The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

I cringe.

My body goes still when I hear the stirring of life at the front of the house. The door being opened and closed. Footfalls in the entryway. I imagine Elliot taking off his jacket and tossing it on the couch. Maybe sauntering into the kitchen to rifle through the fridge, leaning against the counter, shoes off, in his socks.

Alerted to his company, I cock my head to listen, waiting. Praying he doesn’t try to come find—

A soft knock sounds at my bedroom door.

“Ana?” He knocks again. “You in here?”

“Yeah—yes.” Fuss with my hair before answering, straightening my sweatshirt. “The door is unlocked, come in. I’m decent.”

I groan at that last comment; what difference does it make if I’m decent? He’s already seen me naked. He’s seen my—

The metal doorknob turns, time lapsing in slow motion as Elliot eases the door open, his sweet, sexy face appearing in tiny fragments, small bits at a time.

When the door is open all the way, it hits me how happy I am to lay eyes on him after a long day—so happy I want to pounce on him, kiss his beautiful face all over just to watch the changes in him as he reacts to me.

Instead, I stay firmly planted in the center of my twin bed, textbook spread on the coverlet, highlighter poised in my hand, ready for business—or at least pretending to be.

Breathlessly, I wait.

Petrified of rejection.

What if he wants to pretend last night and this morning never happened? Or that it was a huge mistake? I’ll be humiliated. Living across the hall from the guy you just slept with is the most awkward form of the walk of shame. It would be like a marathon of shame.

“How’s it going in here?”

Instinctively, I sense him weighing his words, treading lightly. Unsure.

So, doing my best to appear nonchalant, I shrug casually. “Good. Just catching up on a paper I should have written but spaced out on. What about you?”

“I was at the gym.” He leans against the doorjamb, broad shoulders slouching, hands in his pockets. Those big, capable man hands were on my body.

Every inch of it, just hours ago.

I peel my eyes away, sinking them down to my notebook, embarrassed, chest and cheeks turning red.

“How was it? Was it crowded?”

“Nah, not too bad. I think I beat the rush.”

“That’s good.”

“I was surprised to find the house almost dark when I walked in.”

“I was, uh…trying to save on electricity.”

“Trying to save on electricity,” he repeats, crossing his arms, clearly entertained. “Is that so?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t hide and try to scare the crap out of you.”

Elliot smiles then, biting down on his bottom lip the way I do when I’m being coy. On him, it’s even more endearing.

“I thought we’d eat together when I got home. Aren’t you starving? It’s almost six o’clock.”

My stomach turns, but not from hunger. It’s from nerves, thousands of them crackling to life in my lower abs. I place a hand there to quell them.

“I wouldn’t get mad if you fed me.”

“I threw that lasagna Linda dropped off Tuesday in the oven while you were at class.” Elliot enters my bedroom, sitting on my bed, legs spread. Hands clasped in his lap. “Sorry I haven’t texted you all day—I left my phone in my gym bag and it fell to the bottom. Was too lazy to dig it out.”

“You don’t have to tell me where you’re at—I’m not your gatekeeper.”

I’m also not his girlfriend.

“Maybe not, but still.”

We sit in silence for a few moments, the only sound coming from the earbuds I removed earlier, the tiny speakers blasting a song so old and outdated I should be ashamed of myself.

I have terrible taste in music; all my friends tell me so.

My bed is a twin, so Elliot reclining back takes half the space, his hands patting down the area around him, patting down my white comforter, feeling it up.

He shoots me a look. “We’ll never be able to sleep in here, this bed is way too small—you realize that, right?”

I lean forward so our noses touch. “Are you scoping out my bedroom, St. Charles?”

“I’m just stating facts in case you’re entertaining the notion of me crashing in here with you.”

Entertaining the notion. I love it when he uses big words.

“Last night wasn’t about just sex—do you understand that?”

“Last night and this morning.” I laugh nervously. “But who’s keeping track?”

“Answer the question, Anabelle.”

My shoulders rise and fall. “Maybe. Just a little?”

“You’ve been sleeping in my bed for at least a week—not that anyone is keeping track,” he jokes back. “Do you think I’d make you stop because we had sex last night?”

“I have not been sleeping with you for a week!” Have I? “I like my little bed—why would I want to leave?”

“Bullshit, you do not! We’ve done nothing but eat pizza and binge on Netflix for the past seven nights.”

“Well that’s because you have the only bedroom with a TV—duh.”

His arms go around my waist, dragging me onto his lap, knocking half my crap off the bed in the process. I’m kissed soundly on the lips as highlighters, pens, and notebooks go crashing to the ground.

“You like my big TV,” he murmurs into my mouth. “Don’t lie, Donnelly.”

“I do.” I shiver. “It gets me all excited just thinking about it.”

“I’ll be honest. I thought about TV all goddamn day.” His hand is making slow circles along my spine and he pats my rear.

“Really…did you now? TV with anyone in particular?”

“Wait, we are still talking about actually watching television, aren’t we?” Elliot laughs, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek, scooting me off his lap so he can stand. Stretch. “I’m going to take a shower—I stink.”

“Wow, sexy. If you’re lucky, I’ll even be here when you get back.”

“You’re cute.”

“So are you.”

“Check the oven for me?”

“Are you cooking for me now, St. Charles?” I can already smell the pasta and Italian aromas wafting from the kitchen, my mouth watering, stomach growling.

“Sure am.”

We eat standing at the counter when he’s out of the shower, forgoing the table, lasagna on paper plates. We already dug into the pan the night Linda kindly dropped it off, so it’s half gone.

I poke at one of the noodles, folding it with my fork and shove it in my mouth, feeling self-conscious when some of it slips out and I have to grab it with my fingers to prevent it from falling on the floor. Sauce drips from my chin, fingers, and the collar of my shirt.

Shit.

Elliot catches me, a secretive smile playing at his lips; he’s a gentleman and hides it, turning his head and burying it in his shoulder.

Ugh.

Cleanup is easy; we just toss our plates, quickly draw some suds in the sink to wash the utensils, both of us dipping our hands beneath the water at the same time, grasping for the silverware to scrub them clean.

I bump his hip playfully, flirting, and he removes his hands from the sudsy water, drying them on a nearby towel, moves to stand behind me. Skims those glorious hands down to my waist, nose buried in the crook of my neck.

“I wasn’t just thinking about TV all day, I was thinking about this.” His lips find the pulse in my neck, kissing it. “About you.”

In reply, my lids slide closed, hands still submerged in the water. “You were thinking about me?”

“Of course. Going to the gym killed me—I knew you were home and I wanted to be home, too.”

I swallow. “That’s nice to hear.”

When he chuckles in my ear, it sends a delightful shot of electricity down my spine, warming my entire body with pleasure.

He has the best laugh.

The best hands.

Elliot St. Charles is one of the sexiest, smartest, and most irresistible men I’ve ever met—and he’s got me by the hips, in our kitchen, mouth exploring the long column of my throat.