The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(25)

Abe is honest and kind. Don’t ask me how I know; I just do.

Thick black hair that looks freshly cut.

Skin the color of light bronze.

He’s beautiful.

If I’m being truthful, I’m more attracted to him than I am to JB, but that fact hardly matters because he is not who my date is with.

I shake my head, trying to get Abe’s image out of my mind, superficially focusing on my outfit instead. Toss on my jacket and pull on my boots, knowing it won’t do me any good to dwell on the wrong handsome face, the one that has been consuming my thoughts since I googled him.

It’s going to be a long night.



Low and behold, JB is on time.

The guys are inside the restaurant when we walk in, Hannah giving her stride a bit of sashay. Hips swinging dramatically as she cases the joint, eyes roaming the entire restaurant.

It’s an actual restaurant.

Not a bar. Not a grill. Not a combination of the two.

You can’t get pitas here, or wraps, or soup and sandwiches—it’s a nice, sit-down establishment. One I hadn’t heard of before but that JB randomly pulled out of his ass as a suggestion.

I’m suitably impressed, and so is Hannah.

She lets out a low whistle when the hostess tells us our dates are waiting for us at the bar near the lobby.

“Nice place. He must really be dying to get into your granny panties.”

I nudge her in the ribcage. “Shut up. I’m not wearing granny panties.”

“Liar.” She laughs.

Yeah, she’s right—I totally am. “They’re your underwear, so I wouldn’t laugh so hard if I were you.”

“Shit. You’re right.”

The fact that we share underwear to begin with, let alone our comfortable, cotton panties would gross most people out. But after doing laundry and not knowing whose underwear was whose—because we shop together, too—we both gave up and now just grab whichever pair from the dryer.

“Pull down your shirt.” Hannah tugs at my collar, and I slap her hand away.

“Knock it off!”

“Show a little boob.”

“I have no boobs.” The shirt I threw on is black, cotton, and off the shoulder. Nothing too sexy, just a bit flirty, it’s a glorified t-shirt. “If I pull down my shirt, it will be down to my belly button—there is nowhere to go but down.”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t be such a tramp.” I give her the side-eye, glancing over her pretty, light pink sweater and jeans. Cute and conservative, funny considering she kept trying to sex me up before we left the apartment.

Hypocrite.

Then again, she’s not really in this to find a boyfriend.

“Chin up, tits out.” One last reminder from her and I paste on a smile, heading toward JB and his roommate, Abe.

Wow.

Abe Davis in photographs is nothing like Abe Davis in person.

Tall. Broad.

Dark.

Friendly.

His eyes are smiling—his mouth, too—and that smile is directed at me. Not Hannah.

Not the cute hostess behind us with the menus. Not the pretty little waitress throwing both guys a teasing glance as she saunters past us. I watch as she gives them both a once-over before passing and glancing over her shoulder.

“Skylar.” JB’s hand are shoved in his pockets, and he’s dressed himself up a bit. Not much, but it’s a vast improvement over the hoodie and track pants he wore on our first date. This time it’s a black half-zip, embroidered Iowa logo on the chest, dark jeans. Freshly washed hair—it’s still damp—and black tennis shoes.

Abe, on the other hand…

With a black leather jacket draped over his forearm, he’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt tucked into jeans with a belt and dress shoes.

I stare.

I stare, and I can’t help myself, because his eyes are incredible and they’re looking right at me, and I’m looking back and— Stop it, Skylar. You are not here for him.

You are here with JB.

JB.

The guy barely knows what to do with himself, not at all at ease, clearly finding himself in unfamiliar territory.

“Hey guys.” I peel my eyes off of Abe Davis and force myself to smile at JB. “You’re on time.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” JB laughs. “They have our table ready if we want to sit down. I’m fucking famished.”

Next to him, Abe loudly coughs into the palm of his hand.

“Sorry. I mean—I’m hungry.”

“Should we do introductions first?” I suggest. “Guys, this is my roommate, Hannah. Hannah, this is JB, and…Abe, is it?”

Abe transfers his jacket from one arm to the other, offering Hannah his free hand, pumping it once. “Good to meet you.”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, not impressed. “Hi.”

“Should we sit? It will be easier to talk at the table,” Abe politely suggests.

We sit. We order drinks. We get menus.

An awkward silence ensues, and I rack my brain for a topic of conversation—but Abe beats me to it.

Words are coming out of his mouth, but I’m barely listening, fixated on his straight white teeth, the small cleft in his chin.

“…right, Jack?” He nudges his roommate into action.