The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

I feel every stroke of her examination, as if her smooth fingertips are truly caressing my skin.

“Sebastian,” she repeats quietly to herself, testing the name. She repeats it several more times, each pronunciation with a different inflection. “Sebastian…Sebastian. Hmm. Who would have thought?”

“I’d rather be called Oswald.”

“No you wouldn’t.” Her whisper carries across the table.

My chin rests in my palm, elbow propped on the table. “You’re right. That name sucks donkey balls.”

Jameson bites down on her lower lip, her gaze suddenly shy as she glances down at the books opened in front of me on the table. Her throat clears. “We’re not getting any work done.”

“True.” My finger traces the mouse pad in unhurried circles as she begins drumming her fingertips on the table.

“I should probably go.”

“Stay. Let’s talk for a few more minutes. No harm in that, yeah?”

She seems to mull this over, her teeth still pressed into her bottom lip. “Okay. We’ll talk. What do you want to know about me?”

“What’s the deal with your roommate and mine?”

Jameson’s surprised expression is fleeting. “I think they’re just friends with benefits. Why?”

“She should stay away from him. He’s a whore.”

Jameson laughs. Head thrown back, the cheerful sound fills the room. “That’s what they say about you.”

“Someone said I was a whore? Who?”

“Everyone. After they saw us talking at the party, my friends gave me quite an earful.”

I lean back in the chair and it squeaks when I tip it back on its legs. “Any good gossip?”

She mimics my posture and balances herself across from me. “Well, let me think here.” The legs hit the ground again and she scratches her chin. “Allison heard you having sex at the party this past weekend and said the door was rattling. So that was interesting news.”

I pretend to consider this. “Yup, can’t lie about that one. I railed that door and the redhead almost off their hinges. Got any others?”

“You date multiple people at once.”

“False. I don’t date anyone. Ever.”

Jameson’s face is an impassive mask. “Hayley told me you broke up with your last girlfriend over Twitter.”

A grimace twists my mouth into a frown. “Oh, Hayley told you, did she? Didn’t your mother teach you not to listen to rumors?”

“Yes, but is it true?”

“Yes, but in my defense, she wasn’t my girlfriend. She was a pity fuck who turned into a clinger.”

“A Twitter breakup?” This time Jameson winces. “That’s bad.”

“Sorry, but it’s the truth. It was the only way to get rid of her. Trust me, I did her a favor.”

“How is that doing her a favor? She was probably humiliated!” Then, “Can I ask what the tweet said?”

I chuckle. “Why don’t you just go on Twitter and look for yourself.”

Those fascinating eyes, which have been judging me for the past few minutes, narrow into bright blue slits as she drags her phone across the table, flips it over, and unlocks the screen.

Gives it a few taps.

“What name am I looking for?”

“OneTapUofI. All one word.”

Type, type, type.

Narrowed eyes widen, dark eyebrows shoot up. Her pert mouth falls open a fraction in horror when she finds it. “This is terrible! You are so crude.”

I chuckle again. “Read it out loud so I can get a good laugh.”

“No!”

“Oh come on, Jim! She had it coming.”

“No! You called her a troll—that is so uncalled for.” She glances down at the screen of her phone. “This whole tweet is terrible.”

“Careful, you’re repeating yourself.”

“Oh shut up, you—”

“Asshole?”

“Yes.”

“Dickhead?”

“Yes.”

“Douchebag?”

She titters. “You said it, not me.”

“No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman, Jim.” Casually I regard her from across the table. “Haven’t you ever done anything you’ve regretted?”

She pretends to consider the question. “You mean like letting a stranger convince me to kiss him in public?”

“Ha ha. But yeah, I guess that’s exactly what I mean.”

This time Jameson does think about it, humming to herself as she deliberates on a reply. She inhales, drawing in a deep breath, and says with a straight face, “Once I ate at White Castle. Does that count as a regret?”

“Sure, why not.”

“I call it the White Castle of Regret.”

I laugh, then she laughs, and soon our eyes are watering tears of mirth.

“Holy shit that’s funny,” I enthuse, wiping my cheeks dry. “You don’t look like you have any sense of humor at all, but you’re hilarious.”

She’s pleased. Smug. “Occasionally I’ve been known to throw out a few zingers.”

“I still want to know more about a girl who wears pearls to the library but willingly makes out with a stranger.”

“Willingly? That’s a stretch.”

“Stop evading the question.”

Slumping back in her seat, James rests her head against the chair. “I’m rather shy—”