The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(38)

“I’m not answering that question.”

“So that’s a no.”

“Why do you… Ugh. Yes, that was a no, but I’ve made up for it since.” I shrug my shoulders in the dark.

He hums out an, “Interesting…” Then, “So what do you consider a good guy?”

“Are you using air quotes in the dark?”

Oz laughs, shaking the mattress. “Yeah, how could you tell?”

“You’re kind of a goof.” Nonetheless, I consider his question. “A good guy? Hmmm. The answer is…I have no idea. Someone respectful, I guess? Who does what they say they’re going to do. Is reliable. Who doesn’t cheat…doesn’t bullshit me.”

“That’s a lot of negatives.”

It does sound like it now that I’m saying the words out loud. “When it comes down to it, I’d like someone who makes me laugh.”

“I make you laugh.”

Giggle. “You sure do.”

“And I’m respectful,” he adds helpfully.

Hmmm. “That’s debatable.”

“I do what I say I’m going to do.”

Rolling over on my back, I stare toward the ceiling. “No offense, but I don’t know why you’re telling me all this. Are you applying for the job?”

“Probably because I’m trying to f*ck you?”

I roll my eyes heavenward, ignoring his vulgar answer. “Okay, what about you? Who did you give it up to your first time?”

“Ah, I remember it like it was yesterday: I was fifteen and her name was Penny VanderWahl. She was my friend’s older sister and she let me screw her in the hayloft of a barn. Definitely was not a virgin. Does it count if I blew my load putting on the condom?”

Gross. “I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right; there was no actual penile penetration. It was just the tip.”

“Oh my god. Filter! Filter!”

His entertained snort cuts through the dark. “I hate to break it to you, Jim, but if you think that’s bad, you don’t even want to know what’s going on inside this head right now.”

You’re so wrong, I can’t stop myself from thinking. So so wrong.

I do want to know.

“You’re as deep as a puddle, Osborne. Of course I know what’s going through your head right now. You make no secret of being what my grandmother would call a skirt chaser.”

“Skirt chaser? Shit, I haven’t heard that one in a while. I like it though.”

“It’s not a compliment, Sebastian.”

He chuckles. “If you say so, Jim.”

We lie there in silence, but I can hear him thinking. Feel his even breathing beside me. Feel his hand slide across the firm mattress, slide under the wall of pillows, and grasp my hand.

Fingers entwined, he squeezes. “I’m glad I’m here.”

“I…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Me too.”

And I am.

I’m glad he’s here with me, however high handed his antics were in getting here. Goofy, good-looking, and oddly kind-hearted Sebastian Osborne. My friend.

“Thanks for the invite. I needed a vacation.”

In the dark, I roll my eyes.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“No?”

“You’re a terrible liar, do you know that?”

“Go to sleep, Oswald.”

He gives my hand another squeeze. “Sweet wet dreams, Jim.”





Jameson




We snowboard the rest of the weekend, packing up on a Sunday afternoon for the one thousand eighty-five mile ride back to campus. Gray clouds linger overhead, threatening to snow, an occasional chunky snowflake falling from grace down to the ground.

As I’m heaving my duffle bag out of our room, dragging it across the resort parking lot, a lone snowflake hits the tip of my nose and rests there. My eyes cross and I watch it momentarily before the heat of my skin melts it and it disappears into a tiny drop of water.

One by one, the rest of them begin falling. Wet, silent, and beautiful, like millions of tiny wisps dancing through the sky.

I draw in a breath, and as I inhale and exhale, the warmth of my breathing turns to a puff of smoke. Out of nowhere, Oz appears beside me, bending at the waist and reaching for my bags, swinging them over his shoulder as if they’re weightless and nudging me toward the bus.

I trail along behind him, nothing to carry except my laptop bag and a small tote. Oz carries it all.

Once the bags are stored in the lower level of the bus, he patiently waits while I fumble with my carryon tote. Waits while I climb each step, hand poised on the small of my back, guiding me. Follows behind me down the long, narrow aisle of the bus. Waits while I choose a seat.

The bus isn’t full—not even close—so I can be choosy, and I head toward the back where it’s private, deciding on the third to last row, near the bathroom.

I stow my bag under the seat and take the window.

Oz tosses his duffle on the empty seat across the aisle, sliding in beside me, his head hitting the seatback with an exhausted thump. He spreads his legs as wide as his giant frame allows.

“Tired,” he grumbles irritably. “Jim, can I lean my head on your shoulders? I just want to sleep for a bit.”