The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

A pause.

Another knock.

Curious, I minimize the open window on my laptop, set it aside, and pad barefoot to the door, taking my sweet time. Stop in the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Turn the TV off in the living room, but not before flipping through a few channels.

When I finally pull open the front door, my eyes widen at the sight of James standing on my stoop, dressed head to toe like a preppy do-gooder. Like a librarian. Navy dress coat buttoned from the bottom to the top and tied at the waist. Pearls peeking out from the collar of her jacket. Navy blue, black, and green plaid skirt. The same black patent leather ballet slippers that still haunt my dreams.

“What took you so long to answer the dang door? I knocked five times!” Her obvious irritation is punctuated by the chattering of her teeth.

“I…” I stare dumbly down at her. “You’re here.”

“I am.” She nods with a shiver, wrapping her arms around herself in a hug. “Can I come in? I’m f-freezing and this jacket isn’t keeping me warm.”

It’s not her usual puffy winter coat.

“Shit!” I scramble aside so she can enter and give her a wide berth so she can step into the house. “Come in. Wow. What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but I thought Hayley needed you…”

“The guy finally texted her back so it was a false alarm.” A coy smile. “Besides, I realized she didn’t need me as much as I needed you.”

Are my ears deceiving me, or does her voice sound sexier than usual? Almost like she’s here to…

I shake the feathers out of my brain and swallow when she breezes past me into the living room. Glancing around, Jameson takes stock of the small space four of us call home. Her eyes hit the huge, sixty-inch television. The two couches, shades of diarrhea-brown. Bare beige walls. The Xbox Live and the unorganized stack of games that go with it.

Zeke’s and Dylan’s beeramid.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Jameson turns gradually toward me, making a show of untying the belt of her jacket, unbuttoning the toggles, pulling it open and shrugging it off. Her shoulders and slim figure are dressed in a baby blue cardigan with shiny navy buttons. It’s buttoned to her neck, but it’s thin, and holy shit—I don’t think she’s wearing anything under it. The pearl necklace circles her neck like a collar.

Nipples. Hard.

Stiff.

My eyes hover over her boobs.

Shit, is she wearing a bra? Why the hell wouldn’t she be? Why is she wearing a plaid skirt? Surely she was just at home hanging with her roommates in yoga pants? Causal shit girls wear?

I gape like an adolescent schoolboy at her incredible rack, at the hard nipples poking through the soft fabric of her sweater, almost one hundred percent positive she’s naked beneath it.

I shake my head again in denial—there is no way.

Jameson would never go braless in public.

Would she?

Stop looking at her tits, dude. Get a fucking grip.

Jameson makes a little humming sound as she drapes her coat over the arm of our recliner, a demure smile parting her lips. Coolly rests her hip against the back of the chair, legs crossing at the ankles. Folds her hands over her lap.

“So. Now what?”

My eyes fly back to her chest. “Uh.”

I can think of eight hundred things to answer that and they all include nudity, nakedness, and bare flesh.

She gives another pleasant little hum. “I’m thinking we should go to your bedroom?” She’s the epitome of innocence and class, minus the bra. “You know, for privacy, in case your roommates come home.”

If Jameson wants to go to my room, on purpose, wearing nothing but that plaid skirt and cardigan, she’ll get no objections from me.

I’ve had girls at my place before, a steady stream of one-night stands and hookups. Virtual strangers in my bed for the night, good for nothing but a quick screw and a swat on the ass, then straight out the door the way they came. Not one of them has lasted through the night; not one of them has made it to morning. Regardless, I’m not about to pass up the opportunity to find out what’s under that sweater.

I’m not a complete fucking moron.

I grab Jameson’s hand, lacing our fingers. Guide her down the long hall, switching lights off in the process. Cringe when I open the door to my room. “Shit, sorry it’s such a mess. I didn’t make the bed. Didn’t think I’d be having company.”

I release her hand and rush the room, hastily yanking the covers up on my bed. Throw the pillows back into place near the headboard. Toss a dirty tee shirt into the open closet.

“Hold up a minute.”

“Sebastian, it’s okay. Really.” Jameson eases herself onto the bed, crossing her legs, and kicks her ballet flats to the floor. Pushes them out of the way, dangling her feet off the edge, her pretty bright pink toenails polished and shiny.

My eyes follow the movement of her fingers as they toy with the hem of her plaid skirt. Her plaid. Fucking. Skirt. She parts the fold, giving me a rare glimpse of creamy upper thigh, the elusive crevasse between her legs, the shadow of underwear.

Blood rushes to the brain inside my pants, my hands shooting to my hair. I pace to the far side of my bedroom as the sight of her skirt alone does shit to my cock that—fucking A.

It twitches.

If she’s doing all this sexy shit on purpose—trying to make me horny and out of my mind—it’s working.