The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

He’s wrong though; it’s cardamom and mimosa.

I don’t correct him.

“Violet.”

I stand feebly, awkwardly in the shadows of my front porch, letting this behemoth of a man sniff my hair for the second time tonight, the tip of his nose warm when it brushes my cheek. It trails its way to the crux just below my ear. His lips press on the tender skin of my temple.

One heartbeat.

Two.

I don’t trust myself to speak.

To move.

To breathe.

I stand paralyzed, still as stone, rooted to the rough-hewn porch boards that should have been replaced years ago. Zeke’s solid hands cup my elbows then glide up my arms. Land on my shoulders. Down again.

He’s going to kiss me.

I’m going to let him.

My fingers rake through his hair, drawing his head down, meeting his eager, pliant mouth.

It settles on mine, lips pressing so tenderly there are no words to describe it—no one has ever kissed me this way. We kiss and kiss and kiss with no tongue, a union of lips and breath and skin. Tiny tastes of each other. Nips.

His mouth pulls at my bottom lip, gently sucking, before it opens, his tongue finally—finally, thank GOD—touching mine, almost timidly. Just enough to make my nerves quiver throughout my entire body.

We stand like this, kissing on my front porch in the cold, until my mouth is swollen—until he backs away, leaving my body instantly cold from the loss of his heat, regarding me in the porch light.

Acts like a gentleman.

“Goodnight, Violet.” He swallows.

I have to force myself to speak. “Goodnight.”

I won’t lie, I’m disappointed when he steps away, backs himself down off the porch, and walks across my lawn, raking a hand through his hair. Yanks open the driver’s side door with a grunt. Guns the engine and backs down out of my driveway, starts down the street.

I wanted him to stay with me.

Instead, I stand here alone, watching as his truck slows, pulls to the shoulder of the road. Flips on his hazards and…sits there, idling.

Very weird.

Curiously, I hold sentry as he does nothing but sit in that big black truck, folding my arms across my chest to ward off the chill, a thick billow of steam rising from my lips with every cold breath.

Inside the pocket of my thick winter jacket, my phone notification chimes.

I reach into my pocket. Slide open the lock screen.

Zeke: Hey.

I look up into the night. His bright red tail lights still glow eerily at the end of my street.

Violet: Hey.

Zeke: How’s it going?

I laugh—what on earth is he doing?

Violet: Good? You?

Zeke: I guess I just wanted to check in to see if you were okay after tonight. Because that’s what friends do, right?

I can’t stop the smiling, and I bite down on my bottom lip.

Violet: That’s exactly what friends do. Thanks

Zeke: Hey Vi?

Violet: Hmm?

Zeke: So this is going to sound creepy, but I’m sitting at the end of your street like a damn stalker…if I come back and get you, what are the odds you’ll come to my place?

I stare at that line, reread it twice, fingers hovering above the keypad of my cell. What are the odds you’ll come to my place?

Would I go to his place?

Yes!

I want to do more than taste his lips.

I want to feel the heat from his body over mine. Feel him inside me. Know what his body feels like without the shirt, pants, and clothes.

Zeke: Violet? You still there?

Violet: Yes.

I suck in a deep breath, curls of excitement twisting my stomach into knots, and tap out a reply.

Violet: Yes. If you come back and get me, I’ll go to your place.

Zeke shuts the front door behind him and suddenly, we’re alone in the confines of his house. Standing together at the door, he crams his hands in the pockets of his coat, uneasily shifting his weight on the heels of his black boots. Removes his hands. Shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a hook before reaching to help me with mine.

Together, we slide it down my shoulders and he takes it. Hangs it. We both glance at our jackets, now hanging side by side.

It’s an odd sensation, that. A new one I’ve never felt before, anticipation quaking in the pit of my stomach, sending butterflies flying. Fluttering.

Making me want to toss my cookies all over the leather boots he’s bending to untie.

My knees feel wobbly. Weak. I can barely focus, bending to unbuckle the pretty little half boots I borrowed from Winnie and sliding them off my feet. Legs bare. Too exposed and open to his roaming, expressionless, pale eyes.

I know why I agreed to come here.

I like him; I’m probably half in love with him already. Enamored. Charmed by his rough edges and jagged lines. How we’re opposites in every way that counts.

I know that’s not a reason to fall into bed with someone, but I fell into my last boyfriend’s bed for lesser reasons: loneliness. Out of curiosity. For the connection. Wanting to get the whole virgin thing over with.

I might not be completely in love with Zeke yet, but the stirrings are there, and that’s enough.

I’m not asking for a commitment—not yet anyway.

As I stare at Zeke, filling the doorway of his quaint college house—he’s huge and takes up the entire space—all my instincts tell me to trust myself on this decision.

Trust my heart for once, and not my head.

Trust that he has my best interests at heart, even if the words coming out of his mouth aren’t eloquent. Far from it.