The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(8)

No way in hell am I staying any longer than I have to.

My no comes out sharper than intended.

And just like that, her gusto is gone.

Violet’s lips part, and she emits a quiet, “I understand,” before pushing a lock of hair behind her ears. Her fingers push the paperwork back and forth in front of her, and she folds down the right edge, running her nail along the crease restlessly, picking at it.

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what you’re stuck on and what you need help with.”

Instead of telling her, I flip open a folder, expel my notes and project prospectus I’ve been struggling with, and push it toward her across the smooth surface of the table.

While she’s perusing that, I flip open my textbook.

My index finger trails down the page, stopping at a passage I highlighted with an orange highlighter, the same passage I’ve had to read and reread at least a dozen times because I can’t figure out how I’m supposed to write a paper based on what little information I’ve been finding.

There isn’t adequate information to write an informed paper on my topic, and my grade depends on this essay.

Violet scans the prospectus, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. “Have you chosen your topic?”

“Yup.”

I thumb through the open folder, fish out and hand her another single sheet of notebook paper with handwritten notes. She takes it, reads it, then glances up.

“You’re doing your research paper on this?”

I smirk. “What’s wrong with it?”

She reads from the paper. “‘Th-The biological and genetic, rather than moral, consequences of having a child with y-your first cousin?’” Pause. “Um…” She sits up straight in her chair.

“Clever, isn’t it?” I’m quite pleased with it myself.

Violet flushes. “W-What were your questions about it?”

“I guess I’m having a hard time finding facts to support my topic.”

She hesitates, wrinkles her nose. “Facts like…uh…multifactorial disorders?”

My brows rise, impressed. Apparently, the little stuttering wallflower really does know her shit about biology.

“Multifactorial disorders,” I repeat. “Is that what it’s called when a kid is jacked-up physically from all their parents’ fucking?”

A wince. A blush. “M-more like chromosomal defects, but yeah, I’m assuming that’s what you mean.”

“So how do I put that in writing?”

“Have you googled the topic at all?”

Duh. Does she think I’m a fucking idiot? “Obviously.”

She’s all business now. “What keywords did you use when you searched?”

“Inbreeding, banging cousins, fetal alcohol syndrome.” The words rattle off the tip of my tongue, and judging by the look on her face, she’s not impressed. “What’s that appalled look for? Why is your face all red? Are those not accurate descriptions?”

“Th-Those are terrible keywords.”

“Look, I seriously couldn’t give a shit if someone is banging their cousin—first, second, or third. I just pulled the topic out of my ass for the sake of getting the essay done, and didn’t want to be bored to tears writing it. So can we lose the whole scandalized virgin routine and move things along?”

I tap on the table with the end of my pen.

“Y-You’re absolutely…” Pause. “You’re certain you want to continue researching this subject?” Violet’s hesitation creeps into her voice. Her pale brows are bent, bottom lip jutted out in thought.

“Why? Does the topic make you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Great, ’cause I doubt you have a better suggestion.”

She bites down on her lower lip. “N-not off the top of my head, no, but I’m sure with a little effort, together we could come up with one.”

She looks so hopeful and laughably na?ve.

“Together?” For fuck’s sake. “Aren’t you the sweetest?” I scowl because quite honestly, I detest everything about this conversation. Being here with her. Needing a tutor. The thought of collaborating with her?

Petite, mousy, stuttering Violet and me?

No.

Hilarious in its absurdity.

I wouldn’t have chosen her for help in a million fucking years.

I want to get the paper done, not write a love poem to science and biology.

But there is something I’ve been wondering. “So what’s the deal with you and that kid?”

Her light brows rise. “S-Summer?”

“Do you nanny any other annoying kids that rudely knock shit over in the grocery store?”

Violet stops taking notes long enough to give her dainty, feminine shoulders a shrug. “She wasn’t knocking anything over. She was curious and excited.”

I stare, unconvinced.

She swallows. “I’m not her nanny; I’m her Thursday.”

“Her Thursday. What does that mean?”

“Her mom i-is a student here, so as part of her tuition, Student Services provides a babysitter up to ten hours a week, free of charge, and I-I…”

“Babysit her on Thursdays.”

She nods. “Summer’s parents are part of the assistance program for enrolled students with children. Her dad just finished an internship, and her mom has history and a lab Thursdays, so while she’s in class, I-I hang with Summer.”