The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag, #3)

by Sara Ney

“You said, ‘That’s unexpected,’ and I said, ‘Yes, but I’m good at it.”

God, I’m as big a douchebag as those assholes he hangs out with.

“I could do pizza,” I say it slowly, weighing my words. I’m going to regret it later because binging on pizza is a terrible idea with a weigh-in looming; I have to make my weight class or I’m fucked, but if this girl had suggested we eat a steaming pile of dog shit, I’d have gone along and eaten it without protest.

Her eyes rake me up and down, crinkled at the corners, watching. Always smiling at me like she has a naughty little secret, looking me up and down as I move across the room. I fight my initial instinct to look away.

Uh, do basic white girls drink pumpkin spice lattes? Yes I want to go inside!

“Laurel?” His face inches closer. I suck in a breath. This is it—he’s going to kiss me. “Yes?” “Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser?” “I don’t know what that means,” I say in a breathy whisper. “What are you hopin’ it means?” Our mouths are a sigh apart, the air between us tickling my lips. His powerful chest brushes my breasts and this time, he doesn’t move away. “Say it again.” “Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser?” His mouth is hot, near my ear, warm breath sending a spark up my middle, dampening my underwear. “Dis oui, s’il te plait.” Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser; dear Lord, I hope it means he wants to kiss me. I hope it means—

bulge, but it’s— “I better not.” My shoulders

Rhett kisses me like he means it, hard but gentle. Lazy but controlled. Firm and soft and then, “Tu sens merveilleuse.” His raspy French murmur sends a tingle shooting straight down my spine, down to my toes. Whatever the words are he’s whispering, they send a ripple of desire through my core, getting me—oh God—so hot.

“You think it’s fair that people judge me without getting to know me first because I’m attractive?” “So you agree? You think you’re really pretty?” “Stop quoting Mean Girls,

“He speaks French and it’s so freaking hot.” “Shut up.” “Ugh. Every once in a while he says something I can’t understand and I pretend he’s telling me to take my clothes off and strip down naked.”

“There are so many balls here I don’t know where to look first,” Donovan mutters excitedly. “And here I thought baseball pants were where it’s at. Compared to these singlets, they might as well be wearing diapers out there. I’ve slipped into my fantasy.” “Would you please stop?” I laugh. “Stop staring at everyone’s balls.” “I can’t help it.” He holds his hand out as if he’s presenting someone with a platter. “They’re literally right there. See? Balls.”

“Je vais t’embrasser.” His mouth is moving, speaking words I don’t understand, inching closer. I nod. “Okay.” Those rough, callused hands cup my jaw, thumbs stroking my smooth skin. “Je suis content que tu sois ici, Laurel.” His lips brush the skin beneath my ear. “I’m really glad you’re here.” He’s so gentle. So tender. My eyes slide closed and I bite my lip, bite back a moan. “Putain, tu es jolie,” he murmurs into my ear. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty.” “Merci.” It’s the only other French word I know, and it slips out on a whisper as I tilt my neck so he can plant a kiss there. His warm hands slide to the back of my neck, lips dragging along my jawline. To the corner of my mouth.

breathe. “Goddammit, oh sh-shit. Shit.” Please God, I pray, don’t let me come. Make it last. Suddenly it’s clear to me why the guys on the team are constantly making blow job jokes, the stupid assholes—it feels so motherfucking incredible.

God, how could I have ever thought he wasn’t attractive when now, he’s the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen? It breaks my vain heart knowing how I acted—like an asshole. I’m not out of his league; he’s out of mine.

My mom steps forward, arms spread wide. “Congratulations honey. Great match.” “Thanks,” I mumble into her shoulder as she crushes me to her body. My mom is tiny compared to me, small in stature but not in attitude—not with three sons. My dad might wear the pants, but Mom controls the zipper.

Suddenly she appears in the driveway, barefoot, in a t-shirt and tight black leggings, running to her car on her tiptoes. Yanks the door open, ass sticking out of the cab when she leans in, swiping an unseen object from the center console. Slams the door and turns back toward the house. She doesn’t see me standing here. “Laurel,” I call her name in the rain, loud enough that she spins on the grass, brows raised, surprised to see me in her yard. Shocked, actually. “Rhett?” She steps toward me, clutching her phone charger. “Rhett, what are you doing here?” She squints her blue eyes up at the sky as beads of water blanket her hair. Her skin is already dewy. “I came to see you.” “Okay.” She smiles, giving a hasty glance up at the sky. “Do you want to come inside?” “No.” My head shakes, adamant, the brim of my ball cap keeping only my face dry. “No, I need to say what I came to say.” Laurel nods slowly, hair now completely saturated, falling in limp sheets to her shoulders. She tightly winds her phone cord and tucks it into the back pocket of her jeans.