The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(21)

Jameson




“Well that was the weirdest date I’ve ever been on.” Sydney walks in the door of our apartment, throwing her purse on the end of the couch I’m sitting on. “If you can call it that.”

I sit up straighter, my plaid flannel pajama bottoms bunched up around my knees. A piece of red licorice rope hangs out the corner of my mouth as I close my laptop, set it on the coffee table, and lean back into the plush couch cushions.

Trying to appear casual, I slowly drawl out, “What do you mean?”

Sid huffs, banging a few cabinets open and rummaging through them until she finds a clean cup. “He spent the entire time grilling me about you.”

What? “Shut up.”

“For real. The entire time. At first I thought it was cute, you know? I thought he was asking out of polite interest, but then it got really annoying.”

“Sydney, stop it. That’s not funny.”

“I wish I was kidding,” she says as she fills her cup with water then takes a few sips. “Honest to god, James, that guy is so hot. Like, I could see his hard nipples through his shirt. And his tattoos? Gawd, so hot, but not gonna lie—he killed my lady boner by bringing your name up every two seconds.”

“Why would he do that?”

She levels me with a stare. “Gee, I wonder.”

Rolling my eyes, I follow her when she heads toward the bathroom, padding behind her with bare feet. “I mean, not that I care, but what was he asking? Be more specific.”

Sydney puts down the toilet seat cover and invites me to sit. “He wanted to know why you study so much, why you’re so serious, do you go anywhere for fun besides the library.”

Shuffling past her into the tiny room, I plop down on the toilet, emit an indignant hmph, and cross my arms as she drones on.

“I know, right? And here’s the crazy part: he was hinting about asking me out again, which I found super bizarre ’cause he didn’t seem to give a crap about anything I was saying.”

“Would you have said yes if he’d asked?”

Say no, say no.

Sydney’s face contorts with an Are you nuts look before shifting her focus into the mirror. “Um, yeah. I mean, I’m not stupid. It’s Oz freaking Osborne. He’s so freaking hot. I swear, I wanted to pet him. Oh my gawd, James, his tattoos got me so turned on—I could have climbed into his lap. My panties are so wet right now.”

Tattoos. Wet. Hot.

“Right,” I deadpan. “Hot.”

And wet.

My roommate pulls out a cotton ball, gets it wet, and begins taking off her mascara. She turns to me with one eye open. “What is with you? You’re acting strange.”

“Me? No I’m not!”

But I am—I totally am.

“He asked for your number,” Sydney says offhandedly before running the water and bending to splash it on her face. “Honestly, I was surprised he didn’t already have it, the way you two carry on.”

“He asked for my phone number?”

My roommate laughs. “Yes Jameson, your phone number.”

“Why would he want my number?” I muse, sounding mystified. “That’s so weird.”

“Uh, no it’s not.” Blindly, she fumbles for a towel, her voice muffled when she says, “I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think…”

I hold my breath. “Think what?”

“I’d think there was something going on between the two of you besides being study buddies.” She says it warily, as if she’s afraid of what I’ll say next, afraid I might tell her to stay away from him.

“Pfft, please. That’s ridiculous,” I object. “I’ve seen him in the library maybe five times—that’s it.”

“I’m not so sure-er!” she singsongs. Then, lowering her voice, she teases, “What goes on between the two of you in that library, Jameson Victoria Clark?”

“Nothing!” I protest loudly.

Maybe too loudly, because my roommate’s smile widens into a full-out grin.

“Hmmm.” Her green eyes scan my ribbed navy tank top and plaid pajama pants. Sid taps a finger to her chin in mock thought. “Come to think of it, he did seem to fixate on your wardrobe. He brought up your cardigans twice. I told him all about your cardigan collection.”

“Shut up Sydney!” I grab a damp washcloth from the shower and lob it at her. “I do not have a cardigan collection, brat!”

Just one of every color in the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue… Purple. Pink. White, black, and gray.

And a few patterned ones.

But big deal—who doesn’t?

“But you kind of do. Don’t bother denying it,” she teases, calling off the colors in my closet. “Red, pink, yellow, green.”

I stick my tongue out. “I hate you sometimes.”

“No you don’t.” Sydney goes back to removing her makeup. “So you don’t care if he asks me out again?”

“What? Please. No. Why would I? It’s not like I’m going to date him. Haha. No. Be my guest—he’s just some guy I study with at the library.”

Seriously, I need to stop talking.

Fiddling with a container of moisturizer, not turning to meet my eyes, she dubiously nods. “All right, if you say so. But…you know, if you change your mind, say something, okay? I don’t want it to be weird if Oz and I start dating.”