The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“When?”

I pause again. “When my opponents are the same weight class but bigger. Bulkier. Or smaller. Or come at me with a chip on their shoulder I can see when they come onto the floor.” And now that I’m on a roll, I stare absentmindedly at the painting hanging on the far side of the room. “Some guys are so desperate to win you can see it in their eyes. The hungry ones with everything to lose with each loss.”

Like me.

The unspoken words hang between us.

“What’s your record?”

“This season? We just started, but I’m eight and oh.”

Undefeated, badass mother.

Impressed, Jameson’s pretty blue eyes get wide as fucking saucers and a small gasp escapes her lips. “Sebastian, that’s amazing.”

Sebastian.

My name sounds like praises from her lips.

I sit up straighter in my chair, a little more cocksure than I was ten seconds ago. I mean, it’s not like people aren’t telling me on a regular basis how fucking amazing I am, but a compliment coming from Jameson Clark somehow feels like winning at life.

She doesn’t dole out compliments on the regular.

She doesn’t suffer fools, and she’s not easily impressed.

“It really is amazing.” I puff out my chest and posture. “You should see me in action sometime.”

“I have.”

This is news to me. “You have? When?”

“I mean, there’s a chance I googled you—after you demanded that I google you, of course.”

“You actually stalked me online? I’m in shock.” Why am I having such a hard time imagining her at her computer searching for shit about me? Possibly in the dark, hopefully touching herself inappropriately, preferably wearing something lace. And see-through.

The thought has my dick twitching.

“Would you stop it? It was not stalking. You told me to google you.

I don’t stop.

“Yeah, but when was this alleged stalking? Be specific.” I tease, using air quotes.

She looks horrified. “Please stop calling it that.” Hesitates. “And it was right before we left for Utah. I wanted to know what level of egomaniac I was dealing with.”

I push the textbook across the table and out of my way, reclining back in the chair my ass has been planted in for the past hour. “So what, pray tell, did you discover during this research?” Again with the air quotes.

A grin widens my face when her face turns scarlet, the skin beneath her sweater a bright, furious pink.

“Well,” she begins deliberately, clearing her throat, each syllable measured. “I know you’re from Illinois—same as me. I know you have a sister, and that in high school, you were a star.”

James hesitates, blowing out a puff of air. The long, wavy hair hanging in a cascade lifts off her face. “You’re here on a full ride. I know you’re a heavyweight wrestler at six foot one, but you’re two twenty-eight pounds of solid muscle with a body fat percentage of seven.”

“True facts.”

“You’re considerate—and as much as I hate to admit it, you’re funny. And you care more about grades then you want people to know, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why.”

I grab my yellow Iowa water bottle as she sucks in her bottom lip and nibbles nervously before raising her blue eyes to study me across the table. “Um…you smell good. Like fresh air and peppermint.”

My brows shoot up.

Yes. This. That’s the shit I’m talking about.

I lean toward her, interested, but otherwise sit perfectly still, longing to hear her speak.

“Go on.”

“You…have the strongest arms I’ve ever seen.”

Yes.

“You have a leg fetish.”

I nod, water bottle poised at my watering mouth. “Fact.”

“You knew I wasn’t a tutor the day we met but you came over anyway.”

“Twice,” I confirm, chugging on my water, the room-temp liquid pouring down my throat.

“You like working with your hands, and despite what everyone thinks—what I thought when I first met you—you’re not a total man whore.”

I sputter, choking on the laugh, spitting out a mouthful of water in the process until it dribbles cold and wet down my chin. Yanking up the hem of my cotton tee, I wipe my face with a few swipes.

“How do you know I’m not a man whore?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t, I said not totally. For one, you didn’t make a move on my roommate Sydney when you had the chance and she probably wanted you to—and for the life of her she can’t figure out why. And two, you didn’t make a move on me in Utah even though we shared the same bed.”

“And you weren’t wearing pajama bottoms.”

“Correct.”

“Why would you do that, by the way?”

She sighs, loud and long and breathy. “Ugh, are we back to that?”

“Fuck yeah we’re back to that!” I’m indignant. “You knew damn well what you were doing. Cunning femme fatale. Not wearing pajama bottoms was shady and ruthless.”

She giggles a soft, tinkling laugh, sweet and delighted, toying with the buttons of her pale pink cardigan. “Femme fatale?” James rolls her eyes. “Hardly.”

My gaze lowers, settling on that second glossy button where her long, lean fingers push it in and out of the buttonhole, right in the center of those round, fantastically full breasts—the breasts I tried to get a sneak peek of at minimum one dozen times on the trip.