The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(20)

Inquiring minds want to know.

“Yes?”

Yeah, right. My brows rise dubiously. “Really? What kind of fun?”

Sydney’s arms flail helplessly on her side of the booth. “I don’t know! You just saw us at a party—that kind of fun. She likes snowboarding and swimming in the summer, so she does that a lot.”

“Snowboarding?” I ask incredulously.

Sydney nods. “She’s really good, too. I think she’s in the snowboarding club; they’re leaving for Utah for spring break soon.”

No f*cking way. “Snowboarding?” I parrot, sounding like an idiot. “There’s no f*cking way.”

Sydney stares at me then, across the table, the most perplexed look on her face. Brows creased into deep lines, her mouth is downturned in an arch. “Sorry? I’m getting really confused.”

Her ditzy laugh doesn’t reach her eyes, and the air between us gets awkward.

Shit. This isn’t cool. I’m a dick, but if I keep overtly acting like one, there’s no chance in hell Sydney’s going to blow me in the bathroom at the end of this quasi date.

I switch gears and turn on the charm. “You know what? Forget I said anything; I was just curious. So tell me more about yourself.”

Now her whole face changes, goes from guarded to animated when she gasps an excited breath. “I’m a senior nursing major originally from Tennessee, I’m on the dance team, and I just love wrestling. I’m a huge, huge fan.”

A huge fan for someone who thought I was on the football team, I think sarcastically.

“Uh huh.” I nod, half listening, and eat another limp fry, chasing it down with a swig of beer while trying to visualize Jameson Clark snowboarding.

I’m f*cking sorry, but I cannot for the life of me reconcile the image in my mind. Tiny Jameson, bearer of buttoned up cardigans and pearl necklaces, snowboarding? Terrain parks and half-pipes. Boxy jackets and bib overalls.

There’s no freaking way.

Sydney’s voice drones in and out.

“…and then I transferred last year when I toured the campus with my cousin. That’s how I met Allison, who was already living with Jameson. I have to make up a few classes at the end of this year that weren’t accredited at my previous school, which will set me back a semester. That’s gonna suck.”

Absentmindedly, I reply, “That does suck.”

“Right? My parents are going to kill me.” Suddenly, Sydney’s mouth broadens into a huge smile. “So, enough about me. Tell me more about you. What’s the famous Oz Osborne’s story? I can hardly believe I’m sitting here with you. I feel like we have a lot in common.”

Her teeth flash bright white in her spray-tanned face and she gives a tiny squeak of delight.

Great. Just great. Jameson tricked me into going out with a sports groupie. I’m going to kill her the next time I see her; maybe she’ll let me stick my tongue down her throat as punishment.

I lean forward in the booth, resting my elbows on the sticky tabletop. “I don’t know what there is to tell. I’m here on a wrestling scholarship, but everyone knows that. My major is HR, my—”

“HR…like, as in human resources?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” Her response is one I’ve seen a million times before. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a guy majoring in HR. What made you decide to do that?”

I have my reasons, but they’re no one’s business. I don’t know Sydney, don’t care to get to know Sydney—so I don’t tell her the reason I majored in HR when there were a million other career paths I could have chosen.

“So Sydney, what else do you like to do for fun.” The tone of my voice is obviously an innuendo, an invitation I’m not quite feeling in my pants.

“Well,” she starts slowly. “I like parties…and sports…and meeting new people…and being friendly.”

Speaking of friendly: the vision of Jameson rising from her seat in the library right before she kissed the shit out of me has me pausing. The black sweater and pearls she had on. The buttoned up green cardigan she had on as she watched me get a hand-job in the hallway of a house party last weekend. The gray one she wore yesterday.

“Hold up. Does she always wear cardigans? I mean, she wears other shit out of the house, right?”

My date hesitates. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve never seen her in anything but sweaters. She owns other clothes, right?”

“Er…are we back to talking about Jameson?”

“She has other clothes in her closet, yeah? Not just all that plain crap? Does she own sweatshirts?”

“Uh…yes. I’ve seen her in other shit.” Sydney’s brow furrows into a pout. “Sorry if I’m coming off as confused, it’s just…I’ve never heard anyone call her plain before. I think you need your head examined.”

She’s probably right because why the f*ck am I still talking about this shit?

I grab one of Sydney’s mozzarella sticks, dip it in marinara sauce, and swallow it whole. “I just think it’s weird. She looks like a f*cking kindergarten teacher.”

My date shrugs. “She gets that a lot, but that’s not how she is. Trust me.”