Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

“No, he didn’t say that, but he did say you were hurting.”

Hurting? Nice choice of words. Makes me sound like an even bigger pussy.

“…and he said you miss me, but that you probably wouldn’t contact me.” Miranda inhales a deep breath. “So here I am. I came to you.”

I came to you.

Just like that, she came to me. Instead of waiting or giving up, she sucked it up and came to me.

Admittedly, she would have been waiting a really long time.

I must have a look on my face that she can’t interpret because the silence between us stretches; no words are coming out of my fucking windpipe, the uncertainty lining her worried brow intensifying.

But I can’t talk, because I’m getting choked up, and we’re still in the damn parking lot, my idiot teammates looking on as if they haven’t seen enough drama for one day.

Typically, I am not at the center of it.

My face flushes from the attention and I clear my throat. “Not to sound cliché, but do you want to get out of here and go somewhere we can talk?”

Her expression of self-doubt turns to one of relief, and she nods. “Yes. Could we?”

“Are you cool coming to my place? It’s not far from here, maybe 20 minutes tops.”

Miranda nods. “We can do your place.”

I glance at her car. “Follow me? I’d hate for your car to be here on its own and look abandoned. I don’t know if they’ll ticket you without a parking pass.”

“Sure—I can follow you. Lead the way.”

I stand awkwardly, glancing down at her. Tempted to kiss the top of her head or her lips. Or something.

Just do it. Stop holding back. Get out of your own head. She came to you.

Leaning down, I press my lips to the crown of her head and when she tips her chin up to look at me, I press another kiss to her surprised mouth.

“Follow me.” I point to my car—not the truck she was in on our date. “Black Tesla.” Not just any Tesla, the luxury sports car that goes for a cool six figures.

Miranda blinks toward the stupidly expensive vehicle, then nods slowly. “Okay.”

We’re young, so the fact that she’s having a difficult time reconciling the sports car makes sense to me. By now she also knows what I’m worth, but I don’t let that bother me. She liked me before she knew I had money; she liked me before she knew I was famous.

She likes me. That’s all I know and that’s all I care about.

I walk to my car, flipping the bird to the parking lot stragglers who are still loitering. Hear a few laughs from my buddies and one or two wolf whistles. Immature assholes.

Still.

I’m grinning when I slide inside my car, the warm leather heated from the sun, push the START button. The engine purrs, low and melodic, and I adjust my mirrors, so I can see Miranda. Make sure she’s settled, buckled, and ready before shifting the car into drive.

I take the time to glance at her every so often; she’s singing as she drives, that much is evident. Checking her blind spots when we switch lanes, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

She’s in a good mood, all things considered, and in no time at all we’re pulling past the security gate—and guard—of my community, winding down the roads at a leisurely 15 miles an hour. A few more turns and I’m home, the automatic gate gliding to the side so we can pass through.

Miranda sneaks through before it closes behind her, and I pull into the garage as she parks in the turnaround.

If I’m expecting her to comment on the McMansion before her, I’m about to be disappointed, because she doesn’t. Doesn’t say anything as she patiently waits for me to punch in the code for the house and step into the mudroom.

Silently, I lead us to the back deck. Walk to the fridge beneath the outdoor BBQ and grab us a few bottles of water before gesturing toward the lounge chairs. Pull one into the shade, under the giant umbrella, then do the same with one more.

“Thank you.” She sits.

I sit.

“You didn’t have to hide from me,” she starts. “I’m your…friend.”

Oh god—her friend? The fuck… Is she already friend zoning me? “Are you friend zoning me?” I ask, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at full attention.

“No! I mean, unless that’s what you want. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—you can tell me anything. Just don’t run.” She pauses, twisting off the cap of the water. “Why did you do it? The past 24 hours have been horrible, Noah. Just horrible—you might be used to it, but I’m certainly not.” Now that she’s opened the floodgates, the words keep flowing. “I’m getting messages from people I haven’t spoken to in years. Guys I dated in eighth grade suddenly want to talk to me. My Instagram for work is blowing up—it went from a few thousand followers to ten thousand, to fourteen thousand to twenty. It’s insane. And you ditched me in the middle of it.”