The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(25)

I’m sorry, what? “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“I said, we have a new guy signed up for the trip—”

I’d thrown my hand up to stop him. “No, no, I know what you said, Chad. I just…can’t believe that’s what I’m hearing. We closed registration weeks ago. Weeks.”

Chad had rolled his lovely green eyes at me—green eyes I’d lately taken to gazing adorningly at when he wasn’t paying attention, stared into the depths of when they widened playfully.

Kind but cocky, after flirting with me tirelessly for the past year, I was finally starting to reciprocate his affection. Sort of. Well, in my own special way. Add in the fact that he’s an incredibly talented snowboarder?

“I know James, but it’s Oz Osborne. You don’t just tell that guy no—”

“Yes you do.”

“Dude, I had to make an executive decision; no one else was here last night.” Chad had raised his eyebrows at me, daring me to argue. “Osborne wants in on the trip, Osborne comes on the trip. We need the publicity.”

“Publicity? We don’t need any more publicity! Chad—you and Patrick went to the X Games last year.” Granted, they hadn’t made it past pre-quals, but still.

The X Games.

“Whatever, James, I’m not arguing with you.”

“Seriously? That’s it? You’re letting him come? We had a deadline, Chad! No one applying for the trip was eligible after the 12th of the month!”

“I know, but dude—since Celeste backed out when her financial aid didn’t come through, we had that one extra spot…”

That one extra spot, my ass.

“Where’s he staying, wise ass?”

“We’ll figure that out when we get to the hotel. He’s your cousin, so maybe…”

“No!”

“It’ll work itself out, so chill.”

Chill? Oh my god, snowboarders and their lackadaisical attitudes.

Unfortunately, if Chad Hanson wants Oz Osborne on the damn trip, then Chad Hanson gets Oz Osborne on the damn trip. And now I was stuck with him for five entire days. Five days and four nights. One thousand eighty-five miles from school. No professors, no roommates, no parents—just us and the mountains and the fresh pow under our boards.

My trip was ruined.

Ruined by the foul-mouthed jock with an appetite for driving me insane. Ruined by a six foot two, sandy-haired Goliath named Sebastian that I was going to kill as soon as I could get my bare hands on him.

When I reach the library steps, I glance up at the ivy-covered bricks and four stories, wondering if luck would be on my side, wondering if Oz Osborne was inside.

What does he want with me?

I’m not stupid; I know he’s coming on this trip to torture me.

But why? He hardly knows me!

Determined, I push through my hesitations, through the heavy doors, and into the lobby. Not bothering to remove my heavy down coat like I normally would, my eyes scan the first floor, taking careful measure of everyone there studying. Ginger guy with the glasses. The girl he studies with who obviously has him in the friend-zone despite his horrible efforts at flirting. The Hispanic kid who’s here more often than I am, who always has the same stack of books on the same corner of the same table. The football player and his pretty blonde girlfriend.

And…Oz.

I’d recognize that sneaky sonofabeehive anywhere, even from behind.

Pen poised above a notebook, the muscles in his strong back strain against his thin baby blue tee shirt, neatly outlined and drool worthy. I mean, I can actually see every defined muscle of his damn latissimus dorsi from here.

God that * is gorgeous.

Unfortunately, he’s not alone; I recognize one of the guys as the idiot from the other night, the one who’d been cheering Oz on and leering at me.

Nonetheless, I march directly to their table, hell bent on a mission and halting so fast I bump Oz in the elbow from behind, noting with satisfaction a black, inky line smudge across what looks like a very important paper.

Smirking, I lean in good and close so he can hear every word I’m about to say, my black puffy coat brushing his rock solid shoulder as I murmur into this ear from behind. “I am literally going to kill you.”

He rocks back, broad shoulders brushing the front of my coat before cocking his head to the side. “I get threats on the daily, Jim. You have to be more specific.”

“Why’d you do it? Are you insane?” I pull away, drawing back to smack him in the arm—his dense, warm, muscly arm. It’s rock hard under my palm.

He finally stops writing, puts down his pen, and twists his torso to face me, amused. Cocky bastard.

The hulky guy beside him laughs. “What’d you do to this one, Ozzy? You lay too much pipe?”

The big black-haired guy crudely snickers like I’m a joke. Like I’m one of their little fan club members lining up to sleep with them. Nothing better than a groupie. He must find me wanting because his disinterested gaze flares before he redirects his cold, icy blue eyes to Oz. “Get her out of here.”

I smack Oz again, the corners of his eyes wrinkling humorously as he makes a show of looking me up and down slowly—exactly how he looked at Sydney and Allison and all the other girls. That redheaded girl giving him a hand-job at the house party.