The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(47)

“Fine.”

“Do you know where it is?” He’s taking a left at the stop sign, toward downtown.

“Yeah, I know where it is.”

“You do? How?”

“My idiot roommate and his girlfriend came to this place for one of their dates. I had to pick shit up for them.”

“Oh! That’s nice of you.”

“If you want to call it nice, knock yourself out.”

“I’ve never done this before, so I’m pretty excited. I figure I have about twenty bucks to spend, so—”

“No.”

“No?”

“This is my treat.”

“Are you sure?”

Great, now he’s irritated. “I invited you out, it’s my treat.”

“All right, but only if—”

“Violet, my mom might be absentee, but she always makes sure I act like a gentleman when she’s around.”

There’s nothing else to say I guess, except, “Thank you Zeke.”

It means a lot to me, more than he knows.

He might think this is a simple night out, at a place he can afford to take me, but to me, it’s more. I hardly ever get to indulge in anything frivolous—every penny I earn goes toward books, tuition, and housing.

There just simply isn’t ever enough to blow on…stuff. I don’t go to the bars often because spending ten dollars on drinks is ten dollars I don’t have to make rent or buy groceries.

Of course, I don’t say this, because a guy like that wouldn’t understand. Zeke Daniels doesn’t look like he’s seen struggle a single day in his privileged life. I don’t fault him for this; it’s merely an observation. He can’t help having parents with the means to support him any more than I can help…not.

I shift in my seat.

“Crap.” His gaze darkens, moves up and down over my torso. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

“No, but…I think you can eat food at this place. Sandwiches maybe?”

He grunts.

I stifle a smile, hiding it in the collar of my winter jacket. Watch out the window the rest of the way to the pottery place so he doesn’t catch my grin.

“For the damn record,” Zeke is saying as we walk into the place, “we are not painting matching anything. No mugs with hearts and shit, got it?”

Mugs with hearts and shit? What on earth is he talking about?

“Got it.”

“And none of that holiday bullshit. No way are you getting me to paint a pumpkin plate or a holly jolly Santa Claus.”

“What am I not getting you to paint?”

“A holly jolly San—” He sees me smirking. “Dammit Violet!”

“Paint whatever you want. I’m going to check out the plates and cups.”

He trails along after me.

I remove a ceramic pitcher from the wooden shelf and hold it up. “Now what would I do with this?”

“Nothing.”

“I could put flowers in it, or juice if I had people over.” I set it back down. “Hmmm.”

A few feet down, Zeke takes a shot glass off the shelf. “What about this?”

My brows shoot up. “Do you do a lot of shots?”

His shoulders sag and he huffs, “No. Not really.”

He puts the shot glass back. Takes down a flat paddle with a slight curve at the end. “What the hell is this thing?”

I glance over. “I think that’s a spoon rest. For the stove.”

“That’s fucking dumb.”

Ignoring him, I meander over to the glasses and goblets. “Hey, what about this mug? This is fun.” It’s huge and has plenty of surface for painting.

Zeke makes his way over. “I said I didn’t want to paint matching mugs.”

“So go paint something else.” I flip the heavy cup over to check the price. Eighteen dollars, plus the studio fee.

Ouch.

I bite my lower lip, debating, not wanting to spend twenty-five dollars of his money.

“Fine,” he complains again. “But there is nothing else.”

I chuckle. “Then paint a mug.”

Long silence. “Okay, grab me one.” Pause. “Please.”

I grab two and head back to the table where a cute brunette girl who looks like a high school student has us set up with brushes, water, and paper towels.

She’s been watching us walk around the entire time we’ve been here, both intrigued and surprised by the sight of the massive Iowa wrestler. He’s a stark contrast to the colorful and bright surroundings, and stands out like a sore thumb in all black.

I guess we both do, because I’m wearing black, too, to match my earlier mood.

“What are you going to paint on yours?” I ask Zeke. All we have left to do is choose our paint colors.

“No fucking clue. What about you?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe something purple? Or…my initials?”

“What about your initials in purple? Add some flowers and shit.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” I beam up at him. “You know, you could paint something having to do with wrestling. What about painting it black and yellow?”

“That’s not a bad idea.” He’s definitely warming up to the idea of being here. Together, we collect our paint—black and bright yellow for him, lavender for me. Lime green. Dark purple.