The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

Shit.

“When?”

“A long time ago. I was young. Four years old.”

The halo of white blonde hair suddenly makes her look incredibly vulnerable now that I know yet another personal thing about her, something I didn’t necessarily care to find out, but…

Too late now.

Violet plays with the handle of her mug, running a finger up and down the polished white ceramic. Two hearts are painted on the mug with the initials J and S—two smudged, shitty-looking hearts my roommate Ozzy painted at one of those lame pottery painting places. Jameson made one, too, so it would be a matching set.

Puke.

“Anyway,” Violet is saying. “It was a l-long time ago and hardly matters anymore. I’ve managed to move on.”

“So, is that why you’re always so quiet? Why you’re so timid and shit?”

“Am I quiet? I hadn’t realized.”

My yes is vehement and curt.

She considers the question. “I suppose I am. I guess I haven’t thought about it that way, but it probably stems from losing my parents so young. M-My…” She inhales, taking a deep breath to steady her speech. “I wasn’t raised by family, but my cousin says my stutter started after they died.”

She lifts a hand from the mug, swiping it through her long hair, her lips tipping up. The bangles circling her wrists jingle. “Not to bore you with details, but I withdrew into myself for a few years. I was that lonely little girl waiting day in and day out for them to come back.”

Round hazel eyes lift to meet mine and we regard each other.

It occurs to me then that maybe we have something in common, and I can’t remember the last time I made any parallels between someone else’s personal history and mine. Can’t remember the last time I connected with someone who had it worse growing up.

“Sorry to hear that.” And I am; even though my parents aren’t dead, I was a lonely little boy who spent most of his childhood waiting day in and day out for them to come back.

The mug of hot chocolate is suspended at her lips, the steam from the warm milk rising, and she blows on it before taking a sip. “Anyway. The Tooth Fairy made very few appearances when I was little. Magic and unicorns, on the other hand? Totally a thing.”

Man she’s fucking cute.

“I think you’re trouble.”

Her eyes gleam behind the cup. “Thank you.”

“Thank you—for coming to rescue me.”

She casts her gaze down to the tabletop. “I hardly think you need rescuing, Zeke.”

My laugh is humorless. “You’d be surprised.”

Violet shifts in her chair. “I bet you’re full of surprises.”

I shift on the balls of my feet. “Are you being coy with me?”

She’s spared from a reply when the front door swings open, followed by a chorus of loud voices filling the entry hall of the house, signaling the return of two roommates, and one Jameson Clark.

Oz, Elliot, and James are laughing hysterically.

Elliot gasping for breath at something Oz just said, probably something perverted.

I lean to the right, staring out the kitchen to glimpse James brushing the cold from her sleeves. Removing her hat and mittens, shoving them both in her pockets. Peeling off her Thinsulate puffy coat and hanging it on a hook by the door.

That chick is always freezing cold; I know for fact it was her that cranked the thermostat instead of adding more blankets to her boyfriend’s bed, as if sixty-five degrees isn’t warm enough.

“…and then he looks up from the ground, right, and this girl is just staring down at him. And I yell, Hey Gunderson, why don’t you—”

Sebastian Osborne’s gruff voice comes to an abrupt halt when they round the corner, the entire trio stumbling into the doorway of the kitchen.

Three sets of round eyes, wide with shock.

“Holy shit.” Oz laughs. “Are we in the right house?”

It’s not every day I bring a girl home, but when I do, it’s not to sit around making small talk, it’s to screw. Also, it’s certainly not usually a sweet, naive-looking girl wearing all her clothes and sipping a mug of hot chocolate.

Violet has chocolate and mallow on her upper lip.

Her blonde hair and rosy cheeks and pale skin are perfection.

She sets the mug on the table, runs a hand down her silky hair, flattening the errant strands nervously, and stands.

“Hi. You must be Zeke’s roommates?”

“Unfortunately,” I mutter under my breath.

“Yes. Hi!” Jameson pushes through the guys, shiny black ballet flats tapping against the wooden floor. She unwinds her gray scarf and extends her hand. “I’m Jameson. I don’t actually live here, I’m Oz’s girlfriend.”

She throws him a thumb over her shoulder.

“I’m Violet.” She’s blushing furiously.

“You work at the library, don’t you?” James asks with polite interest, eyes shining, shit-ass grin widening. She directs a few smiles my way, glowing with excitement over this new development, wheels turning in her diabolic girl brain.

Shit. I don’t need anyone getting the wrong idea about what’s happening here, least of all Jameson, who can’t seem to mind her own business.

“Yes, at the circulation desk.” Violet clears her throat. “Well, I-I’m actually the everything desk.” Nervous laughter. “I-I tutor, I shelve books, I babysit…”