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

by Sara Ney

“What do you want?” She’s way too pretty, way too far out of my league, rank, and status to be talking to me, and we both know it.

“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone when I told you to fuck off?”

“You don’t have to be mean.” “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you, of all people, were so sensitive. Guess you’re not a fan of being on the receivin’ end of a joke.”

“You’re the one who walked over here. I told you to leave me alone.”

“You said, ‘That’s unexpected,’ and I said, ‘Yes, but I’m good at it.” I swallow, shifting my gaze. “So French was the language you used in our text messages.” “Oui. Parfois je ne peux pas m’en empêcher.”

“Cois-moi, ce n’est pas si intéressant.”

“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?”

“Dis oui, s’il te...

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.

I’ve been doing my best not to judge her based on appearance alone, but why the fuck is a girl like her taking an interest in me? I have no fucking idea. Not a clue.

“Je vais t’embrasser.” His mouth is moving, speaking words I don’t understand, inching closer. I nod. “Okay.”

A queasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. They’re planning something; I would bet money on it.

It hasn’t occurred to me before this moment that he might be using me for sex, using my body, like the guys that have come before him—but hearing him hesitate like this? It just might break my heart.

I don’t have a clue what we’re doing and can’t handle not knowing. I guess that makes me a control freak, doesn’t it? I can’t push the subject with him because if I do, I run the risk of pushing him away.

I can’t outwardly admit I was one of those girls. A girl that called her kindhearted son out of the blue, because of a poster hanging on campus, to mock him. To tease him because I thought he wasn’t that good-looking.

I’m a terrible person, with no better morals than those young women, or my cousin Alex.

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.

No girl has ever told me they loved me before, if you don’t include my mother. I sit in stunned silence, processing, basically freaking the fuck out. “That’s not it,” I finally croak out, my own words raspy. “I just don’t know what to say.”

I’m not handsome. I’m not outgoing. I’m awkward with an embarrassing amount of inexperience. My teammates treat me like shit though I’m now the team’s winningest athlete. Laurel is everything I’m not—beautiful, boisterous, and popular.

“Je t’aime aussi,” comes his guttural reply. “Je t’aime bébé.”