The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(4)

Petite, I gauge her height at around five foot five—tiny compared to my six feet. Wide hazel eyes. Thick blonde hair so pale it looks white, falling down over her shoulder in an intricate, wholesome braid. My gaze immediately falls to the neckline of her well-worn Iowa sweatshirt for an appraisal of her chest.

Flat.

Bummer, must suck.

I study her flushed face through narrowed, dubious eyes. “Do I know you?”

She swallows, glancing to the right. “I-I don’t think so?”

I can’t stand liars.

“I do know you. You live at the library.”

An errant strand of hair that’s not even in her face gets brushed aside. “I-I work at the library, yes. I also do some babysitting for enrolled students with daycare-aged ch-children and in Student Services.”

She’s fidgety as fuck and I wonder what her problem is.

Maybe she’s flustered.

Or maybe she’s on drugs.

I lean in closer to get a good look at her pupils—checking to see if they’re dilated—and catch a whiff; she smells like virgin and what I imagine baby powder would if I knew what the hell it smelled like.

Lean closer still. “You should tell the fucking tutors there to show up for their jobs.”

If it is possible for a human to turn a violent shade of pink from fingers to the roots of her blonde hair, this girl has managed it. Her hands fly to her face, palms pressed flat against her cheeks.

Takes a deep breath, clutches the little girl’s hand. “I-I’ll pass along the message.” Pause. “We should get going.”

“Yeah, you should go, because you’re totally in my way.” I give my cart a jostle, jerking it forward so they move and I can skirt around in what little room they’re not taking up. Before I round the next aisle, I stab an accusing finger their way. “For the record, Shitty Nanny, that kid shouldn’t be out in public; it should be in bed.”





I’m dumping the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter after the afternoon from hell, unceremoniously unloading the contents and tossing the brown paper bags. I rearrange the contents of a few cabinets to make room for the new shit and crack open a bottle of water while debating about dinner.

Lean chicken breast and broccoli. Vegetable stir-fry on brown rice. Choke down a bowl of oatmeal with nuts and berries.

Nothing sounds good.

Not after the piss afternoon I’ve had.

In the recesses of the hallway, I hear a door open and close, followed by silence. Moments later, the toilet flushes.

Jameson Clark, the girl my roommate Oz just started dating, saunters into the room. She’s wearing tailored jeans, a fuzzy baby blue sweater. Glasses. The satisfied grin widening her lips is quickly replaced with a startled expression when she sees me scowling at her from the sink.

She doesn’t like me.

Not that I give two shits, because I don’t like her either.

Cautiously, James makes her way to the fridge, but hesitates before pulling it open.

“Hey, how’s it going?” She tries to make small talk.

“Fine.”

She gestures toward the fridge. “Do you mind if I…”

I grunt. “Oh, by all means, please help yourself to our food and make yourself at home. You always do.”

Instead of pulling open the fridge, she leans against the counter, studying me quizzically, like a puzzle she’s been trying to piece together for months.

“You know I’m not the enemy, right?”

Bullshit.

“I don’t know why you’re trying to have a conversation with me right now. I’m not in the mood,” I grit out between my teeth.

“Big shocker. You’re such a grouch.” James plucks an apple—one of my apples—out of the big bowl on the counter, and bites down, chewing. Swallows the first morsel. Takes another bite, filling the silence with the sound of her munching.

“I can tell something’s bothering you, Zeke, and for all the growling you do around here, I know it can’t be because of me.”

James pops a leg out jauntily, propping it against the cabinet. My eyes are cast downward, drawn to the colorful blue toenails on her feet. They match her blue cardigan sweater.

She catches me looking at her toes and wiggles them with a smirk.

Dammit.

“I know we didn’t get off to the best start, but I’d like you to feel comfortable around me. Maybe you could even consider me a friend.”

Yeah, that’s not going to happen.

I smile. “I know you think you’re hot shit because you’re fucking Sebastian Osborne, but believe me, you’re not. I tolerate you because I have to, so you can cut the bullshit.”

Her mouth falls open and my shoulders relax, having successfully squashed her interest in getting inside my head.

“Why are you so pissed?” she murmurs into the kitchen, more to herself than to me, wonderment tingeing her voice.

“Jesus Christ, why does everyone keep asking me that?”

It pisses me off even more.

“Zeke, even if nothing is bothering you, maybe you’d feel better talking to Sebastian—”

“You’ve been dating Oz for all of five minutes. Do us both a favor and stop trying to analyze me. I might be his friend, but I will never be yours.” I stride to the door, grab my shit, and hike my backpack up onto my shoulders.