The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(39)

He sighs. “You know what I mean.”

“I was just stating the obvious, Reginald.”

He narrows his eyes. “I hate that nickname.”

“It’s actually not a nickname, so…”

I’m being a brat and don’t even care.

“If we’re going to be friends, you’ll have to call me Rex.” His grin is patronizing, and I’m embarrassed that I ever found it charming.

It’s not.

It’s strange and annoying and it makes me want to pop him right in the kisser.

“Did you get the notes I emailed you from class?”

Before I discovered what a sleaze he is, I borrowed lecture notes from him. Our professor talks really fast, and I never took pictures of the projection screen, so I had Rex email me his.

“Yes, I did. Thank you.” My lips purse.

Fiddling with the laptop, I decide to take notes longhand instead since I’m quicker at it than typing on a keyboard.

“Busy weekend?” he asks, making small talk.

“No.”

Short, sweet, and to the point.

Maybe he’ll get the hint and stop talking.

“What do you have going on tonight?” He leans in closer, shooting me a flirtatious smile. “Feel like doing something?”

Wait—is he going to ask me out? “What are you suggesting?”

“You’re new to town. I could show you around.”

“Yeah? Where would you take me? Because I’ve already been to the park, a house party, and the mall.”

He scratches his neck. “That doesn’t leave us with many options.”

I stare straight ahead at the whiteboard, eyes scanning the previous class’s notes, acting bored. “Not many options? That’s too bad.”

“What about a date or something?”

“A date? With you?”

“Yeah, I could take you out. We could go dancing or something.”

“Dancing? Where?”

“Mad Dog Jacks has a dance floor.”

“Mad Dog Jacks?” I let the sound of indecision enter my voice, pursing my lips. “Isn’t that a biker bar?”

“It used to be.”

“But it’s still a bar, right?”

“Sure, but they have a dance floor.”

I tap on my chin, pretending to ponder his offer. “Hmm, let me think about it.”

“Take your time. We have the entire class.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

Gunderson winks. “No problem, babe.”

Babe.

Gag me.





Elliot



“Knock, knock.”

“Door’s open.”

Literally, it’s wide open—I have no idea why Anabelle is actually knocking.

She appears in the doorway, fully dressed to go downtown, looking fucking fantastic, not at all casual like she did for her night out with the girl from her class.

My stomach drops and I sit up straighter in the middle of my bed, where I’ve been studying, transcribing notes for a class I’ve been struggling to ace, thinking that maybe when I was finished, Anabelle and I would spend the rest of the night watching movies or playing a game, or maybe go for a drink.

Together.

“You’re going out? I thought we could do something later.”

“We were, but then Rex asked me out—dinner and dancing—and I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to feel him out a little. You know, do a little reconnaissance work? Kind of like an undercover FBI mission where I infiltrate enemy territory. See if it’s worth my time to get back at the smarmy bastard.”

“Oh.” I flop back against my headboard. “That’s cool.”

Passive aggressive much, Elliot?

Anabelle’s brows shoot up. “Why are you saying it like that? Do you want me to stay home? Because I will. We can hang out.”

That’s even worse—Anabelle would sit on the couch with me out of some twisted obligation? Because I sound pathetic? No thank you. Hard pass.

“No. Whatever, it’s fine—I’ve got to catch up on this.” I hold up the exercise science textbook I’m reading. “This class is kicking my ass.”

She raises her arms, hands smacking her thighs on their way back down, exasperated. “Seriously Elliot? Science on a Friday night?”

“I’m trying to graduate with my GPA intact, Donnelly, so I can get into a stellar grad school. This shit is hard.”

“You can take one night off to have some fun.”

She has a point. “I suppose. Maybe I’ll see what the guys are up to.”

“That’s the spirit. Anyway, I just wanted to know what you think of this outfit for tonight. Is it too casual?”

Too casual? Ugh. Yeah, no.

Tight jeans, high black boots. Black fitted shirt. Dark, long hair down, messy. Glossy lips.

Anabelle looks both conservative and smoking hot at the same time.

“I thought you said this date was fake.” This sure as shit looks like a real date outfit to me, the way she’s fussing about her clothes and touching her hair.

“It is.”

“Then why…” my voice trails off.