The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“Please.” I snort, crossing my arms over my broad chest. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing flouncing around with no pants on.”

Her grin spreads wide. “You’re crazy.”

“I call bullshit. You knew that was driving me nuts.”

“Well yeah, but…it could have been anyone running around pants-less and you would have tried to sleep with them.”

“Did we not just establish that I didn’t make a move on your roommate what’s-her-face?”

“Sydney. Right, yes, but—”

“And I did make a move on you.”

“You did? When?”

“Remember when I said I was trying to fuck you?”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not making a move on me. That’s blatantly telling me you want to sleep with me.”

“Not sleep. Fuck. Huge difference, Jim.”

“You know, just when I think you have some deep-rooted sensitivity just dying to get out, you ruin it by talking.”

I shrug my broad shoulders. “You can’t blame me for being honest.”

“No, but jeez, Oz, sometimes a girl doesn’t want to have it shoved down her throat like that. She’d like to have an actual conversation. Be romanced.”

The phrase ‘shoved down her throat’ makes me want to giggle like a thirteen-year-old. I manage not to, but barely, although I cannot resist mentioning it. It’s too damn good.

“Do you have any idea what you just said? You said shove and throat, and I immediately thought blowjob. So don’t even—hey, sit down. Where are you going?”

She’s packing up her laptop with a roll of her eyes. “Home. As much as I’d love to stay, I really do have some serious work to do.”

“You get so fucking huffy. Would you sit back down please?”

“I do not get huffy!” James sets her bag back on the table and crosses her arms. “I’ll stay if you can give me one good reason why I should sit back down and let you continue to distract me. One. I’m pretty sure you can’t do it.”

“Wanna bet?”

A decisive nod. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“Terrific.” Because I got this. “You’re on. What are the stakes? Make ’em good.”

“How about you choose mine and I choose yours.”

Bad idea, Jim.

Horrible, horrible idea. So horrible, in fact, I’m practically rubbing my hands together with glee.

“Good. Ladies first.”

“If you can’t come up with one legitimate reason to keep me in this room, you have to…” Jameson furrows her brows in concentration. “You have to…” She makes a little humming thought. “Hmmm. Let me think.”

“Take your time,” I coax, leaning back in the study room’s big leather office chair. I spin around a few times, watching her scrumptiously from the corner of my eye as she bites her lip, thinking hard. “I have all night.”

She’s quiet for an entire two minutes then snaps her fingers. “All right, I’ve got it! If you can’t come up with a reason I approve of, you have to cook for me.”

Is she fucking serious?

I try not to yawn at her mind-numbing idea, but it’s so lame I let one slip out.

“Cook for you? That’s it?” To say I’m disappointed is a gross understatement, and it must be palpable because she nods with a smirk. “Cooking as in Let’s eat! or cooking as is You bring the chocolate body drizzle, I’ll bring the tongue?”

“Cooking as in home-cooked meal.”

I lean forward in the chair, the smooth leather seat and wheels creaking and straining under my weight when I give it one more spin. “All right. My turn.”

I let the silence drag before slapping my hands together with a satisfying clap, rubbing them together gleefully. “If I win—when I win—I get to pin you down again. Get you down on the mat. Get you sweaty.”

On the mat, in the gym, in the dark, when no one else is around.

Jameson rolls her eyes, but I can see the doubt materializing behind her flippant gaze. It becomes tangible when she swallows apprehensively. “Uh, okay. You can pin me down again, I guess.”

I begin ticking off reasons she should stay with me; they spill from my tongue like the sweat dripping off my forehead during a match. Fluid, molten, and drenched.

“One reason for you to stay? I want you to. Second reason: you’re driving me to distraction and I can’t concentrate unless you’re with me. Three: I want to pop the buttons on your damn sweater. Fourth: glasses. Five: I might need your help with an answer; you seem really smart.”

Her mouth forms a straight, unimpressed line at that last one.

“But the real reason I want you to stay?” I draw out the sentence, emphasizing the last few words. “You’re the only girl on this campus I have any respect for.”

I push back on the table and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms and letting those factoids sink in.

“Well.” James gulps. “That’s—”

“That’s the truth. I respect the hell out of you, and if you leave, I’m leaving too, and then I won’t get anything done. I’ll fail my homework, fall behind, and flunk out, thus making me ineligible for my scholarship. Do you want that hanging over your head?”

That cheeky smile I love returns. “No, certainly not.”