The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(26)

Callous and cold and dismissive.

“Oh please.” I roll my eyes dramatically. “Don’t bother pretending not to know who I am you turd. I’m so irritated with you right now I could strangle you with my bare hands.”

More chuckles from around the table when Oz replies, “I like it rough as the next guy, Jim, but why don’t you wait until we’re alone.”

“Oh, ha ha. You think this is funny? Is everything a joke to you? Well guess what. Forget it—you are not coming on my spring break trip.”

“Wait.” The blond giant sitting with them grunts out a baffled, “Ozzy man—is this your sister?”

Oz winks at me. “Cousin.”

I ignore the idiot, even as my cheeks get flaming hot. “Sebastian Osborne, I want you to get on the phone right now to cancel this trip.”

“Whoa, Ozzy, she’s busting out first names—she must be pissed. Are you sure you aren’t banging her?”

Instead of responding to the barb, Sebastian reaches into his bag, pulls out a pack of gum, unwraps a single stick slowly, and pops the piece in his mouth. A few chews and, “Sorry Jimmy, already paid.”

My arms cross over my puffy, down-filled chest. “Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? Because you are calling Chad Hanson this instant and canceling.” I huff, wanting to stomp my foot in protest.

At my raised tone, Oz glances around the quiet library, over his shoulder, to the left then to the right. Conspiratorially, he lowers his voice. “Look, Jameson—can we argue about this privately? Without an audience?”

Oh, now he wants to be civil?

Fine. I can do civil.

His behemoth body pushes against the table, chair scraping along the hardwood floor as he stands, rising to his full height.

I’m reminded how masculine and virile he is. And solid.

His form towering over me, I fight back an enthusiastic whimper when his hand loosely grasps my forearm. Oz drags me to the far side of the library, dodging and weaving through the tables stealthily, like a maze runner.

Placing my back against the far wall, he braces his arms against it, bending down into me so he can keep his voice low. He smells like peppermint gum, a fresh shower, and woodsy aftershave lotion. Like a lumbersexual.

In a word: heaven.

He grumbles near my ear, “Jameson, I’m going on that trip.”

“Are you insane?” I hiss up at him. “What on earth possessed you to do that? You don’t even know me. Why would you come on a trip with me?”

I know he doesn’t have the money. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s broke.

His blue eyes bore into me and I see his internal debate; he wants to confide something in me—it’s there in his creased brow—but what? What on earth is going on inside that big, beautiful head of his?

Big beautiful head? Ugh. What has gotten into me lately?

I give myself a mental slap as Oz gives his head a shake. “I charged six hundred dollars I don’t have on my credit card last night, James. I’m going on that trip.”

My lips part. “But why? Why would you do that Sebastian? You don’t meet someone and then a few days later decide to take a trip with them. It’s weird.”

His free hand rises and he rakes it through his moppy, unkempt hair.

“Because.” The word rushes out; he has to take a deep, steadying breath to continue. “Because for once in my damn life I want to see what it’s like being with someone who doesn’t know who I am.”

My nose wrinkles. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

He leans against the wall and stuffs his hands in his pockets, triumphant. “See? Exactly.”

I’m so confused.

He releases another breath. “Jim. I’m a wrestler for Iowa; next year I could be training for the Olympics. I could be working in an office somewhere. I’ll go where the money is, so who knows, but nothing about me is normal.”

My mouth opens, then closes. Then, “I’m sorry, is the wrestling thing a big deal?”

I can tell he’s trying to school his expression, but he’s failing. His mouth barely stays closed, instead coming unhinged and hanging open. “A big deal? James. Jim. Thousands upon thousands of fans scream my name on a yearly basis. I’ve been on television. I was courted by all Big Ten schools, and three from the Big Twelve as a high school senior before deciding on Iowa.” He looks smug. “So yeah, kind of a big deal.

Well goodness, how does one respond to that? “I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t know. That’s one of the things I like about you—that and your constant need to give me shit.” When he smiles down at me, I’m close enough to glimpse a chipped lower tooth. White but imperfect.

Perfectly imperfect.

Ugh.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“Tell you?” A laughs bursts out of him then, and I catch another whiff of him when he tips his neck back. “You’re killing me. It’s not a secret. I mean, look around you Jameson. Everyone in here is gawking at us.”

I peel my eyes away from his face then; he’s right. Heads are turned our way curiously. Gazes, stares, glances—it does seem that everyone is watching us.

Rude.

“What are they looking at? Is it my puffy coat?” I complain, pulling at the zipper, nervously dragging it up and down along its track. “Sue me for being cold all the time.”