Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

It’s basically the size of a meatball.

I stifle a laugh as he nibbles at it, eyes rolling back theatrically.

“Mmm. Yum, so good. Best little meat I’ve had all day.” He moans again, this time drawing attention to himself. “Nom.”

When I raise my eyes to the center table, Buzz is watching with a smirk on his face. Lowers his head and continues eating until my cousin elbows him in the rib cage. She sets her napkin to the side of her plate, pushes her chair back, and stands.

Comes striding the few feet it takes to get to us and stares down at Tripp’s meal.

“What is this? Where is your food?”

We were just served, so theoretically, even if he was the world’s fastest eater, he’d have some sustenance remaining on his plate.

Tripp holds up his fork.

“What’s that?” Hollis points to his mini-muffin-sized meat, planting her hands on her hips and glancing back over her shoulder, at her fiancé.

“A steak lollipop,” he says.

“A what?”

In her head, I know she’s thinking, We’re not serving steak lollipops, because that’s exactly what I’d be thinking, too, if this were my wedding and my rehearsal dinner.

“And these are the carrots for my pet rabbit, Mr. Tibbles.” Tripp pokes at the orange spears, which are about the size of my pinky finger.

Hollis holds her arm up, gesturing for a server, then for the wedding planner.

They both swiftly come over.

“Can we get him some more food please? This is unacceptable.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Westbrooke.” The server worries her bottom lip. “We had a list of guests’ dietary restrictions, and there was a note for Mr. Wallace’s plating.”

The wedding planner flips through the paperwork clipped to her pink clipboard. Her index finger roams down a column on one of the sheets. “Yes, here it is. We received a phone call about Mister Wallace and I made a note.” She clears her throat. “To avoid, um…” Her mouth contorts. “Er—it says…”

Hollis leans to read over the wedding planners shoulder. “Oh for god’s sake,” she sputters. “What is wrong with the two of you?”

Tripp chomps down on his dollop of steak. “What did he write?”

“I’m not reading this out loud.” Hollis snorts.

“Does it say anything about too much food giving me bloody diarrhea?”

She blinks. “How did you know?” Then, “Tripp, I am so sorry—there is a time and a place, and this was not the time for one of his jokes. We’ll bring you more to eat.”

“Don’t worry about it—your cousin and I are sharing.” He nabs a mushroom from my plate.

“No we are not.” I box him out again. “Bring him more food.”

He manages to steal my dinner roll, which has no doubt gotten cold from all our squabbling.

“I didn’t say you could have that!”

“Oh that’s right, you said you’d stab me if I took it!” His voice is loud and carries, and people are looking, but that was his intention because he’s glancing around, holding the bun in the air. “With a butter knife!”

“Lower your voice—you’re making a scene,” Hollis chastises. “She should stab you, preferably with your meat lollipop.”

“That sounds phallic when you say it, you know,” Tripp points out not so delicately, lowering his arm to tear into my bread with his teeth.

My cousin rolls her eyes, flipping her long hair. “You’re not supposed to flirt with the bride. It’s bad form.”

“Flirting?” Tripp scowls, chin tipping up. “I flirt with no one.”

“I know that. I’m just giving you a hard time.” She gestures to the caterer. “Another steak if you could, a baked potato if you have it, and probably more bread. For her, not for him.”

“Me want!” Tripp calls to their backs as they retreat, slouching in his tufted chair, pouting. “Why do only you get bread?”

“Because you had your grubby mitts all over my bun! You can’t feel up the merchandise without getting your germy germs on it.”

He looks amused, for once in his life. “Are you even listening to yourself right now?”

“No.” I position my body so I’m facing slightly away from him. “Go away.”

“You know,” he says, “you’re not as boring as I thought you were.”

Uh, what?

Was that supposed to be a compliment?

“Boring?” What a rude thing to say to someone’s face! Er, their back. “Excuse me?”

“Here I thought you were a real stick in the mud.”

“A stick in the mud?!”

He uses the opportunity to snag a chunk of my chicken. “Are you going to repeat everything I say, or are you going to let me eat in peace? I’m starving.”

Oh my god—it’s not like he’s sitting there without a meal. Tripp Wallace is so beyond infuriating! And impolite! And spoiled…and…arrogant! If I didn’t know he came from a good family, I would think he was raised in the wild, with wolves. The Paul Bunyan outfit from the bachelor party suited him perfectly.

Butthole.

“What did you just say?” He has more of my mushrooms poised at his lips, about to be shoved into his mouth. “’Cause it sounded like you called me a butthole.”