The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

Those wide shoulders lift nonchalantly. “You’re the one who walked over here. I told you to leave me alone.”

True, but this is going to drive me nuts. “You’re wrong about me, you know—sex is a big deal, and so is my privacy,” I say in a defeated voice, bravado gone.

“Whatever.” Rhett takes a pair of ear buds off the table, stuffs them in his ears. Lowers his head.

My bag is heavy and I hoist it, unsure.

I know he doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I respect and understand why, I just…

Can’t let it go.

Can’t.

And yet, I don’t know what else there is to say to him. What can I do to make it better? Nothing.

There’s nothing.

Just as I’m about to give up and walk away, “Laurel, either sit down or walk away.” He shoves the chair I’m gripping out with his foot.

Thank God.

I hurry to set my bag down in the extra seat before he changes his mind, pulling mine the rest of the way out so I can join him. To study.

Study him.

I take another good, hard look while he’s pretending to ignore me.

He’s certainly not what I’d call cute, or good-looking, or handsome by any stretch of the imagination—and I presume he already knows it.

However…

There is something drawing me to him, and I wish I knew what it was so I could make it stop, make this weird fascination I have with him go away.

Maybe it’s the fact that he wants nothing to do with me. Maybe it’s the challenge he presents. Maybe it’s his broad shoulders and corded, athletic neck.

The shaggy brown hair hiding his eyes.

The scowl that crosses his face every time he turns his hurt eyes on me.

And, of course, let’s not forget this small fact: his friends are determined to get him laid. Plastered his face and number around campus. If that means what I think it means, Rhett is hard up.

Or maybe his friends are just giant assholes.

Total douchebags.

Either way, I love a good challenge, and he’s giving me one whether he intends to or not.

The idea thrills me.

Plopping down across the table, I spread out my supplies, making myself at home as if I have every right to be here. Flip open a textbook, crack open my laptop.

Proceed to ignore the fact that Rhett is resolute in his determination to ignore me.

Get to work on my homework, determined to word vomit enough characters to constitute an entire English Lit paper on the importance of strong female protagonists. It’s just riveting enough I might actually pull off near perfect points.

Satisfied with what I’ve written after forty-five minutes of actual working, I hit save then go to save it to an external drive. As I’m about to do that—

“How long are you going to sit there pretending you’re not dying to say something?” His low timbre sounds both irritated and resigned.

I raise my head and smile in his direction, pleased he’s finally paying me some attention. “Long enough. I was waiting you out, hoping you’d be the first to speak, and you were.”

I give him a wide grin, biting down on my lower lip, feigning bashfulness.

He blinks.

Blushes.

Runs a big hand through his hair and blows out a puff of air, like an angry dragon.

I hone in on the fingers in his hair, those rough man hands. The hair on his forearms. The big palms flattening over his unkempt locks.

Okay, so maybe he’s not horrible looking after all. He’s not Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame horrible, he’s just not…

Cute, or pretty, like some guys are. He’s not hot.

At least, not in the conventional way.

Everything about him is too something. Too rugged. Too unpolished. Nose too broken. Eyes too serious. Hair too disheveled. Forehead too scarred. Ears too bent.

Ears too bent? God I sound like an asshole.

But I like that he is kind and charming and southerly sweet. A gentleman.

And he definitely seems to need friends—new ones, not the guys who keep shitting on him and leaving him hanging out to dry. Those guys are nothing but trouble.

I’ve dated guys like that, obviously, the athletes who think they’re the kings of campus. They train hard, party harder, and seem to only want one thing.

Sex.

Uncomplicated sex. No-strings-attached sex. No commitments. No emotions.

Just sex.

I wonder if Rhett is the same way, but it’s highly doubtful—not with the way he rejected my advances. Didn’t bite when I was flirting. Seemed embarrassed by my attention.

Although…he did get off by our sexting because he told me he came all over his stomach. I know he came because I did too.

My cheeks flush, remembering the conversation that’s saved on my phone. I may or may not have peeked a few times since, just because. No harm in that, right?

“So you might as well tell me what you’re workin’ on,” Rhett finally says. “Since you’re determined to stay sittin’ here.”

Sittin’ here.

“An English paper.”

“How’s that going?”

I beam. It’s nice that he’s asking. “Almost done.”

He grins then, and I stare, struck by how nice his smile is. How it lights up his face. How straight his teeth are, how white. He actually has really nice, beautifully shaped lips.

A small divot in his chin beneath his five o’clock shadow.

Hmm.

I grab hold of my pen to keep my hands busy and tap it a few times against the tabletop. “What about you? What are you working on?”

“Correcting French midterm papers.”

“French?” What! “Correcting French papers? What are you, a professor?” I tease.

A soft chuckle escapes his mouth. “I’m a TA for the French Immersion class.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“Wait, what?” Aren’t immersion classes the ones where you speak zero English?

“I’m a TA for the—”

I put my hand up to stop him. “No, no, I heard you fine the first time. How are you fluent enough to correct midterm papers?”

“It’s my second language; my grandmother lived with us growing up and she’s old school. She’s from the Louisiana bayou, and Creole French was her first language.”

“So French is your major?”

“International studies. It felt like a natural fit.” He shrugs.

“Wow. International studies? That’s…wow. That’s unexpected.”

“Oui.” He laughs, my eyes following the corded muscles in his strong neck. “Mai je suis fort en ce sujet.”

My eyes widen, because sweet baby Jesus that was sexy.

Whatever it was he just said, I want to hear more.

It was hot.

I lean in. “What did you just say?”

“You said, ‘That’s unexpected,’ and I said, ‘Yes, but I’m good at it.”

I swallow, shifting my gaze. “So French was the language you used in our text messages.”

“Oui. Parfois je ne peux pas m’en empêcher.” He laughs, spreads his big hands flat on the table and leans back in his chair. Props his hands behind his head.

I track his movements, eyes raking the hard planes of his pecs beneath the purple tee, the smooth pale skin of his biceps.

Oh jeez Laurel, get a grip.

“What did you just say?”

“I said, sometimes I can’t help myself.” Another pleasant laugh and the butterflies in my stomach awaken. “It just comes out. I don’t know I’m doing it half the time.”

“Wow. Did you only speak French growing up?”

A quick nod and his arms come down. “When my Nanan lived with us. We stopped when she died a few years ago, right when I started high school.”

“Nanan is your…?”

“Sorry. That’s what I called my grandma.”

Cawled. “I’m sorry.”

His left shoulder lifts. “She was old.”

“Yeah, but still. My grandparents were from Poland and I never hear them speak a lick of Polish, just gesundheit when we sneezed.”

Rhett wrinkles his forehead, confused. “Gesundheit is German.”