The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

He tears another hunk off his slice. Chews. “Only because I work out constantly.”

“What’s the most commonly asked question when people find out you wrestle?”

“That’s an easy one: if I enjoy rolling around on the floor with other guys.”

Yeah, even I’ve heard that one, and I know almost nothing about wrestling. “What do you say to that?”

His shoulders move up and down indifferently. “It’s not a big fuckin’ deal.”

“I have another question for you: are you going to stand there all night or sit next to me and watch the movie?”

“Shit. Scoot over.”

I move to one end of the couch, leaning against the armrest, facing Rhett, legs sprawled out in front of me, toes wiggling.

He emulates my position.

I bend my knees, match up the pads of our feet, and give a little push. “Now we can play footsies.”

“Is that what that is?” He stares at our joined feet.

“Basically. You don’t have any foot phobias, do you?”

“No.”

“I lived with Alex my freshman year—she has a foot phobia. I’d climb down off our bunk and one morning, I accidentally stepped on her pillow.” I take a bite of pizza. “She freaked.”

“Jesus.”

“It always worked in my favor, because I began to exploit her weakness, right? So if I needed her awake for whatever reason, I would threaten to put my feet on her quilt and she’d bolt out of bed.”

“That sounds…ruthless.”

“So ruthless. I fight dirty.”

“I’ll remember that.”

The movie we started half an hour ago plays in the background, long forgotten. Dim lights, warm quilts, and nothing but quiet for company, we hunker down on the couch.

I pull back my right leg, hook the bottom of his pants, open the leg hole with my big toe. Wedge it inside, rub back and forth along his calf, grateful I thought to freshen up my nail polish with a bright melon color aptly named Lazy Dayz.

Because that’s what this has been: a lazy day. Driving up with Rex, who chattered non-stop the entire way. Spending the rest of the time here doing nothing, really—nothing but adding to the list of reasons Rhett Rabideaux is slowly becoming the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Being here with him is right where I want to be.

No pressure.

Mutual respect.

All the delicious sexual tension…

My brain undresses him from my spot across the couch, wanting to peel back his soft flannel to see what’s hidden beneath. Run my hands under his tee. Down his jeans. Over his erect—

“Laurel?”

“Huh?”

“You wanna keep watchin’ the movie, or…” He clears his throat. “Go to, uh, bed?”

Bed, bed, bed. “Your choice. I could go either way.”

Say you want to go to bed.

The napkin in his lap gets folded in half. “I mean, we’re not really watching it, so…”

There’s nothing casual about the way I shrug. My fake yawn. “I’m tired.”

My feet hit the floor at the same time his do. I rise to stand. Rhett reaches for my plate and napkin. I take the water glasses.

“I’ll put our plates in the garbage. You want to take a shower before bed, or…”

“I took one this morning, so I’m good.” My long hair is shiny and still smells like honey and almonds. “What about you?”

“I didn’t.” Rhett lifts his pit, sniffing. “I’ll jump in real quick if you want to get into, uh…get in your, uh, pajamas or whatever.”

That or whatever holds, lingering in the air.

Rhett clears his throat. “I know you were probably expectin’ to room with one of the girls tonight, so I can sleep in a different room.”

Over my dead body.

“So I’ll just go jump in the shower and then we can figure it out…”

The only thing we have to figure out is which side of the bed I’m sleeping on.

My mind almost immediately goes to that place—you know the one, the space in my brain where I envision him naked in the bathroom, dripping under the warm spray of the shower. Lathering himself with woodsy body wash in all those sweaty, delectable places.

“I’ll be up in a second to change into PJs.” I let my eyes linger on the front of his button-down shirt. Flannel. Comfortable, like a hug.

“Give me ten.”

“Take your time.” Another fake smile.

Ugh. He has the best ass.

Rhett ambles out of the room with a backward glance while I get busy tidying the living room, tossing the pizza crusts he didn’t eat into the garbage can and wiping off the counters. Rinse our glasses and refresh the water with more ice.

Flip the lights off in the living room and turn one on above the window over the sink. It’s pitch black outside—if it weren’t for the bright light of the moon, there would be zero visibility. A small green light shines in the middle of the lake, slowly gliding along in the dark, surely a fisherman making his way home.

From upstairs, I hear the shower running, head in its direction, determined to ignore the longing in my heart. What is my problem? Why am I so desperate for Rhett’s attention? I’ve never been this aggressive with a guy before—never!

What is it about him that has me starting now?

Why do I find him so damn irresistible?

I push through the bedroom door, listen to the water hitting the tile as it sluices off his slick, damp body.

Note his jeans and shirt thrown at the foot of the large bed. The white gym socks on the floor. His baseball cap.

I pick it up from the quilt, walking to the mirror. Smooth down my hair and fit the hat to my head. Bend the bill, gazing at myself in the glass.

My hair is a solid sheet falling over my shoulders; the dark purple, tired cap is tearing in several places, Louisiana patch faded.

It’s too big for my head, but I look cute, and I secretly conspire to steal it from him every now and again. Maybe if I’m wearing it when he comes out of the bathroom, lying in the center of the bed, sprawled out naked…

Oh, who am I trying to kid? That would probably scare the shit out of him.

I sigh, remove it. Set it on the dresser.

My overnight bag sits in the corner, so I retrieve it and plop it on the bed. Unzip. Spread it open, peering inside at the cute clothes I packed when I thought there were going to be other girls here.

The pink plaid pajama set? Flannel. Baggy.

Modest.

I hadn’t wanted to prance around in a room full of people I barely knew with my boobs hanging out, so into the overnight bag they went.

I sift through the contents for a tank top. Snatch out the clean pair of underwear I tossed in. Stand in the center of the room, debating my choices: flannel pajamas, sexy tank top and underwear.

Flannel pajamas, sexy tank top and underwear…

I bite my lip, apprehensive.

On one hand, I don’t want to give him the wrong idea about me. On the other, I want him to make a damn move, touch me in all the wrong places.

I want him to touch me so bad—touch me without asking for permission, not hesitantly, like he’s afraid this is another cruel joke being played on him.

At this point, he knows I like him. I’ve literally come out and said the words; it’s no secret, so what is he always waiting for?

Screw it.

I’m going for it.

I’m going to make him so hard he’ll be cross-eyed.

Shoving the plaid pajamas down into the depths of my bag, I pull out the tank top. It’s white and threadbare. The panties? Sheer and practically see-through.

Score.

I smile at my evil feminine wiles, goose bumps covering my flesh when the water shuts off, at the sound of the shower curtain rings being slid aside.

Slip the black leggings down my legs. Step out of my navy cotton underwear and into the nude ones. Remove the white long-sleeved shirt and my bra. Glance at my bare breasts in the mirror above the dresser, arching my back long enough to admire their lift and fullness.

Run my hands over my nipples so they stiffen.

I affix my gaze on the door to the bathroom, my imagination projecting the image of Rhett dressing in conservative layers: boxers, sleep pants, sweatshirt.