The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(34)

Her brows rise. “Well yeah, I know that now—deep down inside, you’re just a big softie, aren’t you? All talk and no show.”

“Screw you, James.”

Another lilty little laugh. “Only you would tell someone to screw themselves when they were trying to be nice.”

I can’t meet her eyes.

“Oh…my…god,” she says breathily, drawing out the three words in a torturously slow preamble. “I know. I know why you do it.”

Her words are slow and deliberate. She braces a hand on the counter I make a pfft sound, yanking the fridge open and peering inside so I don’t have to look at her face. She’s aggravating the shit out of me.

“What is it you think you know, smartass?”

She snaps her fingers.

“Remember that bet with Oz? The one where you bet him five hundred dollars to kiss me in the library? You did it because you knew he was broke and needed money.”

“You’re crazy.” I stare at the milk. “You’ve known me for all of two seconds.”

She ignores me, chattering on, warming to the subject. “But you don’t just make bets with anyone. You make bets with people who need help. It all makes sense now.”

Jameson playfully pokes my bicep with a fingernail.

“You know this kind of makes you a philanthropist, don’t you?” Gasp. “Holy crap, Zeke. You’re…nice!”

“Shut up,” I grumble. Why the fuck won’t she just go away? “Are you done yet?”

“You’re not even going to deny it!” She cackles, slapping her thigh with an open palm. “Don’t worry Angry Daniels. I won’t tell anyone your dirty little secret.”

I feel her palm patting me on the bicep as she airily breezes from the room.

She sticks her head back in.

“No one would believe me anyway.”

She winks.

For all her prim and proper ways, Jameson Clark really is a fucking smartass.





Zeke




This fundraiser is packed.

Which is surprising given that it’s not a huge organization we’re here to raise money for. From the entryway, the moment we walk in, I immediately begin casing the joint. I don’t know why I do it, but every time I walk into a room, I take note of the size, the exits, and the people in it.

So I stand here, Violet waiting patiently beside me.

Over in one corner, I spot Nancy from the Big Brother office, head thrown back and laughing at something a gray-haired dude is saying. She’s about as dolled up as she can get: full-length mother-of-the-bride dress, hair curled, eye shadow so bright you could see it from the moon.

There’s a band setting up, a small area sectioned off for dancing in the center of the room? and lining the perimeter, long banquet tables showcase the raffle and auction items. The moneymakers. Stars of the show.

The fundraiser isn’t as formal as I’d expected; people are milling about, most of them with drinks in hand, in all styles of attire. Khakis. Dressy denim. Suits and ties. Floor-length numbers.

Stifled, I yank at the tie around my neck that seems to have gotten tighter on the ride here—like a noose.

My black suit coat stretches too snugly across my broad back and shoulder blades. The collar of my baby blue shirt buttoned too high and cutting off my air supply. Shoes too new and stiff to be even remotely comfortable.

Fucking Coach.

I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t forced me to be.

And with Violet, no less.

Quiet Violet, waiting patiently next to me, near the coat check area, her calm demeanor only slightly quelling my resentment at being here. Always serene, always composed—if you don’t count the random, nervous stuttering.

Her colorless blonde hair is down and arranged in loose curls down her back, a stark contrast against the dark-as-night dress coat she’s wearing over her dress.

I know it’s a dress because I checked out her pale bare legs when she was climbing into my truck, plum-colored heels boosting her height by several inches, the pastel nail polish she’s always wearing playing peekaboo out of the tips of her shoes.

Cheeks pink. Lips dark burgundy. Lashes long and coated with black mascara.

Pretty. Real fucking pretty.

When she smiles up at me, skin positively glowing, flush with excitement, her teeth are straight and perfect, highlighted by her dark lips.

Violet bites down on that lower lip, probably chewing off her lipstick in the process, then beams up at me, hopeful and sunshiny and bright, like she’s waiting to blow sunshine up my ass.

She looks happy, but I didn’t come here to have fun and I didn’t come here to fundraise. Or socialize. Or see people.

I’m here out of some twisted obligation.

“Daniels. Son,” says the devil himself.

I turn to acknowledge Coach with a dispassionate dip of my head. He takes inventory of me, of my attire, and I take in his. Shoes, pants, shirt, eyes raking up my expensive paisley tie, his critical blue eyes are shrewd, shifting once I pass his inspection.

However, when he turns his attention on Violet?

His entire demeanor changes. Relaxes.

Softens.

“Want to introduce me to your beautiful date, Mr. Daniels?”

Nope.

I nod in her general direction. “Coach, this is Violet.”