The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(42)

“True facts.”

“You’re considerate—and as much as I hate to admit it, you’re funny. And you care more about grades then you want people to know, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why.”

I grab my yellow Iowa water bottle as she sucks in her bottom lip and nibbles nervously before raising her blue eyes to study me across the table. “Um…you smell good. Like fresh air and peppermint.”

My brows shoot up.

Yes. This. That’s the shit I’m talking about.

I lean toward her, interested, but otherwise sit perfectly still, longing to hear her speak.

“Go on.”

“You…have the strongest arms I’ve ever seen.”

Yes.

“You have a leg fetish.”

I nod, water bottle poised at my watering mouth. “Fact.”

“You knew I wasn’t a tutor the day we met but you came over anyway.”

“Twice,” I confirm, chugging on my water, the room-temp liquid pouring down my throat.

“You like working with your hands, and despite what everyone thinks—what I thought when I first met you—you’re not a total man whore.”

I sputter, choking on the laugh, spitting out a mouthful of water in the process until it dribbles cold and wet down my chin. Yanking up the hem of my cotton tee, I wipe my face with a few swipes.

“How do you know I’m not a man whore?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t, I said not totally. For one, you didn’t make a move on my roommate Sydney when you had the chance and she probably wanted you to—and for the life of her she can’t figure out why. And two, you didn’t make a move on me in Utah even though we shared the same bed.”

“And you weren’t wearing pajama bottoms.”

“Correct.”

“Why would you do that, by the way?”

She sighs, loud and long and breathy. “Ugh, are we back to that?”

“Fuck yeah we’re back to that!” I’m indignant. “You knew damn well what you were doing. Cunning femme fatale. Not wearing pajama bottoms was shady and ruthless.”

She giggles a soft, tinkling laugh, sweet and delighted, toying with the buttons of her pale pink cardigan. “Femme fatale?” James rolls her eyes. “Hardly.”

My gaze lowers, settling on that second glossy button where her long, lean fingers push it in and out of the buttonhole, right in the center of those round, fantastically full breasts—the breasts I tried to get a sneak peek of at minimum one dozen times on the trip.

“Please.” I snort, crossing my arms over my broad chest. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing flouncing around with no pants on.”

Her grin spreads wide. “You’re crazy.”

“I call bullshit. You knew that was driving me nuts.”

“Well yeah, but…it could have been anyone running around pants-less and you would have tried to sleep with them.”

“Did we not just establish that I didn’t make a move on your roommate what’s-her-face?”

“Sydney. Right, yes, but—”

“And I did make a move on you.”

“You did? When?”

“Remember when I said I was trying to f*ck you?”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not making a move on me. That’s blatantly telling me you want to sleep with me.”

“Not sleep. Fuck. Huge difference, Jim.”

“You know, just when I think you have some deep-rooted sensitivity just dying to get out, you ruin it by talking.”

I shrug my broad shoulders. “You can’t blame me for being honest.”

“No, but jeez, Oz, sometimes a girl doesn’t want to have it shoved down her throat like that. She’d like to have an actual conversation. Be romanced.”

The phrase ‘shoved down her throat’ makes me want to giggle like a thirteen-year-old. I manage not to, but barely, although I cannot resist mentioning it. It’s too damn good.

“Do you have any idea what you just said? You said shove and throat, and I immediately thought blowjob. So don’t even—hey, sit down. Where are you going?”

She’s packing up her laptop with a roll of her eyes. “Home. As much as I’d love to stay, I really do have some serious work to do.”

“You get so f*cking huffy. Would you sit back down please?”

“I do not get huffy!” James sets her bag back on the table and crosses her arms. “I’ll stay if you can give me one good reason why I should sit back down and let you continue to distract me. One. I’m pretty sure you can’t do it.”

“Wanna bet?”

A decisive nod. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“Terrific.” Because I got this. “You’re on. What are the stakes? Make ’em good.”

“How about you choose mine and I choose yours.”

Bad idea, Jim.

Horrible, horrible idea. So horrible, in fact, I’m practically rubbing my hands together with glee.

“Good. Ladies first.”

“If you can’t come up with one legitimate reason to keep me in this room, you have to…” Jameson furrows her brows in concentration. “You have to…” She makes a little humming thought. “Hmmm. Let me think.”