The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(6)

He hits it again, despite me standing not three feet in front of him.

What an ass.

I conjure up a pleasant smile because it’s my job, and what else is there to say but, “C-Can I help you?”

“Shitty Nanny,” he deadpans by way of greeting, voice low and controlled. Humorless. “I’m here for a tutoring session with…shit. What was her name?” He pretends to think about it, tipping his head toward the ceiling.

Snaps his meaty fingers.

“Violet.”

No salutation. No polite small talk. No direct mention of our run-in at the grocery store, although he does allude it with the lovely nickname he bestowed upon me.

I swallow, take a deep breath, and say, “I’m Violet.”

The slashes above his eyes get severe. “You’re Violet?”

“Yes.”

Disbelief takes over his entire face before he schools his features. “You’re my tutor?”

I stand a tad straighter behind the counter, bracing my hands on the Formica countertop, grateful for the support. My knees weaken. “Yes.”

“You can’t be.”

“I can’t?”

“Noooo,” he drawls out. “Because I’ve seen you, what—how many times already?”

There’s no use in denying it, so I simply say, “Two.”

“Mother. Fucker.” I flinch at his tone. “You were here the day I came looking for you. I saw you watching me.” His eyes are accusing gray slits, deep voice rising, and I glance around, meeting several curious gazes. “Were you hiding from me?”

Yes.

My chin tilts. “I-I’m going to have to ask you to keep it down, please. People are staring.”

“I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks. Let them look.” He leans in, upper torso bending over the countertop. “You stood me up.”

My lips part, but no sound comes out. Not even a squeak. There’s no good excuse for me having failed to do my job, and we both know it. Plus, I have a feeling he’s not going to believe anything but the truth.

I pray Barbara doesn’t come out of the back room to see what the fuss is, because then Mr. Daniels will tell her I bailed on him, which will look terrible since they’re paying me to tutor him. I can’t afford to get written up for standing up a student. It’s part of my job, and my courage failed to help me do it.

“I know I stood you up, and I’m sorry.”

Zeke runs his fingers through his short shorn hair. It’s black as the night and glossy. “You knew my name when you ran into me at the grocery store, didn’t you? You knew it was me.” His sharp laugh is far from friendly. “No fucking wonder you looked like you were going to piss yourself that day.”

Oh god. He hates me.

“I-I…”

“I-I,” he stutters back at me, heatedly. “Spit it out V-V-Violet. Yes or no.”

Wow. He goes for the jugular, doesn’t he? Taking no prisoners, he nails me with a piercing stare, a battle of wills I will never win.

I don’t even try.

Dropping my head, I’m unable to look into his angry, flashing eyes. “Yes. I knew who you were. Trust me, I-I feel terrible.”

“Trust you.” He laughs then, the long column of his thick neck tipped back. “Whatever, dude. Let’s just get this over with.”

“S-So you…still want to have our session?”

Please say no, please say no, I silently plead.

“You obviously have no backbone in that spine of yours.” He raises one dark, irritated brow in challenge. “Not up for it? Too bad. No fucking way am I letting you off the hook that easy.”

I try not to cringe, but honestly? It’s hard; he’s sullen and broody and tenaciously confrontational.

This is a man who enjoys making people uncomfortable.

“Yes, of course I’m up for it. It’s my job.”

He narrows his unsettling blue-gray eyes before pulling the sunglasses down onto his eyes. “Grab your shit, Nanny. Let’s go.”

Stiffly, disappointed he’s not going to cancel, I nod. “Okay. I’ll get my stuff and meet you at your table.”

In reply, he turns wordlessly on his heel, dodging and zigzagging slowly through the elaborate maze of library study tables, and I backtrack to Student Services to collect my things. Leaning back, I gape through the open doorway to survey his retreating form without being noticed.

Zeke Daniels is huge, built like a football player, all wide shoulders and solid muscle. Rigid edges and unyielding lines. Black onyx hair and eyes the color of gray sea glass. Intense eyebrows. High cheekbones. Square jaw. Coarse five o’clock shadow surrounding delectably sculpted lips.

He’s outwardly beautiful.

It’s the inside of him that could use some work.

“He is just a guy,” I whisper, collecting my notebook, pen, and laptop. “He is just a guy, and it’s only one session. It’s only one hour. I can do this.”

I can do this.

I tell myself again before heading over to meet him.

And again.

Until I almost believe it.





Zeke



I cannot believe this shit.

Making my way back to the study table, I seethe. Feel like a fucking idiot. Weaving past student after student, I meet the nameless faces of curiosity and obvious interest and glare, pissed off and irritated that that little waif got the best of me.