The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“You could gag me and find out for yourself.”

The silence stretches. Then, “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

I open my laptop, connect to the university’s Wi-Fi, and resume research for a business communication logistics paper I’ve busted my left nut over. It’s due on Monday, which gives me four days.

I search a notorious sexual harassment lawsuit from 1997—Johnson v. Olastaire, a case filed by a corporation against one of its own managers—and create notations in the margins of my document.

Opening Excel, I generate a spreadsheet with the compiled information, compare the case with a recent Supreme Court ruling, and set my mouth into a grim line at the article in front of me: sexual assault in a corporate workplace whose PR machine spun the victim into the guilty party.

The whole thing makes me ill and hits a little too close to home, so close it’s the reason I’ve declared human resources as a major.

My older sister Kayla.

Thirty-two, brilliant, and beautiful, Kayla was fresh out of grad school when she became the victim of workplace sexual harassment. A lawyer working her way up in a small boutique firm, she spent countless nights pouring over cases. Endless hours with the paralegals. Never-ending early mornings.

Then, one early evening when she was alone, researching a case, she was assaulted in her office by one of the partners. High powered with clout, he made Kayla the guilty party and human resources turned a blind eye.

The whole thing went public. The media in our hometown painted her as a young, gorgeous corporate climber, censuring her with no ethics and too much ambition.

It ruined the thrill of her first job, future career prospects, earning potential—and her self-worth.

And she was the one getting her ass slapped by her dickhead of a boss. Kayla might have won the court case, but she hasn’t been the same since.

It’s sickening.

The whole thing with my sister makes me ill, so I forge on, diligently copying notes.

Copy, paste. Notation. Copy, paste, notation.

Repeat.

Eventually, I come up for air, lifting my head and reaching for my water bottle. Lift the lid and chug down a thirst-quenching gulp.

Jameson is studying me quizzically. The hands that were furiously pounding away at those laptop keys now hover above her keyboard at a standstill, her pouty mouth twisted thoughtfully.

“What?”

She gives her head a little shake, braided hair swaying. “Nothing.” Biting down on her lower lip, she picks up a highlighter and drags it across her textbook, then chews on the end of it.

“Bullshit. You were giving me a look.”

Her hands splay. “Fine. Yes, I was giving you a look. You’ve managed to surprise me by actually doing homework.”

I scoff. “I told you the other day—I’m carrying a three point seven.”

“Yes, but…” The words hang in the air between us. With a shrug, she grins. “I didn’t actually believe you.”

“I have a scholarship. I can’t afford to piss it away.”

“Is that why you agreed to that stupid bet with your friends the other day? For the money?”

“Yup, that’s why I agreed to that stupid bet. Every little bit helps, yeah?”

Jameson cocks her head to the side and studies me for a second.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to grill me?”

She shakes her head. “No. If you had something more to say, you’d say it.” Her head dips and she resumes her homework.

“Why do you keep doing that?” I blurt out.

She sighs. “Doing what?”

“Ignoring me.” Shit, I sound like I’m whining.

“Look,” she says, patiently resting her hands on the table to look me in the eye. “I’m sure you’re a real ladies’ man and everyone finds you very charming.” Her lips purse.

A smile cracks my lips. “But you don’t?”

“Sorry.” Her head shakes back and forth. “I don’t.”

I lean against the wooden chair, tipping it to balance on the back legs. Rocking it back and forth, I ask, “And you don’t think a guy like me is going to consider that a challenge?”

“A ‘guy like you’?”

“Yeah, you know: stubborn, competitive…handsome.”

With a laugh, she gives her head another shake. “I can’t help not finding you charming—you’re way too arrogant—so forgive me for not ripping my clothes off and letting you ravish me.”

“Ravish you.” I say it with wonder. “See, that right there fills my head with so many fantastic erotic visuals.”

A swipe of the highlighter followed by an undignified hmph is her only reply.

“Ravish. Ravish. You shouldn’t have said that because now I consider you a challenge.”

“Be my guest.” Jameson laughs again, a soft, low chuckle that sends a damn shiver up my spine. “What you do with that information is not my problem.”

My eyes skim the top half of her body. Collarbone, graceful neck. Breasts.

“Want to bet?”

“God no.” She laughs. “Is this your way of trying to get your two hundred and fifty dollars back?” She grabs her pencil and wields it like a tiny sword in my direction. “Which you still haven’t paid me, by the way.”

“We agreed I’d pay you when they pay me, and I will, Scout’s honor.”