The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

James: Who?

Sydney: Oh please, you know who. Don’t tease me like that! Oz—has he asked about me! Come on, give a girl something to get her through a cold night.

James: We’ve been very busy, sorry.

Sydney: I can’t believe you’re spending the weekend with him. If I’d have known, maybe I would have come along.

James: And given up the Florida sun?!

Sydney: You’re right. I still wouldn’t have gone to Utah, LOL. Maybe I should try texting him. Do you think I should?

James: I think you should do whatever makes you happy ;)

Sydney: Is that a yes or a no.

James: Sure. Yes, text him.

Sydney: Squee!!!! K, I’m doing it.

James: Good luck

I don’t mention to Sid that moments ago Sebastian was half naked and dripping wet, just out of the shower. Or that he was eyeing me up in my white tank top. Or that I just pulled his tee shirt over my head—one that feels like heaven and smells even better.

I set my cell down on the cold, outdated Formica bathroom counter and adjust the contact of the charger. Smoothing down my silky hair, I burrow my nose down into the collar of Sebastian’s shirt. Give it another whiff…

Wistfully exhale.

Taking a deep breath before I push through the door to the bedroom, I give the shirt one more quick sniff for good measure.

So damn good I can’t stop.

I walk across the room toward the light switch with trepidation, pausing when he sits up in our shared bed. The bed that would have been perfectly acceptable when I was sharing it with Celeste appears miniscule with hulky Oz Osborne resting in it.

A tower of pillows is stacked in the middle, a barrier I erected when he was in the shower, albeit a laughably flimsy one.

Oz is sitting in bed, atop the covers and naked from the waist up. Propped against the headboard, thumbing through a Men’s Health magazine, he grimaces when he glances up, greeting me with an irritated, “God dammit Jim, that’s worse!”

I look around the room, confused by his angry tone. “What’s worse?”

“You. In that shirt.”

Well duh. I only threw on his gray Iowa wrestling tee after his ridiculous no-tank-top rule was enforced.

“Is there no winning with you?” I toss my hands up in defeat. “What’s wrong with this shirt? You told me to put it on. In fact, you wadded it up and threw it at me. It hit me in the face, remember, and almost took out my eye.”

“You weren’t supposed to take your shorts off!” he accuses, scowling.

My hands go back up, exasperated. “Oh my god, what is the big deal?”

“What’s the big deal? What’s the big deal, she asks?” He’s grumbling to himself, pounding a fluffy pillow and adjusting it behind his head. I can’t help but admire his biceps flexing while he does it. Sorry, but they’re amazing to look at. “The big deal is now all you have on is fucking underwear.”

“Right,” I say slowly, shifting my gaze away from his body to lift the hem of his tee. “But the shirt goes down to my thighs…”

“Are you insane? You keep that shit on.”

“Uh…”

Oz holds up his hands, halting my argument. “Rule number five: no shaving your legs.”

“No shaving my legs?” A burst of laughter escapes my lips and I double over at the waist, giggling hysterically. Tears stream down my cheeks. When I finally catch my breath, I sputter, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. What does shaving have to do with anything?”

He gives me a look that says duh. “Hairy legs are disgusting. No dude wants to bang a chick with more hair than he has. Trust me, it’s your only defense.”

I stare at him blankly, my lip curling distastefully, before wiping away a stray tear. “You’re so weird.”

“You’re right. I would totally bang a chick with hairy legs.” He karate chops my pillow barrier with his hand, a mocking smile spreading across his stupidly arrogant face. “Is this to keep you on your side of the bed? Cause I gotta say, Jim, I won’t fight you off when you decide to cross over to the dark side.”

God he’s so devilishly handsome.

I shake my head, grinning back as I pull back the covers and climb onto my side of the bed. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Wanna bet on it?”

“Would you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Betting on everything.”

“Sorry. Bad habit.”

I pull back the coverlet and slide in, my bare legs hitting the cool fabric. Reclining next to him in the bed, my body relaxes into the down pillows.

I feel him watching me out the corner of his eye when I reach for and click off the bedside lamp. Sigh. “What?”

A low chuckle comes out of the dark. “Do you really think that pillow barrier will keep me on my side of the bed?”

“Of course not. It’s a metaphor for keep your distance.”

“And my paws off?” He chuckles again, but this time the low baritone has me shivering. He must feel the vibration through the mattress because he asks, “Cold?”

“A little.” I hunker farther into the covers, wishing they were feather filled.

“Well, I’m here if you want to spoon. My mom used to say I was a hot box—you’d be hot and hopefully sweaty in no time.”

I bite back a smile in the dark. “Thanks for the offer.”