The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

Side by side, we begin removing the clothes from our suitcases and neatly folding them into the top drawer, his shirts on the left, mine on the right, like we’ve done it a hundred times before.

“First of all, my vagina is none of your business. Secondly, it’s not covered in cobwebs.”

It’s obvious from his expression that he doesn’t believe me. “Whatever you say, Jimbo. My point is, with me by your side this weekend, you’ll be fighting them off with a baseball bat.”

“What if I don’t want a wingman?”

Clutching an extra pair of blue jeans against his chest like a shield, he stares at me blankly, his lip curling distastefully. His fingers twirl in the air, directed at my nether region. “Cobwebs.”

I stalk to the small nightstand, yank open the drawer, and root around the hollow space for the requisite pen and paper.

“We need to establish a few rules if we’re going to be sharing a room this week.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll take the liberty of writing a few of them down.”

I hold the little white notepad up for his inspection.

His lip curls up. “Why am I not surprised you’re making a list?”

I ignore his question. “One: no sex in the bedroom—”

“So just the bathroom or closet?”

My pen hovers. “I’m being serious. You can’t bring girls back here.”

“I’m serious too, Jim, serious as a heart attack. I am totally okay banging someone inside the closet.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second. However, I’d really prefer if you didn’t have sex anywhere inside the room.” He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “Two: stay on your side of the bed, and keep those enormous paws off me.”

He places one of said enormous paws over his heart. “Jim, you wound me. Would I jeopardize our budding friendship by feeling you up?”

My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. “I don’t know, Oz—would you?”

He seems to give this question some serious thought, and sighs. “Honestly? Yeah, I would. I’ll probably try to touch you inappropriately at least once. Maybe twice if I’m being real. It would be remiss of me considering I’ve noticed your nice rack. Your sweaters are pretty tight, Jimbo.”

Face palm. “I guess I can’t fault you for being honest.”

He sits up straighter on the foot of the bed. “Does that earn me bonus points?”

A resigned sigh. “Sure, why not.”

“Great.” He claps his giant hands gleefully, rubbing them together. “Okay, hit me with number three.”

“There is no number three. Two is all I have—but we can make them up as we go along.”

“Oh goody. That’ll be a blast.”

I’m standing near the bed, innocently unpacking my snowboarding gear and refolding a pair of my boarding overalls when the bathroom door flies open and Oz comes out, a hazy mist of steam billowing out behind him.

He looks me up. He looks me down.

“How the hell am I supposed to keep my hands to my damn self when you’re wearing shit like that?” He waves his bear paws, gesturing wildly up and down, indicating my pajama set.

I glance down at myself, perplexed. “This? It’s an old tank top and shorts.”

He crosses his arms resentfully, my eyes flying to his broad, ripped chest and elaborately tattooed biceps. Drool. “Right, but you’re not wearing a bra.”

“I’m not wearing a bra to bed, Oz. It’s also not my problem you’re a horn dog.”

He disagrees.

“The tank top is white, which is practically see-through.” For the second time since he’s invaded my space, Oz rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing. He throws up three fingers. “Rule number three: no running around bra-less. Cover that shit up, for fuck’s sake. I can see your nips and it’s giving me a hard-on.”

“You’re only wearing a towel, you hypocrite! I can see the outline of your—” I stop myself short, a loud, nervous giggle bubbling up inside me so abruptly I actually smack a hand over my mouth to shut myself up.

My eyes drop to Oz’s lean hips. I can’t help but notice the beads of water dripping down the smooth, tantalizing skin of his sculpted abs…to the well-defined V…the happy trail of dark hair disappearing into the white terrycloth towel barely concealing his—

I cross an arm over my breasts defensively, hiding them from his heated examination. “What do you suggest I wear, smartass? I only packed this and I was planning on rooming alone.”

“I don’t fucking know, but you can’t prance around in that. Go put on one of my shirts.”

Prance?

Still, I nod once. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine. Rule number four: no running around wrapped in nothing but a bath towel. That thing barely fits around your waist.”

And it’s making me want to do naughty, sleazy things to you. Like pull the towel out of its knot and yank it to the floor to see what’s underneath.

Oz stomps barefoot to the dresser, yanks open the top drawer, and pulls out a gray cotton tee shirt. Wadding it up into a fabric ball, he whips it in my direction, sending it whizzing through the air and smacking me in the face.

I barely catch it.

“Please. Just go put that on. And come back uglier.”

Sydney: Has he asked about me at all?