The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)
“Mmm, that’s weird.” My voice drawls. “Before I was rudely interrupted from my deep slumber, I was dreaming about dipping my toes into the warm Caribbean sand on a beach somewhere. A cabana boy was about to bring me a sippy sippy.” I yawn, stretch like a feral cat, and make a mewing sound. “Mmmmm.”
“Wait.” It sounds like he’s stopped in his tracks. “Are you wearing that white tank top?”
Disoriented, I mumble, “Huh?”
“The white see-through tank top you had on in Utah. It’s what you were wearing in my dream last night—this morning.”
“Isn’t it a bit early for this line of questioning?” Careful to keep the vibe flirtatious and not a prelude to phone sex, I tease, “I can’t even form a cohesive sentence.”
“Yes or no?”
“No.” I flop down on my back to stare at the ceiling as he grunts, disappointed.
“Bummer. That visual was the only thing getting me through this run. I’m freezing my balls off here, picturing you in that shirt, but it’s worth it.”
“Um…”
He grunts again, this time frustrated. “Shit, babe, I thought I’d have more time to talk but Coach just walked outside. Gotta go. Let’s do something when I get back. I’ll text you tomorrow, yeah?”
Babe? Did he just babe me? What on earth is happening right now?
Isn’t it a little early to be drinking the Kool-Aid?
“Um, okay.”
I hear his decisive nod. “Tomorrow.”
Sebastian
Oz: You there?
Jameson: Of course ;)
Oz: I charged my phone.
Jameson: I can see that! Who lent you a charger?
Oz: No one. I broke down and bought one at the Walgreens across from the hotel. Dodged traffic to cross the intersection, I’ll have you know. Didn’t realize how fast I could sprint until last night.
Oz: There was one point I thought I was going to be hit by a car. Just sayin.
Jameson: WHAT?! Why would you DO THAT?!
Oz: Because I was sick of waiting.
Jameson: Sick of waiting for…?
Oz: It’s a 9-hour bus ride home—do you really think I wanted to wait any longer to text you?
Oz: James? You there?
Jameson: I’m here.
Oz: Does it bother you to hear that?
Jameson: To hear that you…
Oz: Miss your sarcastic mouth? Yeah. I do. Is that some freaky shit or what?
Jameson: Where is this all coming from?
Oz: It’s a long story, but I think we should talk when I get home.
Jameson: “We should talk.” Cause that always ends well.
Oz: I just pulled a Jameson and rolled my eyes—don’t be so dramatic.
Jameson: Me? DRAMATIC?!
Oz: Me, Oz, you, Dramatic.
Jameson: Cute. Very cute. Where are you right now?
Oz: Seat 12D, driving past some very picturesque cornfields somewhere between Ohio and Iowa. You?
Jameson: You know—the library, at my usual table.
Oz: Shit, that actually makes me jealous.
Jameson: Why?
Oz: I kind of consider the library “our thing” now and you’re there without me.
Jameson: Really? Because you’ve been acting really weird lately.
Oz: I have? lol
Jameson: I just rolled my eyes, are you happy? Yes, you have. Are you finally ready to tell me why?
Oz: Yeah, but I’d rather do it in person.
Jameson: Can you at least give me a hint?
Oz: All right.
Oz: It does have something to do with you.
Jameson: Not THAT kind of hint! Be more specific.
Jameson: Hey Sebastian? Can you actually call me to talk, or would that be weird?
Oz: Yeah, I can call you. Since I haven’t seen you in a few days, how bout FaceTime instead?
Jameson: *blushes* Yes, that works, too. Give me fifteen minutes to pack up and dash home. And fluff my hair. Haha.
Oz: Fifteen minutes. Got it.
Oz: And for the record, I love it when you say shit like ‘dash’. It’s so ducking cute.
Jameson: LOL, ducking.
Oz: Autocorrect won’t let me say ducking.
Oz: Not ducking. Ducking.
Oz: DAMMIT
Jameson: I am laughing so hard right now.
Oz: Lol. Starting the clock. Ready. Set. Dash.
“Are you in bed?” I ask, hunching down in my seat, farther inside my hoodie, grateful to have the entire row to myself.
“Just laying on it.” On cue, I hear her sheets rustle, and I imagine they’re crisp, clean, and smell like fresh air and sunshine.
Heaven.
Jameson looks back at me through the camera on her phone, long hair framing her face, all innocent eyed and sexy.
“When will you be home?” She bites down on her lower lip timidly, like she’s just broken out with a case of nerves, like she’s embarrassed to ask.
Those five little words and the way she’s asking—man, they do some unexpected and weird shit to my stomach, make it flip.
I clear my throat. “They have us scheduled to pull in around eleven.”
“Eleven isn’t so bad, early enough to go out and…or…what?”
“Well.” I drag out the word. “Then I was hoping to see you.”
Her eyes get wide. “Tonight? But it’s Friday.”
“Right.”
“Aren’t you going out? To party?”
“I mean, we can. If that’s what you want to do.”
“We?”
“Yeah. You and me.”