The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“Mmm hmm.”

“You weren’t here.”

“Nope.” She looks me up and down warily. “I was running errands. Got back right after you left. With Sydney.”

With Sydney.

With fucking Sydney.

Goddammitall.

My hands plunge immediately into my pockets. “I had free time today, so I thought…”

“You’d get ice cream?”

Yes. “No.”

“No you didn’t get ice cream?”

“Yes. Yeah, we did.”

Her sad smile is forced. “How nice. Was it good?”

I study her then, gauging her mood. I mean, clearly she’s pissed, but calm, cool, and collected Jameson doesn’t fool me. Scares me a little, yes. Fools me, no.

Too bad I have no idea how to proceed without getting myself into trouble. I mean, she’s jealous, right? That’s what this is?

She’s upset and now she’s going to trap me into admitting that leaving with her roommate was a dick move.

Shit, shit, shit.

I proceed with caution.

“I came here to see you.” Not your freaking roommate, who I’ll admit is smokin’ hot, but whom I have zero interest in. Not even for a quick lay. “And maybe take you out.”

Jameson spreads her arms wide, gesturing into the open doorway. “And here I am.”

“Like I said, I have a bunch of time. Not much homework, no papers due.” I shuffle my feet on the stoop. “Practice ended early. Our bus doesn’t leave until later.”

“Lovely.”

Her short answers are throwing me off. I inhale and push on. “Anyway, since I have all this time, I thought we could, you know, do something—”

“Wow, that is soooo weird,” she interrupts.

Yup. It’s a trap; I can hear it in the way her voice suddenly became too chipper. Too bubbly. Too fake happy while shooting stabby daggers of death my way.

“What’s weird?”

“Well, you say you came here to see me, but…gosh, I don’t know. You left here with Sydney, so…I’m a bit confused about how this whole thing works.”

“I did come here to see you.” How many times do I have to explain it? I remove the phone from my pocket and check the time. “I’m already packed for my trip, and it’s still early if you want to…”

Jameson picks an imaginary piece of lint off the front of her tee shirt then stares over my shoulder off into the yard. “No thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

A short laugh that does nothing to conceal the hurt shining in her eyes. “Oh yeah—I’m sure.”

“But I’ll see you on Monday at the gym when I get back from my meet, right?”

She throws me a curt nod. “A deal is a deal. I promised I’d let you pin me to the mat, so I’m going to let you pin me to the mat.”

“Eleven fifteen?”

Jameson sighs. “I’ll be there, Sebastian. Quit nagging.”

“Wearing a singlet?”

A soft chuckle. “No, I won’t be wearing a singlet.”

“But they’re the required uniform.”

“How about I don’t.”

I think about this for a second, the mental image of Jameson wearing nothing but a basic black leotard too much for me to resist. All that exposed, smooth, creamy skin. “Rule number eight: we both have to be properly attired if we’re doing this. Do the best you can to find something black.” And tight. And fitted.

A loud, drawn-out sigh. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“Great.” She pushes away, a smile threatening to crack the thin line of her lips.

“All right then, we agree. Oh, and James?”

“Yes, Oswald?” This time she does give me a smirk, a plastered on, shit-eating grin at the use of her nickname for me—one I plan to wipe off with my next pronouncement, raking her body up and down with my dark, hooded eyes.

“We don’t wear anything under our singlets.”

Her worried brows shoot up. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

I leave her there, standing on the porch with her mouth hanging open. Turning, I strut to my truck, whistling the entire way.

Jameson

Nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the sight of Sebastian Osborne in his wrestling singlet—not the google search images, not the marketing shots from the university’s athletic department, not even the vivid visuals fueled by my overactive imagination.

Last week’s drama with Sydney evaporates, replaced by the sight of him in that sleek, body-hugging spandex—it is nothing short of a miracle.

God’s gift to women.

A dreadful poly one-piece constructed solely to plague my estrogen levels.

It shows off. Absolutely. Everything.

Black with the school’s mascot in the center, the low cut straps over his shoulders hug his muscular pecs, dipping down to showcase his lower body. His abdominals. His sternum. From his hard nipples to the valley of his well-developed chest…

His everything. I can see every gloriously well-defined detail.

Ugh.

I watch him stretching on the balls of his feet before he sees me emerging from the locker room of the wrestlers’ designated practice gym. I examine the padded center of the room, feigning interest in the gleaming hardwood floor and the freshly painted school logo painted on the concrete cinderblock walls.

Oz stands, hands on his lean hips, grin spreading across his face when he catches sight of me walking out of the locker room dressed only in a plain black ballet leotard—one I raced around town like a madwoman to hunt down, realizing too late there are zero dance stores in this college town. The only place selling anything remotely close to a leo is Target, and theirs?