“Ah, I remember it like it was yesterday: I was fifteen and her name was Penny VanderWahl. She was my friend’s older sister and she let me screw her in the hayloft of a barn. Definitely was not a virgin. Does it count if I blew my load putting on the condom?”

Gross. “I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right; there was no actual penile penetration. It was just the tip.”

“Oh my god. Filter! Filter!”

His entertained snort cuts through the dark. “I hate to break it to you, Jim, but if you think that’s bad, you don’t even want to know what’s going on inside this head right now.”

You’re so wrong, I can’t stop myself from thinking. So so wrong.

I do want to know.

“You’re as deep as a puddle, Osborne. Of course I know what’s going through your head right now. You make no secret of being what my grandmother would call a skirt chaser.”

“Skirt chaser? Shit, I haven’t heard that one in a while. I like it though.”

“It’s not a compliment, Sebastian.”

He chuckles. “If you say so, Jim.”

We lie there in silence, but I can hear him thinking. Feel his even breathing beside me. Feel his hand slide across the firm mattress, slide under the wall of pillows, and grasp my hand.

Fingers entwined, he squeezes. “I’m glad I’m here.”

“I…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Me too.”

And I am.

I’m glad he’s here with me, however high handed his antics were in getting here. Goofy, good-looking, and oddly kind-hearted Sebastian Osborne. My friend.

“Thanks for the invite. I needed a vacation.”

In the dark, I roll my eyes.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“No?”

“You’re a terrible liar, do you know that?”

“Go to sleep, Oswald.”

He gives my hand another squeeze. “Sweet wet dreams, Jim.”

Jameson

We snowboard the rest of the weekend, packing up on a Sunday afternoon for the one thousand eighty-five mile ride back to campus. Gray clouds linger overhead, threatening to snow, an occasional chunky snowflake falling from grace down to the ground.

As I’m heaving my duffle bag out of our room, dragging it across the resort parking lot, a lone snowflake hits the tip of my nose and rests there. My eyes cross and I watch it momentarily before the heat of my skin melts it and it disappears into a tiny drop of water.

One by one, the rest of them begin falling. Wet, silent, and beautiful, like millions of tiny wisps dancing through the sky.

I draw in a breath, and as I inhale and exhale, the warmth of my breathing turns to a puff of smoke. Out of nowhere, Oz appears beside me, bending at the waist and reaching for my bags, swinging them over his shoulder as if they’re weightless and nudging me toward the bus.

I trail along behind him, nothing to carry except my laptop bag and a small tote. Oz carries it all.

Once the bags are stored in the lower level of the bus, he patiently waits while I fumble with my carryon tote. Waits while I climb each step, hand poised on the small of my back, guiding me. Follows behind me down the long, narrow aisle of the bus. Waits while I choose a seat.

The bus isn’t full—not even close—so I can be choosy, and I head toward the back where it’s private, deciding on the third to last row, near the bathroom.

I stow my bag under the seat and take the window.

Oz tosses his duffle on the empty seat across the aisle, sliding in beside me, his head hitting the seatback with an exhausted thump. He spreads his legs as wide as his giant frame allows.

“Tired,” he grumbles irritably. “Jim, can I lean my head on your shoulders? I just want to sleep for a bit.”

“Uh, sure.”

Oz sits up then, reaching for the hem of his hoodie and pulling it up over the top of his head then rolling it up. His intended target? My chest.

He comes at me, attempting to jam the wadded up sweatshirt under my chin.

I dodge the bundle headed in my direction, toward my face. “Whoa buddy. Whoa. Um, what are you doing?”

He gives me a look. “Uh, making a pillow. Sometimes shoulder bones are lumpy.”

I can’t help it; I laugh. “Fine, but I don’t necessarily want to be suffocated by you cramming your sweatshirt under my neck. Here, let me do the honors; I don’t need you crushing my trachea.”

Oz hands over his makeshift pillow and I refold it then roll it up. Reclining against the seat, I fold up the armrest to make more room and fit the hoodie in the crook of my neck.

Ahh, perfect. “I’ll close my eyes, too, I guess.”

A short nap can’t hurt.

“Thanks, Jim.”

His large frame shifts to get comfortable, long legs stretched, feet under the seat in front of us. It’s like fitting a square peg into a round hole; he just doesn’t fit.

More flip flopping, more disgruntled sighs, and his body gets twisted into a fetal-like position—no small feat for a man of his size in the cramped space we’re given.

I pause at that word: man.

Oz is a man. A solid, sexual, funny, clever, smart man.

Whose cheek is buried in the crook of my neck, the silky strands of hair on his gorgeous head tickling my nose when I tilt my neck to accommodate him.

He really is huge.

I gasp when his torso twists and he flips to try to find more room, shifting positions, nose buried in my chest. Slips his bulky, tattooed arms around my waist to get comfy, my arms shoved uselessly above his back for lack of place to put them.

Tags: Sara Ney How to Date a Douchebag Romance
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