The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(57)

“Yes, my boyfriend.” Jameson rolls her eyes. “Elliot? Remember him? Your roommate and the love of my life?”

The love of her life?

I laugh, frowning when it sounds foreign and forced. “Since when?”

“Since you’re too busy for a girlfriend, that’s when. Wrestling, friends, studying, your job—remember when you told me you weren’t ready to be tied down? Well we all have our priorities, Sebastian.” Her smooth, delicate hands find the hem of her threadbare tank top and she tugs it up past her flat stomach. “I’m not yours.”

Up and over her bare, taut breasts.

My mouth waters and my hand flies to the burgeoning bulge in my gym shorts, stroking.

“No touching. No looking. All this is just for Elliot.” She pushes down the waistband of her pajama bottoms. “You won’t be tied down to one person, remember?”

Remember? “I never said that.”

I would never say that. Would I?

Did I?

“You did. And now you’re going to lose me.”

Jameson pushes the sliding glass door open and the curtains billow like clouds around her ankles. A gust of wind carries in thousands of cold, shimmering snowflakes; they stick to her hair, glistening before melting into her warm skin.

She turns her back, stepping out into the frigid winter storm.

“Where are you going? James, come back!”

“You’re losing me, Sebastian,” her voice whispers. You’re losing me. You’re losing me.

Gasping, I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

Somewhere in the hotel a door slams. Water from a faucet. Light streaming in from the bathroom on the far side of the room.

“Wake up, f*ck stick. Time for warm ups.”

Huh?

“I’m not covering for your ass if you’re not outside by five.”

I crack an eye open and peer over at one of my teammates—my roommate for this trip to Ohio—who’s lacing up his running shoes.

“Did you hear me?” he asks. “Get moving.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” I roll with a moan toward my cell. “Jeez, what time is it?”

“Four forty-five. Time to grease the tires.” He lobs a damp bath towel toward the bed but misses. “You look like shit, by the way. Get any sleep last night? You were mumbling all night, whining like a little bitch.”

“No.” No, I didn’t sleep, because I did nothing but toss and turn, sweat and moan, and talk in my sleep.

“What was I saying?”

My teammate laughs. “You were calling out some dude’s name and begging him not to leave you. When you started to cry, I had to put a pillow over my head.”

Shit. “Sorry man.”

“Whatever. You’re lucky I didn’t put the pillow over your head instead.” He grabs a pair of dirty shorts from the floor, tossing them at my head. “Time to hustle.”

“Stop throwing shit, I’m up, I’m up.”

I rise from the bed to quickly move through my morning ritual—piss, brush my teeth, get dressed—mind on one thing, and one thing alone: Jameson Clark.





Jameson




Something is ringing.

One eye pries open, head flops to the side, and fuzzily I ogle my nightstand. My phone buzzes and rings, doing a happy little samba across the flat wooden surface. It’s loud, obnoxious, and annoying—exactly like it’s supposed to be.

I slap at my phone and snatch it up with a groan when it’s in the palm of my hand.

I blink at the unidentified number calling, but nonetheless swipe to accept, letting the call connect.

“Hello,” I rasp groggily.

5:37 is not a good look for me.

“James?” The voice is vaguely familiar. Masculine. Deep and sexy and familiar.

“Huh?”

“It’s me.”

God I’m tired. Am I even awake? What day is it? “Me who?”

Deep chortle. “Sebastian.”

My eyes pop open in a panic, because why on earth would he be calling this early unless there was an emergency? I struggle to sit up. “Oz? Sebastian! Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, no—everything is great.”

I am literally going to kill this guy when he gets back.

“You’re calling me at five in the morning cause everything is great?”

“Yes and no. It took me this long to find a phone to use.”

“But it’s still dark outside.”

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I gaze down at the number, dazed and confused. Not his number. Not his phone. “Wait. Whose phone is this?”

“I borrowed one from the team manager. Mine died last night and I don’t have a charger.”

He borrowed a phone to call me? “You have my cell phone number memorized?”

“Mind like a steel trap, Clark, remember? Three. Point. Seven.” He’s breathing hard and it sounds like he’s pacing.

“Are you out for a run?”

“Yeah. Sorry it’s so early but I felt like a huge dick leaving you hanging last night. None of my teammates would let me borrow me their f*cking phones, and I couldn’t charge a phone call to the hotel room.”

Assholes.