Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

Polite conversation was instilled in me as a child by my stuffy, snotty parents.

I almost lick my lips when the leafy salad is set down in front of me, heaped full of lettuce, cucumber slices, beets, carrots, crisp snap peas, and a few bright red cherry tomatoes. Using the tip of my fork, I give those a nudge toward the edge of my plate; they are my least favorite when it comes to vegetables.

“Are you going to eat those?” Tripp’s voice asks, all the while his thigh’s continuously bumping mine under the table.

“They’re…not my favorite,” I say by way of explanation. It’s neither a confirmation nor a denial, but his knife is already rudely seizing them both. That’s right, he uses the serrated knife intended for steak and other meats to claim the tomatoes.

“Cool.” He flicks them onto the top of his own salad, already chomping away like a cow gnawing on cud.

Basic Etiquette 101? Don’t take the food off of someone else’s plate at a dinner party! I hardly even gave him permission. What a brute!

Nostrils flaring, I do my best to continue eating with him breathing heavily beside me. The noises he’s making have me wanting to scream. Listening to him is worse than listening to someone slurp on cereal—or soup.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was doing it on purpose…

We ignore one another.

The salads eventually get removed, replaced by our main entree; mine is baked chicken with gravy, more vegetables, mashed potatoes, mushrooms, and—

“Are you going to eat those?” Tripp is gesturing with his head toward my mushrooms, eyes homed in on them.

Those are my mushrooms. “Yes.”

His shoulders fall.

When I reach for my dinner roll, placed on the small saucer to the left of my plate, our hands touch when Tripp’s meaty fingers grip my bun.

“I swear on all that is holy, if you touch this bread, I will stab you with this butter knife.” I flash it at him before lowering it below the surface of the table.

Both the dark, bushy brows over his onyx eyes shoot into a hairline that’s even darker, shock and awe across his face.

“You’re mean.” He retreats with a glower.

Well duh—I’m hungry, too. “You can’t just steal someone’s food.”

“I wasn’t stealing—I was asking. You’re tiny, so I assumed you don’t eat.”

Tiny?

Don’t eat?

No one in my entire life has ever called me tiny, implied that I was tiny, or assumed I wasn’t going to eat all my food.

I’m average. Normal. Your typical body.

Five foot six and a size eight, ten if I eat ice cream and dessert for a week.

I have jeans for both occasions, but what woman doesn’t? I narrow my eyes to gauge his sincerity. Is he insulting me? Or is he being honest?

Tiny? Bless his heart. His brains must be addled from being tackled on the football field one too many times.

“Right,” I say, retrieving the roll and tearing it in half, watching with satisfaction as his eyes greedily watch the entire thing. Baiting him because he wants it and cannot have it.

“I’m six foot three. My brother purposely fed me rabbit food.”

I glance over at his plate; placed in its middle is the smallest filet mignon I have ever seen, three delicate steamed carrots, and some parsley.

It is indeed rabbit food.

Still. I hardly believe Buzz would do this to his own brother, on the eve of his wedding.

“Why on earth would he purposely not feed you?” Tripp is huge and could eat a steak the size of this plate! That one is the size of a…of a plum.

Tripp rolls his eyes in a way I have not seen an adult do, so dramatically it takes his entire body to execute it. “Look around! Everyone else has a ribeye, or an entire chicken on their plate! I don’t even have mashed potatoes! And look how small my dinner roll is.”

He holds it in the palm of his hand; it is in fact the size of a walnut.

I snicker.

“Are you trying to suggest your brother has the time to arrange bird food with the caterers just to be a jerk?”

“Now you’re catching on.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He crosses his arms like a petulant child. “Why does everyone take his side?”

I gape at him. “Are you for real right now? I’m not taking his side, I’m merely pointing out the fact that Buzz is like, super busy right now and why the heck would he ruin your dinner?”

“Because this is what he does.” He stuffs the entire tiny hunk of bread into his mouth. It barely counts as carbs.

Still not convinced he’s not full of shit, I cross my arms, contorting my mouth. “You’re being really dramatic.”

I go about cutting my chicken breast with a knife and fork, the juicy center giving off the most delicious aroma.

Tripp sticks his fork into the center of his steak.