How
to Date A Douchebag: The Failing Hours
By
Sara Ney
Genre: New Adult, Sports Romance, College Romance
Release
Date: January 31, 2017
A total and
complete jerk, Zeke keeps people at a distance. He has no interest in
relationships—most assholes don’t.
Dating? Being
part of a couple? Nope. Not for him.
He's never given
any thought to what he wants in a girlfriend, because he's never had any
intention of having one.
Shit, he barely
has a relationship with his family, and they're related; his own friends don’t
even like him.
So why does he
keep thinking about Violet DeLuca?
Sweet, quiet
Violet—his opposite in every sense of the word.
The light to his
dark, even her damn name sounds like rays of sunshine and happiness and shit.
And that pisses
him off, too.
"Best Read
of 2017! A one click must for any lover of hot, sexy romance done RIGHT !
[This] story is the quintessential slow burn effect...Zeke will come to own
your body and soul--I am OBSESSED with this series and The Failing Hours has
just shot to my 'Best of All Time' list. Be prepared to fall in love with a
douche bag and the woman who sets him straight. " - Books and Boys
Book Blog
“That was EVERYTHING I
expected, wanted, dreamed of. . . this is a MUST FREAKING READ.
UNFORGETTABLE goodness. NA romance at it's best.” - Angie’s
Dreamy Reads
"Sara Ney
has delivered a sexy, jerkwad douchebag with soul-deep feelings and the sweet,
kind, unassuming girl to reach his hidden heart in one of the best NA
romantic comedies I've ever had the pleasure of reading. Ney's impeccable writing,
fresh characters, and feel-good story will stick with you forever." - Bestselling
Author Staci Hart
"I took so
much pleasure in Zeke’s looming destruction (insert evil laugh)...." - The
Reading Belles
The clock on the
wall counts the seconds, steady as the rhythm of my beating heart, which thumps
wildly within my chest until the glass door to the library opens, propelled by
a gust of wind.
Some new fallen
leaves flutter in, the heavy doors slamming from the draft.
Along with them?
Zeke Daniels.
He shuffles in,
dark gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, black Iowa Wrestling hoodie
pulled up over his head, the university’s bright yellow mascot screen-printed
across the chest. Backpack slung over one shoulder, black athletic flip-flops,
and a pair of black sunglasses perched on the bridge of his strong nose
complete the overall ensemble.
He is utterly…ridiculous.
Unapproachable.
Daunting.
His arrogance
knows no bounds; I can see it in his loose gait, the exaggerated swagger, and
the too-casual way he’s dragging his flip-flops across the cold, marble tile
floor. It’s noisy, irritating, and completely uncalled for.
In the moment,
my mind drifts to his personal life, and I theorize that he listens to heavy
metal music to sooth his foul temperament, drinks his coffee black—as black as
his soul—and his liquor straight up. I imagine once he’s had sex with someone,
they’re never invited back. I go one step further and theorize that they’re
never invited to spend the night at his place, either.
Zeke Daniels
makes his way to a table at the far end of the room, near the periodicals, one
out of the way with plenty of privacy.
Sets his bag
down in one of the four wooden chairs. Flicks on the small study lamp. Plugs
his laptop cord into the base and stands.
Turns.
Our eyes would
have met then were it not for those ludicrous sunglasses. I choose the exact
moment he lifts his gaze to look down at the ground. Busy myself with shuffling
papers on the counter. Count to ten instead of chanting, Please don’t come
over, please don’t come over, please don’t come over…
But luck isn’t
on my side because he most decidedly does.
Makes his way
over like a predator at a pace so deliberate, I’m convinced he’s doing it on
purpose. As if he suspects I’m watching from under my long lashes, dreading his
imminent arrival.
He basks in my
discomfort.
The distance
between us closes, his strides purposeful.
Twenty feet.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Eight.
Three.
His large hand
reaches up, pushing down the hood of his sweatshirt, his fingertips pinching
the earpiece of his sunglasses and pulling them off his face. My eyes follow
the movements as he folds them closed, hanging them on the neckline of his
hoodie.
His gaze
lingers—those clear gray eyes famous around campus—and finds the shiny silver
bellhop bell perched on the counter with the sign next to it that reads, Ring
for help.
Ding.
The tip of his
forefinger presses down on the small bell.
Ding.
He hits it again,
despite me standing not three feet in front of him.
What an ass.
Purveyor of all
things witty & romantic, I love: iced latte's, traveling, and bright,
bold colors. On any given day, you can find me in my office, lovingly gazing at
my bookshelf or shuffling my Bic felt-tip pen collection. I love hand writing
letters, and sarcasm.
I live in the midwest, but "Will Write for Travel," and believe
everyone should follow their dreams, no matter how big or small. My favorite
authors include Cindy Miles, S Walden, Suzanne Enoch, Tessa Dare (to name a
few). I am a glutton for Historical, RomCom, Sports and MC romance.
One husband. Two daughters. Plenty of chaos.
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