The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(14)

My eyes flick back to Jameson, whose slim shoulders are now hunched over an open textbook, face resting in her palms as she reads, the pair of black glasses now perched on her nose.

Huh. Cute.

I count to four before my knee begins its steady, rhythmic bouncing and firmly place my palm there, pressing down to curtail it.

Fuck.

Fuck it.

I snap my laptop closed, grab the cord and case, and spin my ball cap so it’s backward. Stand up. Weave my way through the labyrinth of desks, tables, and chairs.

Standing at the foot of Jameson’s table, I clear my throat when she barely raises her head to acknowledge me.

“I’m not a tutor, so don’t bother,” she drones.

“Ha ha. Do you use that line on everyone?”

Those damn pearls around her neck glow when she stops writing long enough to cast a glance up at me. A smile tips her lips. “Oh, it’s you. Don Juan.”

Smiling—always a good sign.

“Ouch. Careful—my ego is so fragile you might break it.” I set my books, bag, and other shit on her table, pulling out the seat opposite her.

A pfft escapes her lips. “Fragile? Not likely.”

“Did I say fragile? I meant pompous and windbaggy.”

“Better.” She exaggerates a sigh, fake glaring down at the stack of books I just landed on her desk. “Ugh, what is with you? I didn’t invite you to sit down.”

Disregarding her lighthearted grimace, I unwind my power cord, plug it into the outlet on the base of the lamp, and give her a low chuckle. “You look like you could use some company.”

She volleys back with a low chuckle of her own. “I do not look like I want company. You are such a liar.”

“Maybe. But you have to admit, the library is becoming our special spot.” I pull my lip between my teeth, bite down flirtatiously, and give her a mischievous grin. Instead of blushing like I expect her to—like they all do—she rolls her blue eyes and inclines her neck, resuming her studies.

She quickly peeks at me. “Can you do me a favor and try not to make noise? I have a chem test in the morning that promises to be brutal.”

“Quiet I can do, especially with a gag in my mouth.” I wiggle my brows, even though she’s dead set on ignoring me.

Her pen stops. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“You could gag me and find out for yourself.”

The silence stretches. Then, “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

I open my laptop, connect to the university’s Wi-Fi, and resume research for a business communication logistics paper I’ve busted my left nut over. It’s due on Monday, which gives me four days.

I search a notorious sexual harassment lawsuit from 1997—Johnson v. Olastaire, a case filed by a corporation against one of its own managers—and create notations in the margins of my document.

Opening Excel, I generate a spreadsheet with the compiled information, compare the case with a recent Supreme Court ruling, and set my mouth into a grim line at the article in front of me: sexual assault in a corporate workplace whose PR machine spun the victim into the guilty party.

The whole thing makes me ill and hits a little too close to home, so close it’s the reason I’ve declared human resources as a major.

My older sister Kayla.

Thirty-two, brilliant, and beautiful, Kayla was fresh out of grad school when she became the victim of workplace sexual harassment. A lawyer working her way up in a small boutique firm, she spent countless nights pouring over cases. Endless hours with the paralegals. Never-ending early mornings.

Then, one early evening when she was alone, researching a case, she was assaulted in her office by one of the partners. High powered with clout, he made Kayla the guilty party and human resources turned a blind eye.

The whole thing went public. The media in our hometown painted her as a young, gorgeous corporate climber, censuring her with no ethics and too much ambition.

It ruined the thrill of her first job, future career prospects, earning potential—and her self-worth.

And she was the one getting her ass slapped by her dickhead of a boss. Kayla might have won the court case, but she hasn’t been the same since.

It’s sickening.

The whole thing with my sister makes me ill, so I forge on, diligently copying notes.

Copy, paste. Notation. Copy, paste, notation.

Repeat.

Eventually, I come up for air, lifting my head and reaching for my water bottle. Lift the lid and chug down a thirst-quenching gulp.

Jameson is studying me quizzically. The hands that were furiously pounding away at those laptop keys now hover above her keyboard at a standstill, her pouty mouth twisted thoughtfully.

“What?”

She gives her head a little shake, braided hair swaying. “Nothing.” Biting down on her lower lip, she picks up a highlighter and drags it across her textbook, then chews on the end of it.

“Bullshit. You were giving me a look.”

Her hands splay. “Fine. Yes, I was giving you a look. You’ve managed to surprise me by actually doing homework.”

I scoff. “I told you the other day—I’m carrying a three point seven.”

“Yes, but…” The words hang in the air between us. With a shrug, she grins. “I didn’t actually believe you.”