The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

He mumbles under his breath, “What kind of a dumbass question is that? Of course I’m going to miss you.”

Nope, not subtle at all—not my dad.

I let out a loud laugh before releasing him and fall back onto the couch cushions, giving his hair a tussle.

He grumbles. “Tell me about this roommate of yours. What’s she like?”

Oh shit.

“Uh, well…” Let’s see, how can I put this without being specific? “Plays soccer. Is good at, uh, science. Has everything we need so all I have to do is find a bed!”

Dad considers this information. “You can take the one in your room here, or we can get you a twin if a queen is too big.”

He says it with authority, pleased to have solved my problem.

“A twin is probably best, thank you Dad.”

“What’s this girl’s name?”

I step headfirst into the lie. “Ell…Ellie.”

“Ellie?” He squints at the television. “What’s her last name?”

“St. Charles.”

“Ellie St. Charles.” His eyes narrow farther, never missing a beat. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

Crap. What if my dad has met Elliot because his roommates used to be wrestlers? My housing solution would come crashing down around me before it began.

“Not sure. Do you know lots of Ellies?”

He doesn’t answer. “When you planning on moving in? Next month? Beginning of next year?”

“Not exactly. We—Ellie and I—were talking, and we kind of think moving this weekend would be best, if that’s possible.”

He is not pleased by this news. “I won’t be here this weekend—we have a meet in Indiana.”

Excellent.

“Oh, well don’t worry about it, Ellie and I have it covered. Shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“But I should be here to help, don’t you think?”

I pat his arm. “Dad, stop worrying, it’ll be fine—it’s just a mattress. How hard can that be?”

“It’s my job to worry.”

“I know, but this is a piece of cake, and I’m just on the other side of campus. Seriously, draw a short line between the two houses and there you are.”

Disgruntled, he lets out a puff of air. “Fine. If you think you can manage the move without me.”

“It’s a few boxes, and I can have the mattress delivered from the store.” I lay a reassuring hand on his forearm. “I’m not a kid anymore, Dad. Everything is going to be fine.”

“All right Ana Banana. I trust you.”

Elliot

“I can’t thank you enough for letting me move in with you, Ellie.”

“Would you stop calling me that? It’s weird.”

“Sorry, I’m just so freaking excited! If my bed was put together, I’d totally be jumping on it like a little kid.”

“I don’t think the springs on mattresses are boing-y enough to make them bouncy.”

Anabelle rolls her eyes, skirting past me into her new room. She wasn’t lying when she said she didn’t have much. Half a dozen boxes and an inexpensive bed that was delivered earlier in the day. I’m standing in the doorway, box hoisted on my shoulder, waiting for instructions.

“Stop being so literal, Elliot. It was a metaphor for my level of excitement.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Can you come in here and help me with this bed frame? It’s awkward maneuvering in here. If you could hold that end up while I screw in these bolts, I’ll be good to go.”

She’s arranged herself on the floor, grabbing a brown metal piece and resting it in her lap like a boss, ready to kick this project’s ass.

“I sound like a broken record, I know, but my God, I am so pumped. Do you think it’s because you’re a guy and I’m used to only living with women?” Anabelle gushes again, holding the two metal parts together, fitting them into place.

“Maybe.”

To be honest, now that Anabelle Donnelly is sitting cross-legged in the middle of her new room—my old storage space—I’m a little fucking nervous.

Fine, a lot nervous.

There are things I clearly didn’t think through before inviting her to move her shit into my house, such as:

What if I walk in on her naked while she’s showering and she thinks I’m a pervert?

What if I accidentally leave the door open while I’m taking a piss and she sees my junk?

What if she decides to walk around the house with no pants on and I have to see her ass cheeks? What if I like it?

Why do I keep worrying about all these naked, nonexistent body parts?

Fucking Devin and his nagging about living with a girl, that’s why.

Christ.

“How long are you planning on standing in the doorway holding that box? I know you have those firm muscles and all, but you can set it down if you want. I don’t expect you to stand there all day.” She laughs, concentrating on tightening a screw, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

“Shit, sorry.” I give my head a shake. “Where should I put this?”

“How about on the floor there, maybe in the corner so it’s out of the way? It’s course books from my first year, and I probably won’t be needing them—I don’t know why I even brought them here.”

“You want to try to sell them?”

She shoots me a radiant, content smile. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

“I would, yeah.”

“All right, how about we put them back on the porch? I’ll sort them later and list them online.”

“Sure thing, roomie.”

Anabelle shoots me a look, a smile breaking out on her face. “Oh my God, it feels so good hearing someone other than my father saying that! He really was starting to drive me crazy.”

“If I still lived with my parents and was going to college, I’d want to drive my car off a fucking cliff.”

Anabelle winks, watching as I lift another heavy box from the hallway, damn near toppling to the side.

“This is going to be fun. I can feel it.” She giggles.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. You’re so big and strong, and here you are, tipping all over the place.”

Big and strong?

Shit, that’s like…music to every guy’s ears—except when I look over to study her face, I see no hint of flirtation there.

She looks happy and comfortable sitting on the floor of this tiny room that’s not really fit to be a bedroom, surrounded by her unpacked boxes.

Anabelle emits a few grunts, twisting the wrench in her hand, face turning pink. “Ugh, can you give me a hand? This is so hard to push in.”

Hard to push in…did she seriously just say that? In that breathy tone?

Devin opened a floodgate to the gutter, and I can’t keep my mind out of it.

“Sure.”

“Great. Can you just hold that end?” She wiggles her fingers toward the end of the bed frame. “I’m almost done. Then if you could help me flip the mattress on, I can start putting on the sheets.”

Together, we finish her bed frame, arranging it in the center of the room. Add the box springs and mattress to the top. Anabelle disappears and returns with a white, padded cover. Fitted sheet.

Shaking the top, it billows into the air like a cloud, white, crisp, and fresh. It flutters onto the mattress, resting there gently, and my roommate fusses around, tucking here, tucking there, until the bed is neat as a pin.

White sheets.

White quilt.

White pillows.

Immediately, I wonder what her dark hair would look like fanned out on the stark, snowy bedding, her pale skin…

Stop it, Elliot.

Get a grip.

Fantasizing about your new roommate will lead to no good, and she’s already had shitty luck with men at this university; there’s no need for her to trouble herself with one more.

“I’ll be here! Oh! Wait.”

I poke my head back into her room.

“Are you hungry for anything? Maybe we could start thinking about dinner?”

Am I hungry for anything?

I wasn’t.