The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

He shakes his head. “It’ll be fine; my parents will understand the reasons behind it.”

“When are you going to tell them?”

“I plan to do it after I win at Penn. They’ll watch it on TV, and then I’ll call while my old man is high off my victory.”

I return the money to my pocket. Stand. Shrug into my jacket.

Rhett waits by the door, holding it open for me like a gentleman so I can step out into the dark night. We walk in silence for the first block while I wrack my brain for something to say, growing more aware of his body heat the farther into the dark we stroll.

“Sorry you have to go jogging tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it—I’m used to it.”

“Want me to come with you?”

He stops in his tracks. “You’re a runner?”

I’m thankful for the dim streetlights when my face heats up. “Well…no.”

“Oh.” He starts walking again, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. “I keep a brisk pace that would probably kill you.” He shoots me a sidelong glance. “Do you play any sports?”

“I do. I played volleyball here freshman and sophomore year.”

“Why’d you quit?”

Shrugging, I kick at the pavement beneath my feet. “I hate to call it quitting—I’d rather call it burnout. I had no life and got sick of it. Plus, the drama from my teammates and practicing non-stop was exhausting. So one day I just…”

I risk a glance in his direction, wondering if I’ll see disappointment etched across his expression.

Athletes don’t usually identify with quitters, and if I’m being honest, I fall into that category.

“What did your parents say?” he asks into the night.

“They were relieved. I think they were sick of getting crying phone calls from me every week. Plus, I was a walk-on, not a scholarship athlete, so there was no free ride for tuition. My grades were suffering, and I can’t afford to be here five years.”

Unlike Rhett, who was courted and recruited by not one, but multiple top-tier universities. I wonder how good he actually is, making a mental note to Google his stats when I get home.

We walk the remaining three blocks, hands brushing a few times in the dark, neither of us choosing to break the distance by stepping away.

We arrive at his Jeep.

“Need a lift home?” His deep voice is a rumble in the night.

My eyes flicker briefly to my SUV parked three spaces down. I clamp my lips shut.

“Sure. That would be great.”

Rhett hits his key fob, unlocking the doors. Pulls the passenger side open and holds it. “Hop in.”

I get all melty at his chivalry, brush against him when I scoot past to scramble inside, settling into the cab of his Jeep with a sigh. Setting my backpack in my lap, I glance around curiously while he jogs around the front.

He waves to someone coming down the sidewalk from the library. Throws them a smile.

Yanks open his door and climbs up.

“Which way we headed?”

“I’m three blocks in the other direction, over near Kinsey. Know where that is?”

“Huh,” he says, putting the Jeep in reverse. “That’s where I’m at.”

“On Kinsey?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m one over—technically I’m at the crossroad, McClintock, but everyone knows Kinsey so I just say that.”

“Got it.”

I study his profile, the bump in his nose. The strong set of his jaw. The stubble on his neck and chin. The reflection from the rearview mirror like a mask across his dark brown eyes.

Surprisingly, the cab of the Jeep smells clean but masculine. Musky, like cologne, and not old gym socks.

I’m tempted to scoot closer for a covert whiff of him but think better of it because, Jesus, I must be losing my damn mind. I can’t be attracted to him.

Can I?

Shit, what if I am?

It takes a measly three minutes to reach my street, the glowing windows of our little college rental a small beacon at the end of the road, ramshackle but quaint.

“I’m that one.” I point to the tiny white house on the corner, the one with dilapidated siding and a broken screen door. Our landlord hasn’t cut the grass or fixed the cracked window above our kitchen sink, but you can’t see any of those imperfections in the dark.

Donovan and Lana’s cars are both gone.

They must be at work.

Still, the little light above our stove glows, dim but warm.

“This one?” Rhett slows to a stop in front of my house, shifting the Jeep into park. His arm goes across the seat back, body arching to look out the windshield behind us. “See that house over there? The blue one?”

I crane my neck, cheek brushing his hand. “Where?”

I’m such a damn liar—I can totally see which house is his, the blue one with black trim. When his hand inadvertently brushes against the back of my neck, tickling the loose hairs…

I shiver.

“That one there. It’s…” He counts the houses between his house and mine. “Nine houses over.” He tips his chin down so he’s looking into my eyes. “What are the odds?”

“What are the odds?” I repeat, whispering into the dark, staring at his profile when he glances out the driver-side window. I stare at his full lips.

Rhett pulls away. “Where’s your car?”

“Uh…my roommate has it. She must be working.”

“You goin’ to be okay by yourself?”

“I’m here alone all the time,” I remind him, in no rush to climb out.

“Duh. Right.” He nods. Clears his throat. “Right.”

Rhyt.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.” When he smiles, jeez, it changes his whole face. His straight white teeth shining in the dim light, the small cleft visible in the center of his chin. I want to press my finger there just to see his reaction.

“Good night, Rhett.”

“À la prochaine, Laurel,” his mouth whispers, and holy mother my ovaries can’t take it. My crotch actually tingles.

“Um, maybe don’t do that.”

“Don’t what?”

“Speak French. Around me, specifically.”

One brow rises. “All right…I won’t?”

“Good.” My hand reaches reluctantly for the door handle. Grips it. “Okay. I should go inside, I guess.”

“Night.”

“See you around.”

“Au revoir.”

I narrow my eyes; he did that on purpose. “Bye.”

“Laurel, do you need help getting out?”

“No, I’m good.” I heft my backpack. “On second thought, this backpack is really heavy.”

The poor boy looks so confused. “You need me to carry it?”

“Would you?”

“Uh…sure.”

I wait for him to come around to the passenger side, open the door, remove the backpack from my very capable hands.

Then I stand next to the Jeep, imagination getting the best of me, wanting him to try to kiss me against the cold, steel door of his car. Wanting him to put his hands on my body, slide them under my jacket. Drop my bag and press his lean hips into mine. Run his giant wrestler hands up my ribcage, under my shirt.

I imagine all this while he stands waiting for me, imagine what it would be like if he touched me.

He doesn’t.

Of course he wouldn’t—why would he?

He’s a freaking gentleman.

I sigh, following him to my door.

I’m quickly learning that Rhett Rabideaux isn’t most guys.

Tres inconvenient.

Rhett

Laurel: I know I already mentioned it, but thank you for dinner tonight

Me: You’re welcome.

Laurel: And thanks for bringing me home. It wasn’t necessary.

Me: No problem.

Laurel: You’re a really nice guy, do you know that?

Me: So I’ve been told.

Laurel: What do you have going on this weekend?

Me: Meet Friday. Back Saturday.

Laurel: Oh that’s right, Ohio State. Do you think you’ll go out this weekend when you get back?