The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

His hip hits the counter, eyes casting a wary glint over my shoulder, out the window behind me. “Dammit.”

“What?”

“My roommates are already back.” He pauses, the silence almost deafening. A set of headlights shines into the dimly lit kitchen, casting shadows against the walls. “Uh, want to go to my room?”

Not really—I kind of want to meet these assholes in person, but knowing he doesn’t want me to, I nod my head. “Sure. We can do that.”

He grabs the cookies off the counter and we set off down the dark hallway to the bedrooms. Behind the second door on the right is his room; painted beige, it’s much tidier than I was expecting—and clean, especially considering this was a drop-by. His bed isn’t made, but the covers aren’t thrown everywhere, either. It’s kind of sparse—at least, compared to what I’m used to.

Desk in the corner. Dresser against the far wall. Queen-sized bed. Navy bedding.

Green plaid pillows.

Interesting.

“Where are all your trophies?” I mean, don’t guys hang stuff like that up for bragging rights? My ex-boyfriends always did. “I’m assuming you have a bunch of those, right?”

“Packed up in my parents’ basement.”

He must not have wanted to haul them all the way to Iowa from Louisiana.

“Do you have a lot of them?”

Rhett shuffles to the closet, barefoot, and slides the door closed. I watch the muscles in his back flex when he shrugs, facing away from me. “I guess.”

“So you’re just okay? They recruited you out of the goodness of their hearts?”

This makes him chuckle. “I’m tryin’ not to sound like a conceited asshole.”

From the living room, we hear the sound of the front door open, close. Two loud voices bantering back and forth in the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing like the place is being ransacked.

Whoever his roommates are, they’re loud.

Ignoring the sound of them rifling through the cupboards for food, I stray to Rhett’s desk, fiddling with his pens, poke one around the surface with my green fingernail.

Unlike my laptop, Rhett’s is void of decals and stickers. Unlike my notebooks, his are plain and have no doodles scribbled on the cardboard covers.

I glance at him over my shoulder.

He goes to stuff his hands in his pockets; discovering his navy pants have none, he runs both hands through his hair, blowing out a puff of air.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

All right, Rhett, I get it—you don’t know how to tell me you think it’s weird that I’m in your room. That it’s making you uncomfortable and you don’t know how to act. What to do with yourself, or your hands.

I get it.

It’s cute.

Different, without a doubt.

I stroll to the bed, slide down the front of it to the floor. Lean my head against the mattress and shoot him a friendly smile as I run my palms down the length of my legs, down my black leggings, plucking at the fabric.

He bites back a smile, sauntering the few feet it takes to reach me, squatting on his haunches then joining me on the floor.

We both stare at the closet.

“Do you ever get nervous going into a match? Or meet? I still don’t remember what you call them.” I laugh.

“The whole thing is a meet. The part where I wrestle an opponent is a match. And no, I don’t get nervous. Not usually.”

“Because you’re so good?”

“Maybe, or because I’ve been doin’ it so long it’s second nature. My body is on autopilot, you know?”

I do know. “That’s how it was with volleyball. My parents started me when I was eight, and I never had a break.” I pause. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I admire you for sticking with it, though. I know it’s hard.”

“It can be.”

He can’t fool me; I know what the life of a D1 athlete is like, and his sport is far more intense and backbreaking than volleyball ever was.

“Does your family visit?”

“They used to come to every single home meet.”

“But they haven’t since you’ve been in Iowa?”

“Nope. Too far.”

“Have you gone home?”

“Nah. It’s a long drive—I’d rather not make it alone.”

He steeples his fingers on his knees, and I study his hands, learning the lines of his veins and the bend of his fingers, his large, masculine hands.

I bet they’re rough.

I bet they’re capable.

I bet…

I sigh.

His room smells good and he smells great, and he’s sitting less than an inch away. His thigh is touching my thigh, his hips touching my hips. It’s not on purpose, obviously—this is Rhett we’re talking about here.

But he’s close enough that the nerves in my body are sending electric jolts to places I’d rather they didn’t, especially since it’s apparent this guy isn’t interested. I’m a fool for pushing the issue simply because I’m curious.

Calling him. Texting him. Bringing him freaking cookies—Jesus, what the hell have I been thinking?

This little playground crush I seem to be developing on him is going to end up with me getting hurt—or worse, looking like a complete fool. I can picture it now: poor, clueless Rhett, avoiding me like the plague because I scared the crap out of him with my assertive nature.

Maybe this is why I date guys who aren’t emotionally available. Getting him comfortable with me is proving to be a challenge when most guys have been easy—the breaks are always clean and easy, too. No one gets hurt because no one actually cares, nothing invested but physical gratification.

He turns his head when I exhale; up close, I can see the different hues of his irises. How long his lashes are. The scar in his left eyebrow. The small, discolored skin along the bridge of his nose where a bruise is healing.

Rhett’s eyes stray to my lips.

Mine stray to the hardwood floors beneath us, taking in the square footage. “You know something? I think there’s plenty of room in here to give me those self-defense pointers.”

“Now?” He looks dubious.

“Do you have any better ideas?”

Like making out, just to see what it feels like? Rolling around naked on the bed, perhaps?

Rhett bites the inside of his cheek. “Let me think of an easy one for you to do. Most of them wouldn’t work as self-defense.”

The room is quiet while he deliberates, and I watch his facial expressions change, the wheels of his brain turning. “Okay,” he says at last. “I think I have one. We’re both goin’ to have to stand up.”

He rises to a full stand in one fluid motion.

Rhett leans down, offering both hands to help me off the ground. When he holds them out, palms up, I slowly slide my skin across his. Flesh to flesh.

My pulse quickens at the contact.

Our eyes connect; I know he feels it too.

He must, or I’ll go crazy trying to convince myself there’s something building between us even if he’s convinced himself there isn’t.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my body still humming from his touch.

“You ready?”

My blue eyes glide over the smooth skin of his exposed collarbone, the hard valley between his pecs.

Am I ready? Oh yeah—so ready. “Yes.”

“All right, so, uh.” He wipes his palms on his pants. “I guess we’ll go with the double takedown. So you’re going to have to widen your legs and squat, like this.”

Rhett spreads his legs, squatting, hands up with his palms facing me, waiting for me to mimic his stance.

“Like this?” I purposely prop one foot out, uneven, hip jutted out.

“No, like this.” He stands, breaking position. “Here, let me show you.”

He moves into my personal space, large hands gripping my hips, shifting my body to the right. Palms skim my thigh, tapping the inside of my sensitive flesh until my legs are spread—it’s like he’s tapping a lifeless slap of meat. Clinically. Mechanically.

Rhett is clearly in his element when it comes to wrestling.