The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(54)

Oz: Where are you?



Zeke is the first to respond: Stopped for food.



Okay. That’s weird as shit and kind of freaking me out.



Oz: Grab me something would ya. Starving.

Zeke: Yup. Back in thirty.



This whole thing is just way too bizarre to be real.

I lift the lid on the garbage can and dump the burger, grab my bag, and head down the hallway, wavering in front of Elliot’s door. I stop. Take a deep breath. Give it a few short raps.

“Yeah?” his voice answers from inside.

“You awake?” I hesitate to open the door.

“Uh, yeah.”

Gradually, I turn the knob. Give the door a gentle push. Stick my head partially inside, like a father not wanting to walk in on his teenage daughter. “You decent?”

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Elliot laughs. “Yeah I’m decent.” He’s sitting at his desk staring at me like I’ve sprouted two cocks and a vagina. “What’s up?” He spins in his desk chair, resting his arm on the back of it, idly waiting for me to respond.

“Letting you know we’re back.” Obviously.

“Okay.”

“Everything good?” I can’t help it; I throw several shifty glances into the recesses of his bedroom, browsing for a glimpse of…

My eyes land on the bed and stay there.

And stare.

Everything appears to be in order. Navy blue comforter pulled into place. Pillows at the headboard. A short stack of clean, folded clothes at the footboard.

No black patent leather shoes. No white cardigan. No naked Jameson.

No f*cking has taken place here, I’m sure of it.

After an awkwardly long silence, Elliot clears his throat. “You’re being really weird. Are you sure you’re okay?” He pauses. “Do you want to, uh, talk or whatever?”

His appalled tone says it all: please say no.

“No, I’m good.” Elliot’s shoulders drop in relief. “I just thought I saw…nothing.”

Visibly relieved, my roommate continues to regard me curiously loitering in the doorway. “So…anything else?”

“Huh? No. We’re good.”

He’s not convinced but he’s not going to press. “All right, welllll.”

And that’s my cue to leave.

“Right. Well. G’night.”

Stoically I trudge down to my bedroom, close the door behind me, and flop down, face first, on the bed.





Sebastian



Here’s where it gets really shitty: I can’t even look at her.

Sitting across from me, Jameson glances up and nails me with that cute little smile, her top front teeth playing peekaboo beneath her pretty top lip when she bites down.

Instead of smiling back at her like a normal human being, the image of her face when she climaxes fogs my mind and I glower.

“Wow.” She grins. “Such a sourpuss today.”

I fixate on the word puss, because it sounds like * and I can’t keep my mind out of the damn gutter—but I don’t dare tell her I’m crabby because thoughts of her kept me awake all night, because I’ve been daydreaming about her during the day, on the bus between matches, during practice—and every minute since.

I can’t stop thinking about her.

The smell of her gorgeous hair.

The way her sweet, conservative sweaters cling to her fantastically round boobs.

Her smile when she finally catches sight of me walking into the library toward our table.

That delightful way she ignores me when she’s trying to study.

The cute way she piles all her crap in my chair so I can’t sit in it without a hassle.

God she’s adorable.

Oz.

Oz?

“Are you listening to me? Hey. Oz, are you listening? Oz. Is everything okay?”

I glance up and realize she’s staring at me expectantly, has been asking questions and probably expecting a coherent response.

Say something, jackass.

“Everything is fine.”

But it’s not fine. Not any more. Not even close.

She knows enough not to push, and for once, because I have no idea how to handle these feelings brewing inside me, I ignore her.





Jameson



Oz is acting strange.

Again.

Just because my head is bent and I’m seemingly concentrating on my studying doesn’t mean I don’t notice him watching me, doesn’t mean I don’t notice his labored breaths, his restless ticks, and the fact that he’s analyzing me so closely it turns my cheeks a hot, blushing pink.

I ignore the heat, desperately fighting the temptation to press my hands to my face. I keep my nose to the grind, feigning interest in my textbook.

I’ve read the same sentence six times.

Seven.

Eight.

And counting.

He’s been like this for the past two days, sitting with me to study but avoiding anything resembling an actual conversation. Giving me one-word answers. Watching me under that baseball cap with dark, broody eyes. Hasn’t made a single attempt to sleep with me, flirt, or move us to a private study room.

Like I said: strange.