Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

No wonder Wallace was hitting on her. Miranda is—

I don’t want to say adorable. She’s pretty in a wholesome way, not a bombshell way, and that’s probably a horrible way of describing it too and I’d never say that shit out loud because she’d probably be insulted.

Girls are funny like that.

Pretty. Gorgeous.

Pretty gorgeous.

“Hi.” Her hand holds the door open, her eyes running up and down the length of me, checking out my appearance—the same way I’m doing to her.

It’s a strange moment. A bit uncomfortable having her scrutinize me this way and I remember that this is customary dating behavior and not a critique. She has only met me twice, it’s normal for her to give me a once over.

She’s taking a mental picture of you in her mind, not adding up everything about you she doesn’t like.

Or maybe she is?

The soft look in her eyes tells me if that is my guess, I’m wrong.

“Is it cold out?” she asks, pulling the door open a bit farther. so I can walk across the threshold. I glance around, noticing all the little things. The stark white walls, white woodwork, white doors and trim. Couch? White.

Everything that’s nailed, screwed, or buckled down is white. Everything else is pops of color, like the pillows on the sofa and the weathered wood. The hutch in the kitchen area? Grayed wood, a glaring contrast to its sterile backdrop.

I see what she’s got going on here and as far as apartments go, it’s very simple, but stylish. I like it.

My hands get stuffed into the pockets of my pressed slacks and I shrug my shoulders, willing them not to slouch. “It’s not that bad, but maybe bring a jacket anyway. For later.”

She nods. I watch her walk away—presumably toward her bedroom—legs looking smooth, tan and freshly shaved, if I were a betting man.

Her hair hangs down her back, stick straight, and I’ve always been a sucker for brunettes, though I’ve never actually dated one.

The dress she’s wearing is short, but so is she, showing off her stems and ass nicely. It’s one of those wrap things that crisscrosses in front, giving me a decent shot of tits without being tacky or vulgar.

Conservative yet sexy.

Classy but young.

Miranda is gone for a hot minute, returning from the back room with a denim jacket thrown over her arm, wedge shoes a nude color I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t looked all the way down.

Hot pink toenails.

Man is she good-lookin’.

“Ready?” She’s chipper and seems excited, her smiling lips a glossy shade of light pink, flipping the light switches off as I stand by the door, gaping like a fool.

I step into the hall while she closes the door, listening for the lock to click into place, the door armed with one of those high-tech locks that doesn’t need a key.

I let her lead, all the way down to the street, the quick elevator ride silent, as I’m dreading the car ride will be, too.

Miranda looks left. Looks right.

“I’m the black truck over here.”

She follows and I open the passenger door, doing my best not to stare as she slides her way in, already buckling the seatbelt when I shut her in.

I climb in and start the engine.

“This is nice,” she says politely. “I feel so much safer in bigger vehicles.”

“Yeah, me too.” I clear my throat. Rack my brain. “Um.”

Um?

Good one Einstein.

I’m going to kill Wallace. Literally wrap my fingers around his beefy neck and—

“I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

Okay fine. Maybe not wring his neck exactly.

I’m not sure if I’m lying or not when I say, “I have too,” but I can’t bloody say I’ve been nervous as hell. What guy wants to admit that shit? Insecurity has been the driving force all week. Thank God I had that game Saturday to take my mind off of it, the nerves from that nowhere near as bad as the nerves pooling in the pit of my stomach now.

And she’s such a tiny little thing.

“Where are we going?” she asks, watching the landscape as we enter the freeway and I can see her image in the window, recently washed and highly reflective.

“Mason’s.”

Miranda turns to face me, eyes wide. “Mason’s?” She has a great poker face; the restaurant is notoriously impossible to get a reservation at. All it took was my assistant calling and we had a table for two in under five. “I’ve never been there.”

No shit. Not many people have.

I, however, go there often enough that a few of the servers and hostesses know me by name. Then again, I’m the shiny new member of the Steam—it’s their job to know high profile clients who might walk through the door with only a moment’s notice.

“I hope you like steak.”

“I do. And seafood, and salad, and bread, and dessert.”