Pregnant With The Douchebag Jock novel Chapter 6

Maddoc

The library is quiet. Calm. Peaceful.

I should be too. I’ve got an apple in one hand, Ellie next to me, and our project coming along nicely.

It should be a good moment.

Should be.

If only that tie-wearing, glasses-toting, slick-haired idiot across the room would stop making goo-goo eyes at Ellie.

He’s sitting at his own table, looking like he walked out of a corporate orientation video. All nervous smiles and heart-eyes like he’s about to propose or some shit.

Who the hell does he think he is? Ellie’s sitting with me!

...not that she’s mine.

I mean, obviously not.

But this other dude still needs to quit staring at her like he’s composing a sonnet in his head.

Grumbling, I scoot closer to Ellie. She flinches, glancing up from her laptop with wide eyes.

“W-why are you sitting so close?”

Is that vanilla perfume? Whatever.

I shrug. “No reason.”

She gives me a suspicious side-eye, but goes back to typing. Four tables down, Harold the human paperclip is still ogling her like she’s some rare Pokémon he’s been trying to catch since the third grade.

My jaw ticks.

Nope. We’re not doing this.

I casually—okay, fine, possessively—slide my arm around Ellie’s shoulders like I’m her REAL boyfriend. She stiffens like I just dumped a bucket of ice water over her.

She immediately does the stammering thing. “W-what are you doing?!”

I blink. “What?”

She glares in an insecure kind of way. I smirk. She looks like a pissed-off squirrel challenging a bear. And since I know she is too much of a marshmallow to raise her voice, I keep playing dumb.

“I’m doing nothing.”

“Don’t give me that! Y-your arm is crushing me!”

“It’s light as a feather.”

“It weighs a ton! And it’s pressing me down!”

Okay, I am built like a linebacker, but she’s being dramatic. I’m barely leaning on her.

“You’re overreacting.”

“Maddoc, why are you hugging me?”

I blink again, like maybe she’ll forget the question. “You looked cold.”

She gives me a look. “It’s seventy degrees in here.”

“Exactly. Chilly.”

She stares at me. Sort of like she’s trying to telekinetically slap me. “You’re lying.”

“And you’re squirmy.”

“Maddoc,” she warns.

“Yes, my sweet little duckling?”

“Don’t call me that. And move your arm.”

I snort. “No can do. There’s a creep on your six.”

Her eyes widen. “Creep?”

“That dude over there,” I mutter. “The one making bedroom eyes at you like he wants to read poetry to your elbow.”

Before she can respond, Harold the Heart-Eyed Hooligan appears beside our table holding a folded paper like it’s a peace offering in a rom-com.

“I wrote this for you, Ellie,” he says, practically blushing.

A letter. A literal, handwritten letter.

What is this, a Jane Austen novel?

Ellie, to my horror, smiles.

“Oh, thank you so much, Harold. W-what is it?”

“I thought a letter would be easier...more romantic,” he says and does the darnedest thing. Little prick gives me the side-eye like I’m the playground bully. “I know you don’t like people in your space. I wanted to say some things… from a distance.”

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