Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

Thomas Westbrooke looks unenthused. Entitled, elitist, and unenthused as he skirts past me and into the house.

“So. This is where you live,” he says, glancing around my foyer.

“Yup.”

“Hmm.” He spies a stacked set of first edition paperbacks on a side hutch with a vintage paperweight set on top. “Not what I would have expected.”

No shit. “Where did you think I lived? In a downtown high-rise playboy sex dungeon?”

The lift of his brows tells me that’s exactly where he thought I lived.

“Not my style, Westbrooke. I prefer not to be infected with STDs or father illegitimate children, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He follows me to the kitchen, which his lovely daughter has returned to after quickly running to change back into clothes. She’s wearing black leggings with a gray Steam t-shirt and she looks cute as a damn button.

Even her toes are delectable.

“Dad, what are you doing here?”

Thomas falters, gives me side eye, and asks, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Hollis, bless her sweet heart, shakes her head. “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Trace.”

23

Hollis

My father isn’t pleased.

I know the look; I’ve seen it hundreds of times before. The pursed lips, the flared nostrils, the upturn of his chin. Dad is spoiled; raised in a wealthy family and given everything he has, he expects those around him to do his bidding.

This is what happens when you’re brought up with servants and waitstaff—it gets ingrained in you.

Which is one of the reasons he tends to treat us like shit.

He’s a snob.

Except…Buzz isn’t putting up with any of that behavior; I heard him out in the foyer, standing his ground. I heard him tell my father he had to check with me before he’d let him in.

The man continues to astound me.

I (blank) him.

He leads Dad and me to his den, taking his place in a burgundy red leather chair, crossing his legs. Yes, in the terrycloth towel. I want to smack my forehead and/or tell him I can almost make out the shadow of his balls, but that would only fill him with joy.

Dad stares at him for a few long seconds. Clears his throat before turning to me. “I almost didn’t know where to find you. When you weren’t at your house, I had to put in a call to…” He struggles to bring himself to say the name Madison, which makes me wonder about the crazy shit she says to him when I’m not around, simply for shock value. “Madison told me where I’d likely find you.”

“You found me.” I spread my arms wide to indicate my here-ness and sit myself down on the couch in Buzz’s study, knowing how uncomfortable my father is going to feel standing there trying to deliver whatever speech he’s come to deliver.

Another lecture perhaps? A discourse on work ethic?

I wait.

“I spoke to your brother and sister, asked if either of them had gotten a text about your incident, and they had.”

Where is he going with this?

“And both of them agreed that they would have gone to the police station.” He glances at Buzz again and it occurs to me that my father might be self-conscious about discussing a family matter in front of him.

“Okay…” I draw the word out slowly, still confused. “But they didn’t.”

Dad nods. “Right. I asked about that and they both told me the same thing: they didn’t go to see you because they were afraid of the repercussions.”

Ah, now I see. Fiona and Lucian are afraid of our father and were scared he would somehow punish them for leaving the stadium during the game since that is where they work. They were afraid to come see their little sister for fear of the consequences.

I raise my chin. “Work before family—how sad.”

I will never raise my children like that.

Never.

“I’m sorry for that.” His words are quiet and barely audible.

“Sorry, what was that Westbrooke? I couldn’t hear you from over here,” Buzz bellows, man of the manor house and lord of his castle—thoroughly enjoying my father’s obvious discomfort. “Speak up, man.”

I barely stifle a laugh at the expression on my father’s face; I can’t say I’ve ever seen him this irritated before, and his jaw visibly clenches.

“I said I’m sorry we weren’t there when you needed us.”

Things I could say that would not be helpful in this situation:

I wasn’t expecting you to be there.

There is a first time for everything.

I’m being well taken care of by someone else, if you catch my drift.

This is the moment Buzz rises from his spot in the corner, smooths out the terrycloth towel and tightens the knot at his waist. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

He walks the few feet to where I sit, dropping a kiss on the top of my head.

We watch him go.

“I thought he’d never leave.” Dad exhales with relief. “Dear lord, is he always like that?”