Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

“I didn’t say a single thing,” I clarify, buying time.

“You nodded.”

“No I didn’t.” I did though, and he knows it.

“Hollis Westbrooke, are you lying to me right now? You know there’s a penalty for that, right?”

There is? “What is it?” That might be better than admitting I’m turned on, better than admitting my panties are wet and everything down south of my border is on fire.

“You have to pick one spot on your body for me to kiss.”

“That sounds more like assault.”

“Shit. Oh my god, that’s not—I didn’t mean. Never mind, I’m sorry.” He yanks at the covers and rolls off the bed, standing next to it as if I’ve just tried to poke him with a scalding-hot iron. “Fuck.”

“Wait—what are you doing? I was joking.”

“That’s not a joke, Hollis.”

“Okay, but where are you going? Your mom is outside waiting for us to slip away.” I pull the remaining blanket up to cover my naked breasts, seeking out his profile in the dark.

“I’ll sleep on the floor. I should never have said that.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit—I didn’t think he’d take me seriously, and I didn’t think he’d fly off the bed like it was ablaze. I didn’t think he’d care about how I felt, not like this.

I feel terrible!

God I’m an asshole…

“Come back to bed.”

“Nope—I’m good.” He flops down on the carpet beside me, spreading out the blanket. “There’s no room up there anyway. You take the bed and I’ll be right as rain down here. Good night.”

Well.

This escalated quickly.

I’m flat on my back now, topless, staring up at the ceiling, racking my brain for a solution. Sure, it’s for the best that he’s not on the bed, tempting me with that warm breath and those big, strong hands and that smooth skin. And cute laugh and dumb jokes and straight white teeth I can’t see in the dumb dark.

Reaching below the covers with both arms, my hands push down the waistband of these terrible bottoms, sliding them all the way off.

“I’m turned on.” My voice travels to him in the dark, along with the mesh basketball shorts, which I blindly toss in his direction. “You win.”

“Fuck me sideways. Are you naked?”

“No.”

“Underwear don’t count,” he tells me.

“Do granny panties count as underwear?”

“Yep. Those are hot as fuck.”

I laugh quietly. “Uh…then yes, I’m naked.”

“Why are you telling me this? To torment me now that I’m marooned in Siberia?”

I laugh again. “Has anyone ever called you a drama queen before?”

“Literally everyone who knows me has called me a drama queen at some point.”

He makes me giggle; I bite down on my bottom lip, debating my next move.

“I’m cold,” I blurt out.

I can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “You are not. It’s hot as balls in here—I think my mom wanted us both naked, hashtag babymaker.”

The fact that he says hashtag, as if it’s a word, still cracks me up. It’s obnoxious but…endearing.

“Your mother would not want me accidentally getting pregnant.”

“The hell she wouldn’t! If we had condoms in here, she would probably poke holes in all of them.”

“Dramatic.”

“I know my mother—she’s a snake in the grass.”

“But you’d do anything for her, and that’s why I’m here—you wanted to show her that you are capable of having a relationship with someone normal.” The truth rolls off my tongue as if I’ve just discovered the cure for an incurable disease. It all makes sense now! The reason he bribed-slash-guilted me into coming! “So you dragged me here for this sham of a relationship to make her happy.”

Buzz grunts, and I can hear him rolling over. Punches his pillow a few times, displeased.

“It’s fine. I won’t tell anyone you’re a decent human bean.”

“I’m not a decent human being!” he disputes in a huff.

“I said bean, not being. Pay attention.”

The joke catches up to him, and from out of the dark, a pillow hits me in the thigh.

“Stop flirting,” I demand. I’m starting to really like you.

He stops flirting and I’m back to staring at the ceiling, frustrated by our lack of proximity.

Frustrated by my own game of running hot and cold with him; I wonder if he’s noticed. I wonder if it’s frustrating him, too. Why is he bothering with me at all? A million women would kill to be in this bedroom right now, and the poor bastard chooses the one woman who resists him at every turn.

Buzz Wallace doesn’t give a shit about my father and who he is; he hasn’t really asked about him once. He doesn’t give a shit about the silver spoon I had in my mouth growing up. He doesn’t give a shit about what kind of car I drive, how big his friends’ houses are, how—

Houses.

“Buzz?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you buy this house for your parents?”

He’s quiet a few heartbeats. “Why are you asking me that?”

“I’m wondering.” Many athletes do that for their folks, the people who make the sacrifices for their children’s success over their own.