The Studying Hours

“None of your business.”

“Then how the fuck am I supposed to know if I was cockblocking you or not? I’m a wrestler, not a freaking mind reader.”

Jameson strolls to the dresser, tugs it open, and pulls out her white tank top and sleep shorts. “Well you’re a shitty wingman, too.”

I furrow my brow, disgruntled. “Do I look like a goddamn wingman?”

Her mouth hangs open. “Yes! You literally said you were going to be my wingman!”

A snort escapes my nose. “Not with those snowboarding guys! I thought you meant other guys staying at the hotel!”

“Fine!” In defeat, Jameson throws her arms in the air. “Then let’s get dressed and sit in the hotel bar.”

I squint at her skeptically. “Are you even twenty-one?”

“Oh my god, I hate you right now.” She taps her foot on the carpet in a tiny huff, pretending to be mad. It’s kind of adorable. “Rule number six: no cockblocking. And yes I’m twenty-one. Can we go now?”

“Uh…have you seen the idiots staying here?”

“Yes, I’m staring at one,” she deadpans, keeping a straight face for a few seconds before her face breaks into a grin.

“Ha ha, very funny.” I smirk. “Lucky for you, I don’t count.”

“If you would have at least let Erik give me his phone number, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You were really freaking rude to him.”

“He was wearing a yellow sweatshirt!” I hardly manage to keep the disdain out of my voice.

She stares blankly. “So?”

“So? So! You can’t trust anyone wearing a yellow sweatshirt.”

Her brows rise and she points to my yellow sweatshirt. “You’re wearing a yellow sweatshirt.”

“Thank you! I just proved my point.” I flick an imaginary piece of lint off my hoodie. “Besides, Erik had small hands.” No reaction? Fine. I prompt her, “Small hands? Small…”

“Dick.”

“See? You get it.”

“No—you are a dick.”

God she’s adorable when she’s argumentative, all in a snit. Blue eyes blazing bright, alive with interest, James clutches her sleep clothes in one hand, propping her fist on her hip with the other. “Are we going down to the bar or not?”

“No. Not until you calm down. You’re being really irrational for someone who doesn’t plan on hooking up with anyone.” I look her up and down. “And what the hell are you doing with that tank top?”

Her blue eyes roll to the back of her head. “If we’re staying in, then I’m getting ready for bed.”

I point to the offensive tank top. “Not in that shit you’re not. No. Jim, we established this on day one; that shirt makes me want to bone you. Hard.”

An unladylike snort leaves her nose. “Remind me again how that is my problem, because right now I’m not really in the mood to take orders from you.”

“If you wear it, you’re breaking rule three: no running around bra-less.”

“Try and stop me from wearing it, Neanderthal.” Jameson postures with bravado, backing into the dresser, eyes darting to the open bathroom door. Her bare foot inches toward it.

She’s going to make a run for it.

I’m remarkably calm for someone about to strike. I bear down on her.

Mouse, meet cat. Meow.

“Don’t even think about it, Clark.”

She’d roll her eyes at me if they weren’t glued to the bathroom door. “Pfft. Think about what?”

“That innocent act isn’t going to work on me, but nice fuckin’ try.” Tsk, tsk. “You’re not going anywhere with that tank top, either, Jimbo.” I extend my arm, palm up, and wiggle my fingers. “Hand it over.”

Jameson huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, blue eyes sparkling. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“No, but I can pin you to the ground and take it from you.” The thought gets me excited and my blood surges. “How about I give you a two-second lead. One—”

I don’t even finish the count because Jameson lunges toward the bathroom, light on her feet and quicker than a track team sprinter. I lunge for her but she switches trajectories, makes a quick right, dodges my outstretched arms, and dives for the bed.

Falling a few inches short, she scrambles on top of it then rises to stand in the center, waving the threadbare tank top above her head like a victory flag.

“Yes! Suck it!” she bellows, fist pumping the air and jumping up and down on the cheap, shoddy mattress. Arms outstretched, I wince at the sight of her remarkable tits bouncing with the motion. “Suck it, Osborne.”

“Aww, aren’t you just the cutest.” I cross my thick, tattooed arms over my chest. “Don’t be so damn quick to celebrate, Clark. You’re stranded up there now.”

That wipes the cocky smirk from her face.

“Dammit,” comes her breathy curse. She bites down on her bottom lip before removing a stray hair from her mouth. “I loathe you right now.”

No she doesn’t.

“You’re kind of fucked.” I’m catlike in my approach, creeping across the carpet like a predator stalking its prey. “Which is too bad, because I’m really enjoying this.”

Meow.

“What are you going to do with me?” she whispers. Her flimsy white tank top is clutched to her chest, providing zero protection.