The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(60)

Zeke shuts the front door behind him and suddenly, we’re alone in the confines of his house. Standing together at the door, he crams his hands in the pockets of his coat, uneasily shifting his weight on the heels of his black boots. Removes his hands. Shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a hook before reaching to help me with mine.

Together, we slide it down my shoulders and he takes it. Hangs it. We both glance at our jackets, now hanging side by side.

It’s an odd sensation, that. A new one I’ve never felt before, anticipation quaking in the pit of my stomach, sending butterflies flying. Fluttering.

Making me want to toss my cookies all over the leather boots he’s bending to untie.

My knees feel wobbly. Weak. I can barely focus, bending to unbuckle the pretty little half boots I borrowed from Winnie and sliding them off my feet. Legs bare. Too exposed and open to his roaming, expressionless, pale eyes.

I know why I agreed to come here.

I like him; I’m probably half in love with him already. Enamored. Charmed by his rough edges and jagged lines. How we’re opposites in every way that counts.

I know that’s not a reason to fall into bed with someone, but I fell into my last boyfriend’s bed for lesser reasons: loneliness. Out of curiosity. For the connection. Wanting to get the whole virgin thing over with.

I might not be completely in love with Zeke yet, but the stirrings are there, and that’s enough.

I’m not asking for a commitment—not yet anyway.

As I stare at Zeke, filling the doorway of his quaint college house—he’s huge and takes up the entire space—all my instincts tell me to trust myself on this decision.

Trust my heart for once, and not my head.

Trust that he has my best interests at heart, even if the words coming out of his mouth aren’t eloquent. Far from it.

He swears too much.

He isn’t nice.

He isn’t sweet.

He isn’t kind.

Or generous with words. Or affection.

But he’s reliable. Dependable. And he was there for me tonight. I know he was watching out for me, or he wouldn’t have seen that guy back me into a dark, back corner of the bar.

And thank god he was.

I don’t know what I would have done.

Screamed bloody murder, maybe? Would anyone have heard me over the noise? The music? The packed crowd?

Winnie says Zeke is “a project”, one that’s probably more work than he’s worth, with no guaranteeing the outcome. The thing is, I can’t fool my heart into thinking he’s not worth it, even when my head is telling me he isn’t.

I know Zeke is an asshole.

I know he’s crude and unsuitable.

Zeke might be brutal, but at least he’s brutally honest, and the next thing I know, he’s taking my hand, leading me down the hallway.

I let him lead me.

Floating down the hall to the bedroom, I’m light, a million worries lifting off my shoulders: self-doubt. Self-consciousness. The fear that he doesn’t like me back. The desperation to be loveable that took root the day my parents died and further overtook me when my aunt and uncle moved away.

The fear that I’m not sexy because I stutter.

Zeke Daniels doesn’t just want sex; he wants something more—I feel it in my heart. He’s seeking something—the same thing I am.

Something permanent.

Constant and stable, and no one will convince me otherwise.

“Violet, I wouldn’t—I don’t want you to think I have any clue what I’m doing. Because I don’t. I have no idea why the hell I stopped that car in the middle of the damn road, I just…” He releases my hand, closing the door to his bedroom.

Runs his fingers through his black hair.

“Do you know what I’m trying to tell you?”

“No.” I give my head a little shake. “I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”

Zeke walks to the far side of the room, pacing back. And forth. Back. And forth. “Shit, I know I’m going to fuck this up.”

“What are you going to fuck up?”

He laughs then, a loud, rumbling laugh. “It cracks me up when you say a swear word. It sounds so weird.”

He stops pacing, stands in front of me. Reaches up and captures my face in the palms of his hands. Strokes my cheekbones with his thumbs. “God you’re fucking adorable.”

My lashes flutter. “Thank you.”

“You’re beautiful, Violet. I think you’re beautiful.” His head is lowered, our lips inches apart. “You’re too sweet for me, you know that right? I’m such an asshole.”

“I know.” The whisper is more of a sigh.

His steely gaze studies me a few heartbeats, warm hands still caressing my face. “What are we doing?”

I can’t answer; he’s being way too nice. So unexpectedly tender.

“Do you respect me?” I ask quietly.

He nods, our foreheads touching. “More than anyone.”

I believe him.

“Are we friends?” I ask, lifting my hands to grasp his wrists.

“Yes. You’re one of my best friends.”

I believe that, too.

“I am?”

“Yes,” he whispers, voice gravely. “Even though I don’t deserve it, you’re one of the good ones, Violet DeLuca, and I don’t have a clue what you’re doing here in this room with me.”