The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(17)

“No, I assure you, she is not. She is a sweet, creative little girl who I’ve been watching for six months and I already love her like family. Like she’s my little sister.”

Now I’m the one pursing my lips and flaring my nostrils. “You know what I meant.”

Those hazel eyes narrow. “Sadly I-I do know what you meant. Basically it was just you being you, but your delivery sucked.”

“So did I blow my chances of you coming with me or not?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“What can I do to convince you?”

She considers my question. “To be honest with you, I-I think you get what you want way too often. The fundraiser is going to take all night, and a play date only lasts two hours, max, so I propose a trade: I’ll go to the banquet if you agree to three play dates.”

What the fuck? “What! No.”

“All right.” She turns her back on me, reaching into the metal returns cart and pulling out a stack, neatly setting them on the counter. Her hands move up and down the spines, aligning them in perfect symmetry.

I sigh so long and loud I catch a few people staring, and I glare.

“Fine. Two play dates.”

She starts to giggle but catches it into a swallow. “Four.”

“What the fuck? Your original offer was three.” I scowl down at her, hard.

She shrugs.

“Fine,” I relent, generously. “Two.”

She busies herself again, returning to the task of removing books from the returns cart. One tidy stack after the next is placed on the counter, and for a few moments I watch her. Her pale fingers with those lavender nails that remind me of Easter. And flowers.

“Violet, quit ignoring me. It’s fucking annoying.”

She ignores me, but I know she’s listening.

“Goddammit. You’re not seriously going to make me go alone are you?”

She pauses to speak but keeps her back turned. “Alone? I suspect you’ll be in a room full of people.”

“You’re supposed to be the sympathetic one here. You don’t feel the least bit sorry for me, do you?”

“I-I don’t think there’s a single soul that feels sorry for you, Zeke Daniels.” I catch the sly little smile stealing its way across her lips as she gives me a view of her profile; she knows she’s got me by the balls.

Which is obviously horseshit.

“Fine. You win.” I hastily blurt the words out in a panicked rush when she disappears into the office behind the circulation desk. “Three play dates.”

Violet sticks her head out, blonde hair framing her face, interest lighting up her features. The extortionist is biting down on her lower lip, fighting a giant smile.

“Three.” She nods. “Summer is going to be thrilled.”

Awesome.

“We can start this Thursday I guess,” I grumble.

She pauses, turns, then walks the short distance slowly back to stand in front of me, pale brows raised a fraction in surprise, the corner of her pink lips tipped just so.

“We can?”

“Don’t act so fucking shocked, it’s not a big deal.”

That’s a lie—it is a big deal, and Violet knows it.

I know it.

Something about her big, gentle eyes lighting up with satisfaction and delighted joy does something strange to the pit of my stomach.

For once, someone isn’t pissed at me.

She’s pleased.

It’s a weird feeling. Foreign.

Violet walks to the circulation desk, plucks up a sheet of paper from the counter, scribbles on it, and returns with a handwritten line of numbers.

“What’s this?”

“My cell.” She hands the strip of paper over, hand extended. “So you can text me.”

“Can’t you just fucking put it in my phone like a normal person? What are we, twelve?”

The light in her eyes shines at the same time her upturned lips turn down. The small scrap of paper suspends between us, between her fingers, until the awkward tension in the air stifles me.

She’s not going to lower her arm until I take it.

I snatch it out of her hand.





The small scrap of paper with her phone number sits on my desk, folded into thirds, in a neat little square.

It’s been there for four days. Untouched.

Rising from my desk, I pluck it up, unfold it. The crumbly paper makes a crinkling sound and I smooth out the wrinkles on the edge of my desk before spreading it flat.

I stare down at Violet’s neat, tidy handwriting. The loop on the V in her first name. The blue, fine-tipped marker lines, bold and crisp. I palm my phone, unlocking the screen, and scroll with my thumb over the green messenger icon. Click. Hit compose with a scowl.



Zeke: We should talk about this Thursday. Figure out this play date crap.



Her reply comes almost immediately.



Violet: All right.



I roll my eyes and huff at her unenthusiastic reply before tapping out mine.



Zeke: Where do you think we should take the kids Violet: Where would you like to take them?

Zeke: This wasn’t my brilliant ducking idea so this is all on you.

Violet: LOL

Zeke: What’s so funny?