruited from Louisiana.”

“Recruited?”

“For wrestling. I’m a wrestler,” I repeat dumbly, wondering abruptly if she’s seen the fucking posters with my face and cell phone number hanging around campus.

Maybe she recognized me and followed me out here.

Morbid curiosity—wanted to meet the guy who needs to get laid, live and in person. She recognizes my face; I’d bet money on it.

“You can get recruited your junior year?”

“Apparently.”

She doesn’t respond to that, instead taking a dainty sip of beer out of the red plastic cup that clashes with her hair. “How is Iowa treating you?”

I shrug. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“They didn’t exactly roll out the ol’ welcome mat.” I shift my weight, uncomfortable with the subject.

“Do you have siblings?”

“Yes, two brothers.”

“Ahh,” she says, relaxing against the newel post. “You look a little rough and tumble, like you’ve gotten into a few brawls.”

Actually, besides with my brothers, I’ve never been in a single fight my entire life. Never decked anyone or been in a scuffle, not even close. I stay away from trouble, and with the exception of these random nights out with my teammates, I’ve never been a big drinker either.

That probably makes me the least exciting athlete I know, but I’ve got standards, and partying isn’t at the top of my priority list.

“I might be big, but I’m not a brute.”

Her eyes flicker up and down my body. “I can see that.”

Laurel’s concentrated scrutiny makes me feel awkward, like I’m ignorant and unsophisticated.

“You don’t look like the kind of guy who gets off on fraternity parties.”

“I’m not.”

“So this girl you came to meet—you like her?”

“I was tryin’ to figure that out.”

“So you haven’t met?”

“Not in person.” Fuck this is humiliating. “I thought I’d…go outside my comfort zone for once.”