How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours Read online

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Her voice is a gentle caress from the shadows.

  “I asked you to marry me, and you said no.”

  “Why did I say no?” Jameson is biting down on her lip to hide her smile. I can see her white teeth glowing against the light filtering into the room.

  “Because I haven’t told you I love you yet.” My voice is small and aloof, because even though it was a dream, I feel like an asshole.

  “Oh?”

  And I haven’t, not yet. We’ve been together officially for more than half a year and all I’ve ever done is show her with my body how much I care. That part I’m stellar at. That part is easy. The sex. The affection. Holding hands. Whispered words across the library table. The way every now and again, she lets me fuck her in a study room.

  Not once have I told Jameson how my heart feels about her, how I love her intelligence and sarcasm. How I love her quick wit, and the fact that she doesn’t put up with any of my shit. Or Zeke’s nonstop bullshit.

  How I love her.

  No wonder she keeps rejecting me in my own damn dreams.

  I’m a dick.

  “James?”

  “Sebastian?” This time when she smiles, she doesn’t bother hiding it.

  I roll over to face her, repositioned so we’re snuggled against each other in the center of the bed, her arms across my stomach. My fingers find and sweep away the stray hairs across her temple, and I stroke her forehead.

  “I do, you know. Love you. More than probably anything.”

  There. I said it.

  And wouldn’t you know, her breath actually hitches—just like you see in the movies when the girl is so startled and pleased she loses her breath for a second.

  “I know you love me.” Wistful and filled with wonder. “I love you, too.”

  Somehow, it’s not enough. “For real though, babe. The only person I love more than you is myself.”

  A loud laugh fills the otherwise darkened room. “Oh my god, tell me you did not just say that.”

  Am I missing something here? “What’s so damn funny? I’m being serious.”

  “The only person you love more than me is you?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “But you love me?”

  “So much.”

  A floodgate opens, and now that I’ve said the words, they’re easier to say than I could have ever imagined.

  “I love you.” My arms stretch toward her, dragging her flush against me then pulling her over my body. Hands grasping her face, I do my best to look in her eyes. “I love you.”

  Our lips meet and she sighs.

  “I love you, Jameson. I’m in love with you.”

  “Desperately?” She breathes with a smile.

  “So desperately.” I open my mouth for another kiss with tongue. “So fucking much.”

  I don’t stop dreaming about us.

  Won’t stop.

  And when the time comes and I ask her to marry me and have cardigan-wearing babies?

  She’s going to say yes.

  The End

  AN EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT from BOOK 2

  The following is an unedited, rough excerpt of, tentatively titled

  How to Date a Douchebag: The Failing Hours.

  This is Zeke Daniels story.

  A very small part of him.

  The guy you love to hate.

  Be gentle with him.

  Ezekiel

  “Are you listening to me Mr. Daniels?”

  I jerk my head toward the sound of my coach’s voice, already aggravated to the point of distraction because he’s determined to waste my time. His office is small, but so is he, and the cinderblock walls faded to a dull blue cast an eerie pallor over his skin.

  The veins in Coaches neck strain as he fights to gain control of the impromptu meeting he’s called me into. Except I’m not in the mood to listen.

  With nothing to add, I keep my damn mouth shut, instead giving a terse nod.

  “I said, are you listening to me, son?”

  I want to remind him that I’m not his son; not even close. My own father doesn’t even call me son.

  Not that I’d want him to.

  Jaw locked, teeth clenched. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Now, I don’t know where that chip on your shoulder comes from, and I’m not going to pretend to give a shit about what goes on when you leave here—but I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch one of my boys self-destruct in my gym.” His weathered skin stretches along with the grimly set line of his mouth.

  He continues. “You think you’re the first prick to come through this program thinking his shit don’t stink? You’re not. But you’re the first prick to come with an attitude I can’t seem to quit. You’re also one sarcastic wisecrack away from getting a fist slammed through your pretty face. Even your own teammates don’t like you. I can’t have discord on my team.”

  My jaw ticks when I clench it, but having nothing in defense, I clamp my jaw shut.

  He rankles on.

  “What’s it going to take to get through to you, Mr. Daniels?”

  Nothing.

  You’ve not nothing that will fucking get through to me, old man.

  He tips back in his old, wooden desk chair and studies me, fingers clasped into a steeple. Balancing on the legs, Coach taps his chin with the tips.

  It’s on the verge of my tongue to tell him that to start, he can stop calling me Mister Daniels. Second, he can cut to the chase and tell me the real reason he pulled me into his office after practice.

  After a long stretch of silence, he leans forward, the springs on his chair releasing a loud, scrapping metallic sound, his arms coming to rest on the desktop. His hands glide over a sheaf of paper and he plucks one off the top.

  “Tell you what we’re going to do.” He pushes the paper toward me across the desk. “The director of Big Brothers Mentorship Program owes me a favor. You have any experience with kids, Daniels?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Do you even know what Big Brothers is?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me,” I can’t stop myself from retorting. Crossing my arms, I adopt a defensive pose most people find intimidating.

  Not Coach.

  “Allow me to educate you, Mr. Daniels. It’s a program designed to match a youngster with an older volunteer—usually they prefer college-aged students—that act as a mentor. Hang out with the kid. Show him he’s not alone. Be that someone dependable that isn’t going to bail him. Typically, they’re good kids, from single parent households—but not always. Sometimes the kids are left alone a lot, deadbeat dad. Sometimes their parents just don’t give a shit and they’re left to fend for themselves. Know what it’s like growing up like that, son?”

  Yes. “No.”

  The sadist drones on, shuffling the stack on his desk. “There’s an interviewing process I think you’d fail with flying colors. But that’s why we’re cutting through the red tape and pulling some strings. You know why? Because you have potential to be successful and you’re pissing it away by being a little asshole.”

  His chair creeks in the cellblock of an office. “Maybe what you need is to give a shit about someone other than yourself for a change. Maybe what you need is to meet a kid whose life is shittier than yours. The pity party is over.”

  “I don’t have time to volunteer, Coach,” I grit out.

  Coach grins up at me from his desk, the overhead lights reflecting off his thick glasses. “Too goddamn bad then, ain’t it? You either take the volunteer hours, or you’re off the team. I don’t need a smoking gun on my hands. Trust me, we’ll find a way to carry on without you.”

  He waits for my answer, and when I don’t immediately respond, he presses. “Think you can handle that? Say, Yes, Coach.”

  I nod tersely. “Yes, Coach.”

  “Good.” Satisfied, he grabs a yellow number two penc
il and tosses it at me. “Fill that sheet out and take it with you. You meet your Little Brother tomorrow at their downtown office. Address is on the form.”

  Reluctantly, I snatch the paper off the desk but don’t look at it.

  “Don’t be late. Don’t fuck this up. Tomorrow afternoon you’re going to see how the other half lives, got it son? Now get the fuck out of my office.””

  I glower down at him.

  His raspy chuckle hits my back when I turn toward the door. “And Mr. Daniels?”

  I stop in my tracks but refuse to face him.

  “I know it will be hard, but try not to be total prick to the kid.”

  Coach is a total asshole.

  Not that I give a shit, because I’m an asshole, too. But there isn’t much I care about these days, so why would he think I’d care about some strange fucking kid being involuntary forced on me?

  My friends call me merciless. Heartless.

  They claim cold blood runs through my veins—and who knows, it probably does.

  But I like it that way; I like creating distance. No one needs me, and I need them even less. Happiness is a myth. Who needs it? This anger brewing inside me is more real than any happiness I’ve forgotten how to feel.

  Walking into the grocery store, I grab a cart from the corral, pushing it with purpose up and down each aisle, tossing shit in without slowing my stride.

  Steeled oats. Agave nectar. Walnuts.

  I saunter to the nutrition and organics, hands automatically reaching for the Protein Powder, gripping the black plastic container in one hand, and lob it in among the deli meat, bread, and bottles of water.

  Turning the aisle and pushing the cart on the right side of the aisle, I skid to a halt, almost plowing into a little girl on her tiptoes, reaching for a box of ice cream cones. Her black, curly hair pulled tightly into two pigtails, she strains with her string bean arms toward a shelf she’ll never reach.

  Even on the balls of her feet.

  “Shit kid, I almost hit you,” I growl. “Pay more attention.”

  “Can you get that down for me?” Her little index finger wiggles toward a red box of sugar cones. I note that her tiny digits are painted glittery blue, bits of dirt encrusted under her nail beds.

  “You shouldn’t talk to strangers.” I scowl down at her, plucking the box off the shelf and gruffly shove it toward her grasping hands. “Jesus Christ, where’s your Mom?”

  “She’s at home.”

  “Who the hell are you with?”

  The little squirt tilts her head, narrowing her unblinking beady eyes at me. “You’re saying bad words.”

  I’m not in the mood for this, so I narrow mine back. “I’m an adult. I can say whatever the hell I want.”

  Her little mouth puckers and I can feel her silently judging me.

  “Summer? Oh my god, Summer!” A flurry of gray and white flies by when a woman tears from around the corner, gasping for breath and latching onto the kid’s puny arm. “Oh my god, you cannot just walk off like that! You scared me half to death. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  The kid holds her ground. “I was getting ice cream cones.”

  “Summer.” The woman gets down on her knees, pulling the little girl into an embrace. Takes a shaky breath. “Summer, when I couldn’t find you I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

  “I was right here,” the kid squeaks out into the bare skin of the woman’s shoulder, combating to breathe through the struggle cuddle. “This boy was getting my cones.”

  This boy?

  I put my hands up. “Whoa kid, do not drag me down into the gutter with you.”

  It’s then that the woman senses my presence and looks up. Up. Up, into my impassive eyes. No, I’m startled to realize—she’s not a woman—she’s a young woman. About my age, her eyes widen with a flash of panic and fear at the same time her lips part.

  She recovers quickly, hugging the girl tighter. “Where you waiting with her?”

  A snort escapes my nose and I ignore her question. “Lady, you make a shitty nanny. She could have been kidnapped.”

  “I know.” The girls mouth clamps shut, chin trembling. Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, she swallows nervously before, “T-thanks for helping her.”

  “I’m no good Samaritan,” I snort, not wanting her thanks. “All I did was prevent her from crushing herself by tipping over the display rack.”

  “Thank you nonetheless.” Another quick squeeze around the little kid’s shoulders, and the young woman stands. I take her measure, sizing her up. Petite, I gauge her height at around five foot five. Hazel eyes. Blonde hair so pale it looks white, falling down over her shoulder in a thick, wholesome braid. My gaze immediately falls to the neckline of her gray Iowa tee shirt, and I appraise her non-existent chest.

  Bummer. Must suck.

  She hunches her shoulders self-consciously and clears her throat. “Come on, Summer. We should go. We have more stuff to grab.”

  “Yeah, you should go, because you’re totally in my way.” I give my cart a jostle, jerking it forward so they move and I can skirt around in what little room they’re not taking up. Before I round the next aisle, I stab an accusing finger their way. “For the record, Nanny, that kid shouldn’t be out in public; it should be in bed.”

  Ah, my favorite part… The acknowledgements.

  The “letting people know who made this journey a little more amazing along the way” part.

  Thank you Internet for providing the inspiration for the dating quotes at the beginning of each chapter. They’re all based on real conversations, pick-up lines, come-ons, and texts between actual people. Yup. This is how singles talk to each other these days….and we wonder why chivalry is dead!

  Shocking, I know.

  To my brother, Jeff, who suggested I dedicate this entire book to him. He’s bossy and rude, and was the perfect person to call when I needed to make Sebastian just a tad douchier. The guy goes and helps solve one plot dilemma, and suddenly he takes credit for the entire story.

  Typical douchebag.

  To my Beta family: Tami Estes, Nikki Kroll, author ME Carter, Laurie Darter, author Emma Doherty, and author Kristann Monaghan—I know some of you were nervous to give me honest feedback, but without you, I couldn’t have struck the right balance between “douchey” and “likeable.”

  All in all, I think we did okay.

  Shirl Rickman. I <3 You.

  Christine Kuttnauer, my right hand and PA: the fact that you’re starting to hug me says it all. You keep me organized, scheduled, and always tell it to me straight. If we worked in an office, you would be my work wife. Don’t tell Laurie I said that.

  To my fan group Ney’s Little Liars; thank you for loving me enough to join and stick around, except for Melinda, whom I added without permission: “FFS Sara, did you add me to your group?” Yes. Yes I did.

  BS’ers. Our safe place.

  Alina (Hoot Nanny) for taking such good care of my baby while I work.

  To Doug for giving me the space to be myself and letting me be creative. Because let’s face it, I’m a tad…weird.

  My parents: Lori, Jim, Jean and Harold for being so proud.

  Jenna P, Kirstin K, Abby S, Jenny C…for still thinking I’m cool even though I’m way older than you. My new friends Renee and Jody, who will probably never see this because I have to force them to read when they’d rather be Jazzercising. Or eating ice cream.

  Swag hags:

  Tami with the etsy shop MockingbirdApparel, thanks so much for designing and printing the “Date the D” tee shirts that I wear and sell at my signings. They are a real crowd pleaser, and the decals aren’t half bad either.

  Kristen & Andy with the Book Boyfriend Candles for creating the custom “Douchebags Smell Good” candles. The best. Swag. Ever. It’s true: “One whiff and you’re in love…”

  Design & Editing:

  To Sarah Hanson with Okay Creations for designing an eye-catching cover. It’s fantast
ic in every way. And Sarah? I might be irritating to deal with via email, but I’ll grow on you, trust me.

  To Caitlyn with C. Marie Editing, your attention to detail made a huge difference. I never thought I’d get through all those red edits.

  To Julie with JT Formatting, the last person to touch the book before it gets published. Thank you for turning my manuscript into art. I marvel at your work.

  And to you.

  Thank you.

  For more information about Sara Ney and her books, visit:

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  Other Titles by Sara

  The Kiss and Make Up Series

  Kissing in Cars

  He Kissed Me First

  A Kiss Like This

  #ThreeLittleLies Series

  Things Liars Say

  Things Liars Hide

  Things Liars Fake

  With M.E. Carter

  FriendTrip

  FriendTrip: WeddedBliss (a FriendTrip novella)