The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(20)

“Hey,” is the first word out of his mouth. “You BlueAsTheSky?”

A reminder that I haven’t yet told him my name. Or have I?

Ugh.

“Hi. It’s Skylar.” I put my hand out to shake his, and instead of taking it, he slides into the booth, hands skimming the tabletop.

Okay then.

“You want to sit up at the bar, or will this work?” JB asks, grabbing at one of the menus wedged in between the salt and pepper shakers, beside the condiments.

“Um, this is fine.” Sit at the bar? I don’t think so, pal.

Despite his first impression, I’m still na?vely hopeful that JB will pull his head out of his ass and be the guy I’ve been chatting with on the app. So. I’m going to plop myself down across from him, order a drink, and pray for a miracle.

Mirroring his actions, I grab a menu and let my eyes roam the selections, not quite sure if I should go out on a limb and order alcohol.

“You getting anything, babe?” He doesn’t look up at me, and for whatever reason, his use of an endearment rubs me the wrong way. I might not date much, but I do know guys often use pet names when they can’t remember someone’s actual name.

“It’s Skylar.”

He finally lowers the menu, lifting his face to look directly at me. Smiles. “I know.”

“What does the J stand for?”

The menu lowers again. “Jack.”

Rises.

“Jack. I like that.” There happens to be a straw on the table, so I take it and start rolling it between my fingers to stop myself from fiddling with my shirt. Or the small hole slowly growing on the thigh of my jeans.

I’ve stuck my finger in it four times already, and I know this little factoid because I counted.

“Thanks.”

His short answers are killing me softly. Frustrated, I blow out a puff of air, my brown hair floating away from my face.

“Um…”

JB sets the menu down. “I’m getting a draft beer. How ’bout you? Wine or something girly?”

Wine? In this place? It probably comes in a cardboard box.

“Undecided.” It’s clear to me that this conversation—or lack thereof—isn’t going to improve the longer we sit here. JB and I have no chemistry; if we did, I would have felt it already.

Instantly.

“What about something fruity—don’t all chicks dig those fruity drinks?” He laughs, eyes sparkling, as if he’s just told a joke and expects me to laugh. “Sex on the Beach?”

It takes me several seconds to respond, and I seriously wish I could see the expression on my own face.

“I’ll take a pass on a fruity drink, but thank you for the suggestion.”

The guy winks. “No problem, babe.”

“It’s Skylar.”

“Right.” He shoots me another winning smile—one he probably considers a wicked grin—then licks his lips. “Tell me about your cat, Skylar.”

“My cat?”

“Yeah, didn’t you say you have a cat? I love animals, too.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Oh, that’s right—you’re a dog person. Tell me about your dog.”

What the hell is he talking about?

“I don’t have one of those either. I said on the rare occasions I go running, I always stop to pet dogs. I never said I had one.”

The menu in front of me that’s been lying on the table gets pushed aside.

I clearly won’t be needing it since I won’t be staying.

JB is an asshole who clearly has no idea who I am.

Which means:

1. He’s obviously talking to so many girls at the moment he can’t keep any of them straight.

2. He’s out for numbers, not something meaningful.

3. I am not the girl for him, and probably not even his type.



“Sorry, it’s been a long day,” he muses.

“Oh? How so?”

And he tells me. Every. Single. Detail about his day. How he had to wake up at the “ass crack of dawn and jog three fucking miles in the damn dark” then locked himself out of his house and had to go to class with no books while wearing a sweaty t-shirt and track pants.

“Jesus Christ, I was so hungry by the time I made it home this afternoon—after practice, of course. Totally brutal today.” He shoots me a pointed look. “We have qualifiers for the WIAA championship coming up, so…yeah.”

I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but judging by his tone and his raised brow, JB is expecting me to be impressed.

I’m not.

I’m irritated.

He keeps talking, droning on above the music screaming out of the subwoofers, never once taking a breath so I can interject, ask a question, or participate in the conversation.

“You know, I don’t know what I’ll do when I graduate, but I have clear goals. I’m getting a business degree but I think I’ll end up working for my dad. Why not, right? I can make six figures straight out of college doing nothing but pushing pencils, and my dad knows a guy at this huge network so I can always try broadcasting. Nepotism at its finest, right? But who gives a shit if I don’t have to work at getting a gig. Am I right or am I right?”

It sounds like a speech he has memorized and has given dozens of times.