The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(24)

Behind me, Violet flips on a small desk lamp, her fascinated eyes roaming the room. She walks slowly to the bookshelf, browsing the stacks of novels about the Great Depression and American history. My collection of Game of Thrones Pop! Art and Star Wars stormtroopers. The Rubik’s Cube I sometimes solve between study breaks. The vintage Firebird and Mustang model cars I put together last winter when everyone else went home to see their families for holiday break; they took me an entire month. I painted each piece by hand, assembling every teeny tiny little part myself.

God, what a pain in the ass that was.

Violet peeks over her shoulder at me, a secret smile tipping her mouth as her index finger skims the shelf.

I inwardly groan; Christ, all the shit on my shelf makes me look like a goddamn nerd.

She stops skimming when she reaches the one picture displayed, the one of me with my parents, taken when I was about six, right around when their business exploded.

We’re standing in front of the garage of the red brick starter home my parents were renting and I’m holding the handlebars of a new bike.

It was my first bike and I remember begging my mom to take the picture. A few years ago I unearthed it at my grandparents’ house and stole it, frame and all.

I don’t know why.

How stupid.

Violet leans in for a better look, hands behind her back. She wants to pick it up to study it; I can tell by the way her fingers reach forward then quickly pull back.

When she’s done snooping, she places a forefinger to her lips, gesturing for me to follow her out the door.

“Shhh.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners.

I pull the door closed behind us, leaving it slightly ajar in case the kid should wake up and get scared or whatever.

“Did his mom say how long she has to work?” Violet’s whispering though we’re in no danger of waking Kyle.

“No. She didn’t tell me dick—she was freaking out and hung up before I could ask any questions.”

Violet nods. “Poor thing.”

“I know, right? How did she think I was going to handle him all night? I have no idea what I’m doing, and all I wanted to do tonight was read and sleep. I’m fucking tired.”

I trail behind her tinkling laugh all the way to the kitchen. “I didn’t mean you when I said poor thing, I meant him. Poor thing, getting shuffled around. It’s no fun.”

Oh. She feels sorry for the squirt but not me?

Figures.

Then again, why would she? Violet has no idea I’ve done more uncharacteristic shit in the past three weeks than I’ve done in my entire goddamn life.

Volunteering. Hanging out with kids. Letting her browbeat me into more play dates.

Asking for help, like I did tonight.

“You want something to drink? A water or something?”

Jesus Christ, what am I doing? I don’t want her to stay; I want her gone.

Let’s go ahead and add that to the growing list of shit I normally wouldn’t do: inviting a chick to stay and making her feel welcome by offering to quench her thirst. I know women—they’re worse than mangy stray cats. You give them a taste of something once, and they keep coming back.

I like my privacy; I want my privacy.

I want Kyle gone.

I want my bed and to be in it by myself.

“Kyle is sleeping peacefully. There’s no reason for me to stay. Are you sure you don’t want me to leave?”

“Only if you want to; there’s no rush.”

“Where are your roommates?”

“No idea. Probably with Jameson.” Mental groan.

“Who’s Jameson?”

“The nerdy girl my roommate is dating.” Then I hear myself add, “If you don’t want water I can make you some hot chocolate or something. It’s motherfucking cold out.”

Shut up Zeke. For fuck’s sake, shut up.

Violet smiles shyly, tripping up on her speech. “S-Sure, I can do a quick hot cocoa. That sounds toasty and delicious.”

Toasty.

I have a girl in my house that says shit like sounds toasty.

Wonderful.

She lingers in the doorway of the kitchen while I open cabinet after cabinet, scavenging for hot chocolate mix. Crap, do we even have it? I’m positive I’ve seen Jameson drinking it every once in a while, especially when it gets cold out, because she’s always getting fucking cold. I’m positive she has some here somewhere—that froofy shaved chocolate shit from Williams Sonoma, not the grocery store kind like normal human people buy.

The good, fancy shit.

I jerk open the lower cabinets, then the top. The cubby above the fridge and microwave, not really questioning why I’m so hell bent on locating it.

Finally, peering into the very last cabinet along the wall, I find what I’m looking for: a red and white peppermint-striped canister of hot cocoa, specifically, shaved chocolate. Fucking handcrafted, it says on the metal container.

Directly next to it? A bag of square, vanilla handcrafted marshmallows—ooh la la. I grab those too.

Mug. Chocolate. Mallows.

Jackpot.

“You want regular milk, vanilla soy, or almond?” I ask over my shoulder, yanking open the fridge and bending at the waist to peer inside.

“You have all three?” She sounds surprised.

I glance over my shoulder.

“This is a house of athletes.” I grunt. “We like variety and anything with protein in it.