The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(7)

She lifts her earbuds, placing one back in her ear, then the other with a smug, satisfied smile. “See you around then, Oz.”

I catch her eyes rolling again before her neck bends, pen flying into motion as she goes back to studying.

I sigh. “Fine. Fifty bucks.”

“Two fifty.”

She never lifts her head.

What the hell? “This is bullshit. You seriously won’t kiss me for free?”

“Absolutely not.” She looks up and down my chiseled torso, eyes taking in my dense biceps and tattoos with only mild interest. An eyebrow cocks. “You’re not exactly my type.”

Liar.

“Kitten, you couldn’t be less my type even if you were sitting in that chair wearing nothing but that goddamn necklace.”

Liar.

“Please don’t ever call anyone kitten. It’s worse than sweetheart. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.” Then she boxes out, adjusting her entire body, rearranging herself away from me. Head bowing over her notebook, her shoulders slump a fraction before she raises her head to look me directly in the eye. “Know what else? That was a shitty thing to say to someone.”

“What! You just said the same freaking thing to me!”

Even so, when her mask of uncertainty gazes back at me,

I’m not gonna to lie—I feel like a total dickwad for having said it back.

Kind of.

Sort of.

Fine. Not really.

Nonetheless, I let out a long, drawn-out sigh, like I’m about to do her a huge favor to make up for it. “Okay. I’ll give you half the money.”

Her nose wrinkles in distaste. “That’s your apology? Pity money?”

I refuse to say I’m sorry. “Take it or leave it.”

“Fine. I’ll kiss you, but only because you wore me down.”

“You just fleeced me out of two hundred dollars!”

“Two hundred and fifty.”

We size each other up under the dim lights of the library, the table lamps casting a warm glow over her smooth skin and heart-shaped face. Shadows dance when she cocks her head in my direction, waiting for me to say something.

I try to look her up and down to mentally catalog her tits, hips, and ass, but it’s impossible with her sitting down.

“Can you do me one favor?” I grumble. “I think this would be less awkward for me if you stood up.”

She sniffs indignantly. “Less awkward for you? I’m about to put my lips on a complete stranger, and now you’re getting picky. Keep piling up those favors.”

“Instead of bitching you should be thanking me for the opportunity.”

A huff. “That’s right—you’re paying me because you are the epitome of morality and trustworthiness. It practically oozes out of your pores.”

“Jesus lady. I said I was going to give you half and I will.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” She huffs again but stands, rises to her full height, and shocks me again. A petite little thing, she barely reaches my clavicle, and I’m tempted to see if I could rest my chin on her head.

“If you don’t trust me and I’m pissing you off, why would you agree to this stupid stunt?”

This gives her pause and she seems to consider my question. “Curiosity. Besides, isn’t it okay to make poor choices every once in a while?”

I glance down between our bodies, noting the full breasts straining against the buttons of her black cardigan, and grin. Sorry, can’t help it; Sexy Librarian’s got a great rack beneath her proper sweater, with its row of proper buttons, and now they’re pressing improperly against my chest in the most improper way.

“What did you say your name was?” My question comes out huskier than intended.

Her pouty mouth slips into another satisfied smirk. “Sexy Librarian.”

“No, seriously.”

She pauses, inhaling a breath of air before exhaling it.

“Fine. If you must know, my name is James. James Clark.”

I know it’s f*cking rude—and probably really obnoxious—but I let my eyes bug out of my head and my mouth fall open. “Your name is James? Like as in James, James?”

Patiently, she waits me out.

I just stare at her, reconciling the masculine name with the feminine figure in front of me. Then, I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Don’t guys get confused when you’re f*cking them? Doesn’t your dude name get confusing for them?”

James’s blue eyes flare, but she otherwise doesn’t react. She’s obviously used to this response to her name.

“James is short for Jameson.” The implied ‘*’ tacked to the end of her sentence lingers in the air, squeezed between our bodies.

My dark eyebrow shoots sardonically into my hairline and my lips twist into a smirk. “What—the two extra letters on the end made it so long you had to shorten it?”

“Something like that.” Bemused, she bites down on her lower lip. “Are you going to kiss me or what? I have a thirty-page paper to finish by midnight, and I’m only on page twenty-two.”

“You have to kiss me.”

“Oh sheesh.” A loud sigh and she fiddles nervously with the top button of her cardigan. My eyes settle on the sliver of creamy skin there before she says, “Lucky me, this just gets better and better, doesn’t it? All right then Oz, hold still. You ready?”