The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

I shrug, bare shoulders catching a chill from the AC unit above us, then shiver. His gray eyes track the movement, landing on my gooseflesh-covered collarbone. Stare at the column of my neck below my ear.

I lick my lips. “I thought I’d mention it as a courtesy.”

“A courtesy?”

“Mmhmm.” His eyes find my mouth when I hum. Hold there.

“Is this where I apologize?”

“Do you want to?”

His sculpted lips move so close to my ear I shiver—and this time, it’s not from the air conditioning. It’s from his warm breath on my neck, his nose brushing against my cheek.

My eyes slide shut when he whispers, “I’m wasn’t trying to be a dick.”

I nod, lids lifting, my gaze meeting Coach’s stern eyes. He raises his brows and I give him a shaky, crooked smile as Zeke continues whispering in my ear.

“What do you suppose he thinks we’re talking about?” Zeke asks.

“He probably thinks you’re apologizing.”

“No, he probably thinks we’re flirting.”

My neck tilts the slightest degree when I feel his lips graze my earlobe. “Would he be wrong?”

Zeke pulls away, slightly. Reclines back in his seat.

Slowly his head shakes back and forth. “No.”

Maybe there is hope for him yet.

“Did I tell you you looked nice tonight?”

“Sort of.” No, he hadn’t told me I looked nice—he’d told me I looked good.

No mention of me looking nice. No mention of me looking pretty. He’d gone with ‘good’.

“Did I at least tell you you looked pretty?” He’s clutching the steering wheel, staring straight at the road, hanging a right at the stop sign, then left on my road.

“No.” I laugh.

“I didn’t?” He sounds puzzled. “What did I say?”

“Y-You said, ‘You look good.’”

“Good?” He sounds disgusted. “Jesus fuck, I was kind of being an asshole tonight, wasn’t I?”

“I think we muddled through it okay.”

“Well, you did,” he continues, almost to himself, as he pulls into my driveway. Puts the car in park and turns toward me. “You look nice. Pretty, I mean.”

He turns his head toward the driver’s side window, and I swear I catch him rolling his eyes in the mirrored reflection. At himself.

My mouth curves. “Thank you.”

“Did you have fun tonight? I never did thank you for coming with me.”

“I had a lot of fun. Thank you for the invitation.” Oh god, I sound so formal. This is getting so awkward.

“Good, because… So anyway,” he begins. “I got something for you.”

He what? Did I hear that right? Did Zeke Daniels just say he got me something? Like what kind of something? What does that even mean?

“You did?” I’m shocked. “For what?”

“For you.”

“You did?”

“Yes.” His lip curls into what’s probably supposed to be a grin, but in the dark, looks more like a sneer. “You suck at receiving gifts, do you know that?”

“A gift?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say like I’ve just given you the shock of your life?”

I can see he’s getting frustrated. Know it when he runs a hand through his thick black hair.

“I’m sorry I keep asking questions.” I sit up straighter in my seat, interested. Curious. “What is it?”

Oops, there I go again.

In the dimly lit cab of his truck, with his face shrouded in shadows, Zeke lifts the center console, fishing out a small box. He holds it up in the palm of his hand, and I can see that it’s a black and silver jewelry box.

“Just take it.”

I falter when reaching for it.

“I-I can’t b-believe you actually got me a gift.” The wonder in my voice fills the cab of the truck. “I thought you were joking.”

I’m not trying to be deliberately obtuse, but Zeke Daniels has truly stunned me.

“No.”

“No, it’s not a gift?”

“No, I—Jesus Violet, can’t you just open the damn thing?”

I’m not purposely pressing him, but the questions just keep slipping past my lips before I can stop them.

It’s a black, square box—one I’m very familiar with—and I hold my breath when I go to pry open the top, revealing the velvet jewelry pouch inside. I glance to find Zeke staring at me out of the darkness, expression unreadable.

Mouth in a firm line. Eyes hooded but impassive.

“Can you just fucking open it,” he grunts, moody. “You’re taking forever.”

My heart beats a million miles an hour inside my chest, so hard I can almost hear it. I can see how impatient he’s becoming by the way his eyes intently trail the movement my fingers make over the black bag.

“You’re being really obnoxious, do you realize that?”

So antsy, this guy. Like a child.

“I think it’s c-cute that you’re excited.”

Oh my god, did I actually just call him cute—and stutter while I did it? How freaking embarrassing.

“I meant to say it’s cute when you’re excited—not you’re cute.”

Stop talking, Violet!

But I don’t. Can’t. “I wish it wasn’t so dark it here; I want to remember this moment.” Oh my god, why am I saying these things out loud?