The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

“I’m not tryin’ to upset you, I’m just so damn confused.”

“Confused? Awesome.” The laugh that comes out of her throat is almost maniacal. Now she’s throwing her hands in the air, defeated. “That is just awesome. Can we forget this whole humiliating conversation took place?”

Uh, not likely. Not ever.

This shit is going to be burned into my brain forever.

“I don’t think so.” My head shakes, a reminder that I should probably get a haircut before I can’t see. It’s already too long for Iowa’s wrestling uniform code. “Can we talk about it?”

Jesus Christ, what am I saying?

Except she’s the one shaking her head. Picking up her things. Stacking her books and closing her laptop.

“No.” Laurel hastily shoves everything into her black backpack, zipping it with a resounding whirrrrr. Angry. Self-conscious. Upset.

“I’m so embarrassed.” She stands abruptly. “I’m leaving.”

Shrugs into her vest.

Hefts that book bag onto her slender shoulders and gives me a nod, chin trembling, on the verge of tears. Hightails it away from my table, bumping into bookshelves and periodicals along the way.

Go after her idiot! the logical part of my brain screams. Go after her.

But I’ve never been quick on the uptake, and I’ve never made a girl cry—not in my entire fucking life. So, I sit on my ass in shock, the loud library clock ticking through second after unbearable second.

She’s all the way to the entrance of the library before my brain catches up to my common sense and has me rising to follow her, leaving all my shit on the table. Racing to the door, busting through the entryway.

I shove through the heavy glass doors, step out into the cold night air, look left, look right.

Watch as she marches down the center of the sidewalk, toward campus, heeled boots clicking on the pavement. Head bent. Shoulders slouched.

Shit.

“Laurel!” I call her name through the crisp air, the words a cloud of steam. “Shit. Laurel, stop!”

She pauses to turn, her flaming hair catching fire under the glowing street lamps. “Leave me alone, Rhett. Please.”

“Goddammit, stop!” My long stride takes the steps two at a time until I’m halfway down the sidewalk myself. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Why bother following me? What could you possibly say right now that’s going to make me feel like less of an asshole?”

My hands go up, beseeching. “Jesus Laurel, help a guy out. Tell me what’s goin’ on here. Please.”

“Fine! You want me to spell it out? I like you, okay? Just so we’re clear on what’s goin’ on here.”

I rear back. “You like me?”

“Yes, you idiot!” Her head shakes. “Yes. I like you—how can you not have figured it out by now?”

I open my mouth. Close it.

I think I’m going to be sick. I’m going to barf right here on the sidewalk in front of City Hall and the library. I’ve never asked a girl on a date—ever—and I don’t know if I can start now.

Not one like this. Not one that looks like this.

I’ve been doing my best not to judge her based on appearance alone, but why the fuck is a girl like her taking an interest in me? I have no fucking idea. Not a clue.

The wane smile she shoots me is sad; my reaction to it wells deep inside my chest, heart thumping so powerfully I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.

Holy shit—Laurel fucking Bishop likes me.

Yet…

“Do you mean that, or are you saying that because you feel sorry for me?”

“Feel sorry for you?” Laurel walks back toward me, beautiful hair shaking and catching in the lamplights above. Christ, she’s pretty, so sweet and funny and so fucking out of my league. “Why would I feel sorry for you?”

She takes one step, then another, until I’m looking down at her, the top of her head meeting the bottom of my chin. Warm light glows through the windows, illuminating her alabaster skin when she tips her face up.

Hesitantly, I raise my hands, unsure of where to put them—where she’ll let me put them.

I settle on her arms, my palms large enough to encircle her biceps, the flannel fabric of her shirt soft under my rough skin. I watch as her nostrils flare and her pupils dilate, eyes sparkling.

“I’m sorry I’m such a fucking moron.’”

She demurs under my touch. “It’s okay. I get it.”

“Come back inside,” I murmur, catching an end of her silky hair and rubbing it between my fingers. “Let’s get my stuff and take you home.”

“All right.”

One step up and she’s beside me, reaching between us, sliding her petite hand into mine. It feels delicate and small, a contradiction to mine. I glance down at those clasped hands, knowing I must look fucking shocked, because when she sees my face, she draws her hand back.

“Sorry.”

“No—it’s okay. I’m just not…”

“Not used to it?”

That’s the understatement of the goddamn century. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

“I don’t want to force myself on you.” Laurel’s brow furrows. “I want you to like me back, not be browbeaten into it.”

We’re in the lobby of the building now, between the main doors and the entrance. It’s old and dark and faintly lit. Gray tiled floor. Black marble walls. Heavy steel doors encasing the entire space.

I glance down again at our hands. Over at the steel entrance doors.

Hesitate.

“Rhett?”

I don’t know what comes over me, but suddenly I’m releasing her hand and guiding her by the hips toward the cold marble. She doesn’t protest. Doesn’t question my actions.

Under the Community Library sign—on which every library director’s name dating back fifty years is listed in shiny, gold letters—I back beautiful Laurel Bishop against the wall.

She’s breathing hard before I even dip my head to inhale the tender spot beneath her ear, nudging her hair aside. It’s silken and glossy and smells fucking fantastic.

I flick her earlobe with the tip of my tongue, wondering where this bravado came from.

As she tips her head back, a gasp escapes Laurel’s lips.

I lay my lips on her neck, desperately wanting to suck. Grip her hips with my fingertips and murmur into her ear. “Tu me rends fou pour quelques semaines.” You’ve been driving me crazy for weeks.

“What are you saying?” she asks with a sigh, tilting her head, giving me access to the pale column of her neck.

“J’ai peur de t’aimer.” I’m afraid to let myself like you. Behind a cloak of ambiguity, knowing she couldn’t possibly understand, I whisper the words I’d only reserved for myself. “Je te veux tellement.” I want you so bad.

My hands run up her hips, pinning her to the cold black wall, the dark my ally. The last thing I want her to see is the lovesick expression on my face. The puppy dog eyes and the pleading.

The truth is: I want her so fucking bad.

I want her to like me in ways that have nothing to do with friendship.

I want…

I want to kiss her and touch her and God do I want to have sex with her.

I tell her with my mouth, inside the marble vestibule, with the slow roll of my tongue against hers. The slight roll of my pelvis. I bend my knees so she doesn’t have to tiptoe, reach under her with my hands and scoop her ass into my palms, easily dragging her up.

When her feet leave the ground, I press her back flat against the wall for support, stifling her gasp of surprise with my mouth. Her legs go around my waist to hold on, but there’s nothing urgent about our kisses. They’re lazy and slow and tentative. Soft.

I pepper her jaw with my lips.

This is nothing like that awkward kiss on her front porch; it might be tame, but it’s life-altering.

Laurel runs her nose along my jaw. Brings a hand to my cheek and strokes my face. “Making out in the library feels sacrilegious.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, it just does.” She laughs. I set her on her feet, separating our bodies reluctantly.