The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(17)

“Yes, but is it true?”

“Yes, but in my defense, she wasn’t my girlfriend. She was a pity f*ck who turned into a clinger.”

“A Twitter breakup?” This time Jameson winces. “That’s bad.”

“Sorry, but it’s the truth. It was the only way to get rid of her. Trust me, I did her a favor.”

“How is that doing her a favor? She was probably humiliated!” Then, “Can I ask what the tweet said?”

I chuckle. “Why don’t you just go on Twitter and look for yourself.”

Those fascinating eyes, which have been judging me for the past few minutes, narrow into bright blue slits as she drags her phone across the table, flips it over, and unlocks the screen.

Gives it a few taps.

“What name am I looking for?”

“OneTapUofI. All one word.”

Type, type, type.

Narrowed eyes widen, dark eyebrows shoot up. Her pert mouth falls open a fraction in horror when she finds it. “This is terrible! You are so crude.”

I chuckle again. “Read it out loud so I can get a good laugh.”

“No!”

“Oh come on, Jim! She had it coming.”

“No! You called her a troll—that is so uncalled for.” She glances down at the screen of her phone. “This whole tweet is terrible.”

“Careful, you’re repeating yourself.”

“Oh shut up, you—”

“Asshole?”

“Yes.”

“Dickhead?”

“Yes.”

“Douchebag?”

She titters. “You said it, not me.”

“No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman, Jim.” Casually I regard her from across the table. “Haven’t you ever done anything you’ve regretted?”

She pretends to consider the question. “You mean like letting a stranger convince me to kiss him in public?”

“Ha ha. But yeah, I guess that’s exactly what I mean.”

This time Jameson does think about it, humming to herself as she deliberates on a reply. She inhales, drawing in a deep breath, and says with a straight face, “Once I ate at White Castle. Does that count as a regret?”

“Sure, why not.”

“I call it the White Castle of Regret.”

I laugh, then she laughs, and soon our eyes are watering tears of mirth.

“Holy shit that’s funny,” I enthuse, wiping my cheeks dry. “You don’t look like you have any sense of humor at all, but you’re hilarious.”

She’s pleased. Smug. “Occasionally I’ve been known to throw out a few zingers.”

“I still want to know more about a girl who wears pearls to the library but willingly makes out with a stranger.”

“Willingly? That’s a stretch.”

“Stop evading the question.”

Slumping back in her seat, James rests her head against the chair. “I’m rather shy—”

“You are not f*cking shy, but nice try.”

“Fine, I’m not shy—but if you really must know, sometimes I wear pearls and cardigans to the library so I look serious and so people leave me alone.” She shoots me a pointed look. “Which, obviously, does. Not. Work.”

“Obviously. It’s not a very clever disguise and it makes you look like a kindergarten teacher—and not even a hot one.”

“Gee, thanks,” she sarcastically replies. “My point is I’m having a hard time keeping my grades up. I have to work really hard at it—nothing comes natural to me, especially chemistry, which I hate but have to pass.” She sighs. “My major is pre-pharmacy but I’m having second thoughts. One of my biggest regrets is declaring so soon. Sometimes I wish I was more adventurous, although I’m pretty content watching everyone else act like *s at parties.”

“You don’t seem to shock very easily.” I’m referring to our meeting in the hallway, when the redhead was grabbing my cock.

“No, I don’t. My mom does porn, so…” She shrugs nonchalantly, dragging out her sentence. “You ain’t got nothin’ I haven’t ever seen in one of her movies.”

The bombshell has my eyes bugging out of my skull and I practically leap out of my chair. “What!”

A burst of laughter spills from her lips and before I know it, she’s sputtering. Falling out of her seat, waving her hands around, trying to calm herself. “Sit down, sit down, I’m kidding. Oh my god, you should see your face.”

“You’re an *.”

“So you keep saying.” The smirk returns. “It’s like looking in the mirror, isn’t it?”





Sebastian




She’s the last person I expect to see when I round the corner of the business school, but she’s exactly who I see when I bend to tie my shoe. I glance up when her familiar black patent leather ballet flats come into view.

I rise to my full height and straighten.

Jameson is wearing glasses today—black rimmed—and a long, smooth ponytail trails down her back. I can’t tell if she’s wearing a cardigan under her navy jacket, but I hypothesize that she is—and that it’s basic. Buttoned from the bottom all the way up to her throat. Probably in some boring color like gray.